The Spy
As Andy McFardell rode home from the Marton farm two definite channels
of thought preoccupied him. And curiously enough that which had his
passionate infatuation for Molly for its inspiration made by far the
lesser claim upon him.
Perhaps it was the result of his confidence. Had Molly been more
difficult, had she been less of the simple child she was, had she had
knowledge and experience of the world of men, or realised something of
the physical charm she exercised, doubtless she could have transformed
his confidence into an agony of doubt, and plunged him into a vortex of
maddening suspense that would have made any other interest impossible
to him.
As it was his dominating concern had become the obvious antagonism
of Lightning. He had left the farm under no misapprehension on the
score of the old choreman’s regard. The cattleman had displayed his
displeasure at his intrusion without any attempt at concealment, and,
deep in his heart, McFardell understood the reason.
The reason of it left him undisturbed. And he smiled to himself as he
wondered what the man’s attitude would have been had he been witness to
that which had taken place just before his return from work.
But the attitude of Lightning brought back to his mind that other
matter, when the old man had been at such pains to seek him out,
and impress upon him the opportunity held out to him. It looked to
McFardell like a foolish bluff in the light of Lightning’s unvarying
antagonism. Yes, he felt sure it was a bluff--in a way. The man was
anxious to be rid of him. He was anxious and worried to death about----
He laughed softly to himself. Then of a sudden his mood became deadly
serious. He dismissed Lightning’s purposes from his mind. It did not
matter a thing to him what the cattleman’s object might be. Molly and
he understood each other, and---- But he knew that every word Lightning
had said about Dan Quinlan was right. He had heard all the talk in
Hartspool. And Hartspool was very much given to plain speaking on
matters concerning cattle and grain.
He had told Lightning he would look into the matter after the dance in
Hartspool. But long before he reached his home his mind was definitely
made up. Quinlan’s was thirty-five miles or so away up in the hills
from his place. Well, it would help to fill in the week before the
dance if he outfitted himself for a few days on the trail. He would pay
his promised visit to the queer Irishman and spy out the land--before
the dance. In fact--right away.
So it came that two days later McFardell found himself on the trail,
or--as he preferred to think of it--on patrol. It was useless to
make pretence that he was anything but the police officer he had
always been. He was on patrol, that work he had always loved in the
days before his disaster. And as he rode the tangled country of the
foothills his spirits rose, and he found himself almost thankful to the
old man who had prompted him out of his own secret purposes.
It did not matter a thing. Lightning was old and well-nigh decrepit,
and his antagonism need make no difference. He, McFardell, would do the
thing he contemplated just as it suited him. And meanwhile the hills
around Quinlan, and Quinlan’s place itself, would be investigated very
thoroughly before he returned on the day of Hartspool’s dance.
* * * * *
The watcher moved stealthily through the forest. Eyes and ears were
alert. They were tuned, by long years of training, to the hush of the
woods. He was afoot. And his movements gave out no sound as he passed
amongst the myriad of bare tree-trunks, supporting their well-nigh
impenetrable roofing of sombre foliage. His feet were moccasined, and
they padded softly on the rotting carpet beneath them.
Far down the aisles of the forest he could see a sunlit clearing
beyond. And the voices of the cattle came back to him something muffled
by the intense forest hush. The sharp barking of dogs left no other
doubt in his mind than that of the chances of his own discovery through
canine scent and inquisitiveness. That, however, was in the lap of the
gods. He was not unduly concerned. He was moving up against the wind,
which in the shelter of the forest was almost indistinguishable, and
his position he felt to be more than favourable.
As he neared the forest limits the wide expanse of the clearing opened
out to his astonished eyes. And so his progress slowed down and finally
ceased altogether. There was no need to go farther. He had no desire to
court disaster. Besides from where he had halted he could see all that
he needed and study it at his leisure.
It was an amazing sight. He had looked for the squalid hiding-place
of a secret cattle camp, where the thief could secret and re-brand
the beasts he had stolen. He had looked for the ordinary thing which
Police work had taught him to expect. But that which he discovered was
altogether different, and left him impressed and--disappointed.
There were corrals whose extent astounded him and left him
metaphorically rubbing his eyes. They were stoutly built and of a
permanent nature, and they were literally teeming with cattle amongst
which a large number of men were busily at work. Beyond the corrals
were other buildings. There were log shanties, and barns, and all the
equipment of an extensive ranch. The place was literally a hive of
industry, and bore no resemblance whatever to that which he had looked
for.
The human figures amongst the cattle interested him deeply. At the
distance he got the impression that they were mostly Indians, or, at
least, half-breeds. But without doubt there were white men amongst
them, and two particularly caught and held his interest.
One was a powerfully built man clad in typical buckskin, while the
other looked to have very little relation to the hill country at all.
Furthermore, judging by the mass of snow-white hair he discovered under
the brim of his prairie hat, he was an old man. But clearly these two
were supervising the activities in progress.
He remained where he was until the last detail of the thing he was
gazing upon had been well photographed and tabulated in his mind. Then
he withdrew. He would have been glad of a closer view of the two white
men, but caution deterred any further approach.
He moved away and presently again became swallowed up by the shadows
of the forest. And the direction of his going was southerly, where he
looked for a view of the valley below.
When he reappeared again it was at a break where an undergrowth walled
the limits of the woods, and he pressed through it till he came to the
final screen. He held the foliage apart while he peered out beyond.
Below him lay the valley of grass and woodland bluff, and it was alive
with grazing cattle.
