"Destiny lurks in obscure places and emerges therefrom to seize upon us
unawares."
Barreau launched this epigrammatic sentence in the profound quiet of a
cell in the MacLeod guardhouse. For that is the pass we came to: a six
by eight housing of stout planks for the pair of us, food of indifferent
quality in none too generous rations, and the keen eye of an armed guard
in the background. For two days we had brooded in this cage, like any
common felons.
Of the intervening time there is nothing worthy of chronicling. During
the time it took Sergeant Hubbel and his troopers to bring us in we
rode, ate, slept, and rode again, and little else befell. If Barreau and
the two Sanders worried over the outcome, if they indulged any thought
of escape, or laid plans to that end, they kept these things to
themselves. I perforce, did likewise. Altogether, we were a company of
few words. And one evening, when dusk was closing in, the journey ended,
and we lay down to sleep with barred doors and windows between us and
other men.
Little as we spoke I gathered stray odds and ends of the affair, and
pieced them as best I could. Most of it came from the troopers. After
all, the thing was simple enough. At that time the sale of liquor was
strictly prohibited in the Canadian Territories, and naturally whisky
was at a premium. Thus the Sanders ranch, lying just across the American
line, furnished an ideal base of operations for men inclined to gather
in the shekels of the thirsty. Proof of the traffic in contraband whisky
lay ready for use, at least so the Policemen had it--but they could
never catch the wily Sanders brothers on the right side of the boundary.
So with a fine disregard for all but the object to be gained, they
violated an international technicality. The result justified the raid;
that is, from the Mounted Police point of view. My arrest followed
logically, from the company I was in. Barreau's connection, however, was
a little beyond me. "Slowfoot George," as they called him, came in for
cautious handling. Not once were his wrists free of the steel bands till
the guardhouse door closed upon him. From this, and certain pointed
remarks that I failed to catch in their entirety, I conceived the idea
that he was wanted for worse than whisky-running. But like the other
two, Barreau neither denied nor affirmed. Once the sergeant tried to
draw him out and the curl of his lip and a caustic word or two cut short
the Policeman's effort.
Our "apartment" was singularly free from furniture. A wide plank ranged
on either side, and a few not overclean quilts served for a bed. There
was no room for more in that vile box. I had managed to get paper and a
pen from the guard, and was curled up on my plank setting forth in a
letter to Bolton all the unbelievable things that had occurred, when
Barreau uttered his observation anent the workings of Destiny. Something
in the way he spoke caused me to look up, and I saw that he was looking
fixedly out into the guard-room through the grated opening in our cell
door. There was none too much light, but with what there was I made out
a paleness of face and a compression of his lips that were strangely at
odds with his general bearing.
"What now?" I asked, wondering at the sudden change in him.
"Something I had hoped to be spared," he said under his breath; more to
himself than to me. Then he turned his eyes from the little window, drew
up his knees till his fingers locked before them, and so sat hunched
against the wall. Wholly absorbed in my letter-writing I had heard
nothing out of the common. Now I distinguished voices, the deep tones of
a man and following that the clear treble of a woman. During a brief
interval of quiet she laughed, and after that I heard footsteps coming
toward the row, out of which our cell faced.
Presently the shadow of them darkened the little window in our door. The
red coat of the guard passed. Barreau shifted uneasily. I, too, leaned
forward listening to the light footfall drawing near, for I had a vivid
recollection of that voice--or one that was its twin. It did not seem
strange that she should be there; Benton is not so far from MacLeod in
that land of great distances. And my recollection was not at fault. An
instant later her small, elfish face bent to the opening and she peered
in on us--as one who views caged beasts of the jungle.
But there was none of the human fear of wild things in her attitude.
"So," she said coolly, tucking a lock of hair under the same ridiculous
little cap she had worn on the _Moon_, "this is how the Northwest would
have you, is it, Mr. Bar--Mr. Brown. Alas! 'To what base uses we do
return.' I cannot say you have my sympathy."
"If that is the least cruel thing you can say," Barreau flung back at
her, putting his feet on the floor and resting his hands on the edge of
his seat, "I thank you. But my trail is my own, and I have never yet
asked you to follow in my stumbling footsteps."
She colored at that, and from where I sat I could see the Police guard
lift his eyebrows inquiringly. But she had other shafts at hand.
"I grant you that," she replied quickly. "But it is a shock, when one
conceives a man to be something of a _gentleman_; to have some remnant
of the code honorable--then, pah! to find his name a by-word on the
frontier. A murderer! Even descended to common theft and dealings in
contraband whisky. You have a savory record in these parts, I find. How
nicely this chamber fits you, Mr.--ah--what is the euphonious title?
Slowfoot George. Ah, yes. Why the Slowfoot? By the tale of your
successful elusion of the law I should imagine you exceeding fleet of
foot."
It seemed to me unwomanly and uncalled for, that bitter, scornful
speech; even granting the truth of it, which had not been established in
my mind. But it had a tonic effect on Barreau. The hurt look faded from
his face. His lips parted in the odd, half-scornful, half-amused smile
that was always lurking about his mouth. He did not at once reply. When
he did it was only a crisp sentence or two.