Now his interest quickened. It was not the sight of the cattle. That
had been expected. There was something of even greater importance
within his view. Away to his left on the sloping, hither side of the
valley, and, he judged, somewhere adjacent to the clearing he had
recently overlooked, a wide field of building operations looked to have
been just begun. There were the cuttings ready for the foundations of a
big barn or house. There, too, lay a wealth of hewn logs hauled ready
for building. And even as he watched a four-horse team appeared from
the woods, farther down the valley, skidding a load of freshly hewn
lumber. He drew a deep breath.
Lightning was wrong. So, too, was Hartspool. All the tittle-tattle
going on in that place was miles wide of the truth. Here was no
cattle thief’s encampment. The extent of the organisation he had been
so secretly observing could have only one meaning. How it had been
achieved was something beyond his understanding. Where Dan Quinlan had
obtained his capital to invest in such an enterprise it was impossible
for him to suggest. The one outstanding fact remained. Here, away up in
the heart of the hills, was a great and thriving cattle industry, and
Dan Quinlan was the man who had created it.
* * * * *
McFardell’s discoveries at Quinlan’s were a source of bitter
disappointment to him. They were the shattering, the complete
shattering of his dream. He cursed himself bitterly that he had
listened to Lightning’s suggestion, and the idle talk of Hartspool. It
was always the way. Folks jumped to absurd conclusions out of suspicion
of anything that was beyond their understanding. He knew he had been
thoroughly fooled, and since Lightning had helped in his befoolment
most of his bitterness was directed at him.
But his long training in the Police had deeply impressed his mind.
And, furthermore, the idea of somehow blackmailing his way back into
the force had taken desperate hold of him. His inclination had been all
for returning home and letting Lightning know the fool he had made of
both himself and Andrew McFardell, but his training prevailed.
He asked himself the meaning of Quinlan’s rise to fortune, and
determined to see the thing through to the end. He would explore to
the limit of his time, and look for any other secret these hills might
discover for him. So he went back to his camp, deep hidden from all
chance discovery by Quinlan, and planned out his further campaign.
* * * * *
Andy McFardell was returning home after complete failure. He was
moodily contemplating his wasted effort. He had done everything
possible; he had left nothing unexplored, sparing neither himself nor
his horse; and now there was nothing left but to return again to the
life which he had learned to hate and detest.
His way lay down the same valley where recently Molly had sought and
found her missing cows. He was travelling over almost the identical
ground which her pinto had covered. He had found the same water-hole,
and his weary horse had refreshed itself at the same stream that came
down from the cold recesses of the far-off hills. The day was hot, and
the air swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. But these things made no
impression upon him, and only his horse suffered.
The net result of his five days’ work was a final conclusion that his
chance of buying his way back into the Police was practically nil. The
whole position was clear enough. While he could discover not a tithe of
evidence that the Irishman and his band of Indians were on the cross,
yet there was much that needed explanation. The renegade was no longer
the white Indian, simply existing in his miserable home in the hills by
trap and gun.
No. That may have been his original case. But it was so no longer.
He was ranching on a big scale. And furthermore his stock was mainly
highly bred Pole-Angus cattle, the numbers of which suggested a capital
value running into anything over fifty thousand dollars. Where had the
money come from? But more important still, how had that industry grown
up without other outside evidence than the sale of young stock in the
Hartspool and Calford markets? In spite of the shattering of his dream
of getting back into the Police Andy McFardell felt that the position
was still not without possibilities.
Moving down towards the creek his horse flung up its head in a startled
fashion. He was riding over the stretch of blue grass, at the very spot
where, so short a while since, Molly had finally discovered her cows.
Ahead lay the bush-clad banks of the stream. And away to the left of
him the slope of the valley opened sharply into the gorge where Molly
had parted from the man she called Silver-Thatch.
McFardell was concerned at once. He knew the meaning of his horse’s
pricked ears, and the faint sound of its whinny. Another horse was
somewhere in the vicinity, and, since the Marton farm was something
less than five miles on, he searched the direction of his horse’s gaze
for a sight of Molly. To his mind it must be she. Lightning would be
likely to have moved out from his work on the ploughing.
There were only a few yards of the open left and he bustled his horse
on. The beast moved with eagerness and passed into the bush. Then, in a
moment, Andy flung himself back in the saddle and jerked his horse to a
standstill.
He was face to face with a horseman on a superb black beast with the
small broad head and diminutive ears of a thoroughbred. But he at once
became absorbed in the rider. He was the white-haired man he had seen
in the clearing up at Quinlan’s.
The stranger had drawn rein. He sat quite still, contemplating the
dishevelled appearance of McFardell and his tuckered horse. Then a
slight, inscrutable smile lit his eyes, and he nodded. The next moment
he lifted his reins, and the eager creature under him moved off like a
flash and disappeared into the bush ahead. It was almost uncanny. Not a
word of greeting had passed; scarcely a sign. The man had smiled, that
was all, and--vanished.
Andy stared after him where the bushes had closed behind him. He made
no attempt to follow. His dark eyes were frowning with heavy thought.
And it was not till the last sound of the hoofs of the stranger’s horse
had completely died away that he bestirred himself.
Then it was that he suddenly became transformed. His eyes blazed with
a fury of excitement. He lifted his reins and jammed his spurred heels
into the flanks of the beast under him, and rode straight at the bush
where the other had disappeared.
“God!” he muttered. “It’s Jim Pryse!”