"Let us be done with this," he said. "There is neither pleasure nor
profit in exchanging insults."
"Indeed," she thrust back, "there can be no exchange of insults between
us. Could aught _you_ say insult any honest man or woman? But so be it.
I came merely to convince my eyes that my ears heard truly. It may
tickle your depraved vanity to know that MacLeod is buzzing with your
exploits and capture."
"That concerns me little," Barreau returned indifferently.
"Ditto," she averred, "except that I am right glad to find you stripped
of your sheep's clothing, little as I expected such a revelation
concerning one who passed for a gentleman. And to think that I might
never have found you out, if my father had permitted me to return from
Benton."
"Permitted?" Barreau laid inquiring inflection on the word.
"What is it to----" she cut in sharply.
"Your father," he interrupted deliberately, "is a despicable scoundrel;
a liar and a cheat of the first water."
"Oh--oh!" she gasped. "This--from _you_."
"I said, 'let us be done with this,' a moment ago," he reminded her.
She drew back as if he had struck at her, flushing, her under lip
quivering--more from anger than any other emotion, I think. Almost at
once she leaned forward again, glaring straight at Barreau.
"It would be of a piece with your past deeds," she cried, "if you should
break this flimsy jail and butcher my father and myself while we slept.
Oh, one could expect anything from such as you!" And then she was gone,
the guard striding heavy-footed after her. A puzzled expression crept
over Barreau's face, blotting out the ironic smile.
"It was a dirty trick of me to speak so," he muttered, after a little.
"But my God, a man can't always play the Stoic under the lash.
However--I daresay----" He went off into a profound study, resting his
chin in the palms of his hands. I kept my peace, making aimless marks
with my pen. It was an odd turn of affairs.
"Bob, what did I say about Destiny awhile ago?" he raised his head and
addressed me suddenly. "I will take it back. I am going to take Destiny
by the nape of the neck. Being grilled on the seat of the scornful is
little to my liking. It was a bit of ill-luck that you fell in with me.
I seem to be in a bad boat."
"Ill-luck for which of us?" I asked. It was the first time he had
sounded the personal note--aside from the evening we were landed in
MacLeod, when he comforted me with the assurance that at the worst I
would spend no more than a few days in the guardhouse.
"For you, of course," he replied seriously. "My sins are upon my own
head. But it was unfortunate that I should have led you to Sanders'
place the very night picked for a raid. They can have nothing against
you, though; and they'll let you out fast enough when it comes to a
hearing. Nor, for that matter, are they likely to hang me,
notwithstanding the ugly things folk say. However, I have work to do
which I cannot do lying here. Hence I perceive that I must get out of
here. And I may need your help."
"How are you going to manage that?" I inquired, gazing with some
astonishment at this man who spoke so coolly and confidently of getting
out of prison. "These walls seem pretty solid, and you can hardly dig
through them with a lone pen-nib. That's the only implement I see at
hand. And I expect the guard will be after that before I get my letter
done."
"I don't know how the thing will be done," he declared, "but I am surely
going to get out of here pretty _pronto_, as the cowmen have it."
He settled back and took to staring at the ceiling. I, presently, became
immersed in my letter to Bolton. When it was done I thrust a hand
through the bars of my cell and wig-wagged the Policeman--they were
good-natured souls for the most part, tolerant of their prisoners, and
it broke the grinding monotony to exchange a few words with one under
almost any pretext. Barreau was chary of speech, and the Sanders
brothers were penned beyond my sight. Sheer monotonous silence, I
imagine, would drive even peace-loving men to revolt and commit
desperate deeds when they are cooped within four walls with nothing but
their thoughts for company.
When he came I observed that the guard had been changed since Miss
Montell's visit. The new man was a lean, sour-faced trooper. To my
surprise he took my letter and then stood peeping in past me to where
Barreau lay on his bunk. After a few seconds he walked away, smiling
queerly. In a minute or so he was back again, taking another squint.
This time Barreau turned over facing the door, and when the trooper
continued his promenade past our cell he got up and stood before the
barred window, completely shutting off my outlook. I could not see, but
I could hear. And by the sound of his booted feet the guard passed and
repassed several times.
After a little he tired of this, it seemed, for I heard him stalking
away to the front of the guardhouse, and immediately thereafter the
creak of a chair as he sat down. Then Barreau sat down on his bunk
again.
"Try this, kid," he said, and tossed a package of tobacco and cigarette
papers to me. I fell upon the forbidden luxury like a starving man upon
food. He rolled himself one out of material in his hand, and in the
midst of my puffing changed to my side of the cell--it was but a scant
three feet to move--and sat down between me and the door.
"Fate smiles at last," he whispered. "Blackie passed me in a little
tobacco. And--see, here in my hand."
I glanced down at what he was snuggling down out of sight between us, a
heavy-bladed knife, a tiny saw, not more than six inches in length, and
a piece of notepaper marked with what my reason told me must be a ground
plan of the very place we were in.
"The tools of my deliverance," said Barreau in an undertone. "I am for
the blue sky and the sun and the clean, wide prairies once more."