TROOPER SHANNON'S QUARREL
There was bitter frost in the darkness outside when two young men stood
talking in the stables of a little outpost lying a long ride back from
the settlement in the lonely prairie. One leaned against a manger with
a pipe in his hand, while the spotless, softly-gleaming harness hung up
behind him showed what his occupation had been. The other stood bolt
upright with lips set, and a faint grayness which betokened strong
emotion showing through his tan. The lantern above them flickered in
the icy draughts, and from out of the shadows beyond its light came the
stamping of restless, horses and the smell of prairie hay which is
pungent with the odors of wild peppermint.
The two lads, and they were very little more, were friends, in spite of
the difference in their upbringing, for there are few distinctions
between caste and caste in that country where manhood is still esteemed
the greatest thing, and the primitive virtues count for more than
wealth or intellect. Courage and endurance still command respect in
the new Northwest, and that both the lads possessed them was made
evident by the fact that they were troopers of the Northwest police, a
force of splendid cavalry whose duty it is to patrol the wilderness at
all seasons and in all weathers, under scorching sun and in blinding
snow.
The men who keep the peace of the prairie are taught what heat and
thirst are, when they ride in couples through a desolate waste wherein
there is only bitter water, parched by pitiless sunrays and whitened by
the intolerable dust of alkali. They also discover just how much cold
the human frame can endure, when they lie down with only the stars
above them, long leagues from the nearest outpost, in a trench scooped
in the snow, and they know how near one may come to suffocation and yet
live through the grass fires' blinding smoke. It happens now and then
that two who have answered to the last roster in the icy darkness do
not awaken when the lingering dawn breaks across the great white waste,
and only the coyote knows their resting-place, but the watch and ward
is kept, and the lonely settler dwells as safe in the wilderness as he
would in an English town.
Trooper Shannon was an Irishman from the bush of Ontario; Trooper
Payne, English, and a scion of a somewhat distinguished family in the
old country, but while he told nobody why he left it suddenly, nobody
thought of asking him. He was known to be a bold rider and careful of
his beast, and that was sufficient for his comrades and the keen-eyed
Sergeant Stimson. He glanced at his companion thoughtfully as he said,
"She was a pretty girl. You knew her in Ontario?"
Shannon's hands trembled a little. "Sure," he said. "Larry's place
was just a mile beyont our clearing, an' there was never a bonnier
thing than Ailly Blake came out from the old country--but is it need
there is for talking when ye've seen her? There was once I watched her
smile at ye with the black eyes that would have melted the heart out of
any man. Waking and sleeping they're with me still."
Three generations of the Shannons had hewn the lonely clearing further
into the bush of Ontario and married the daughters of the soil, but the
Celtic strain, it was evident, had not run out yet. Payne, however,
came of English stock, and expressed himself differently.
"It was a--shame," he said. "Of course he flung her over. I think you
saw him, Pat?"
Shannon's face grew grayer, and he quivered visibly as his passion
shook him, while Payne felt his own blood pulse faster as he remembered
the graceful dark-eyed girl who had given him and his comrade many a
welcome meal when their duty took them near her brother's homestead.
That was, however, before one black day for Ailly and Larry Blake when
Lance Courthorne also rode that way.
"Yes," said the lad from Ontario, "I was driving in for the stores when
I met him in the willow bluff, an' Courthorne pulls his divil of a
black horse up with as little ugly smile on the lips of him when I
swung the wagon right across the trail.
"'That's not civil, trooper,' says he.
"'I'm wanting a word,' says I, with the black hate choking me at the
sight of him. 'What have ye done with Ailly?'
"'Is it anything to you?' says he.
"'It's everything,' says I. 'And if ye will not tell me I'll tear it
out of ye.'
"Courthorne laughs a little, but I saw the divil in his eyes. 'I don't
think you're quite man enough,' says he, sitting very quiet on the big
black horse. 'Any way, I can't tell you where she is just now because
she left the dancing saloon she was in down in Montana when I last saw
her.'
"I had the big whip that day, and I forgot everything as I heard the
hiss of it round my shoulder. It came home across the ugly face of
him, and then I flung it down and grabbed the carbine as he swung the
black around with one hand fumbling in his jacket. It came out empty,
an' we sat there a moment, the two of us, Courthorne white as death,
his eyes like burning coals, and the fingers of me trembling on the
carbine. Sorrow on the man that he hadn't a pistol or I'd have sent
the black soul of him to the divil it came from."
The lad panted, and Payne, who had guessed at his hopeless devotion to
the girl who had listened to Courthorne, made a gesture of disapproval
that was tempered by sympathy. It was for her sake, he fancied,
Shannon had left the Ontario clearing and followed Larry Blake to the
West.
"I'm glad he hadn't, Pat," said Payne. "What was the end of it?"
"I remembered," said the other with a groan, "remembered I was Trooper
Shannon, an' dropped the carbine into the wagon. Courthorne wheels the
black horse round, an' I saw the red line across the face of him."
"'You'll be sorry for this, my lad,' says he."
"He's a dangerous man," Payne said, thoughtfully. "Pat, you came near
being a ---- ass that day. Any way, it's time we went in, and as
Larry's here I shouldn't wonder if we saw Courthorne again before the
morning."
The icy cold went through them to the bone as they left the stables,
and it was a relief to enter the loghouse which was heated to fustiness
by the glowing stove. A lamp hung from a rough birch beam, and its
uncertain radiance showed motionless figures wrapped in blankets in the
bunks round the walls. Two men were, however, dressing, and one
already in uniform sat at a table talking to another swathed in furs,
who was from his appearance a prairie farmer. The man at the table was
lean and weather-bronzed, with grizzled hair and observant eyes. They
were fixed steadily upon the farmer, who knew that very little which
happened upon the prairie escaped the vigilance of Sergeant Stimson.
"It's straight talk you're giving me, Larry? What do you figure on
making by it?" he said.
The farmer laughed mirthlessly, "Not much, any way, beyond the chance
of getting a bullet in me back; or me best steer lifted one dark night,
'Tis not forgiving the rustlers are, and Courthorne's the divil," he
said. "But listen now, Sergeant, I've told ye where he is, and if
ye're not fit to corral him I'll ride him down meself."
Sergeant Stimson wrinkled his forehead. "If anybody knows what they're
after, it should be you," he said, watching the man out of the corner
of his eyes. "Still, I'm a little worried as to why, when you'll get
nothing for it, you're anxious to serve the State."
The farmer clenched a big hand. "Sergeant, you that knows everything,
will ye drive me mad--an' to ---- with the State!" he said. "Sure,
it's gospel I'm telling ye, an', as you're knowing well, it's me could
tell where the boys who ride at midnight drop many a keg. Well, if ye
will have your reason, it was Courthorne who put the black shame on me
an' mine."
Sergeant Stimson nodded, for he had already suspected this.
"Then," he said dryly, "we'll give you a chance of helping us to put
the handcuffs on him. Now, because they wouldn't risk the bridge, and
the ice is not thick yet everywhere, there are just two ways they could
bring the stuff across, and I figure we'd be near the thing if we fixed
on Graham's Pool. Still, Courthorne's no kind of fool, and just
because that crossing seems the likeliest he might try the other one.
You're ready for duty, Trooper Payne?"
The lad stood straight. "I can turn out in ten minutes, sir," he said.
"Then," and Sergeant Stimson raised his voice a trifle, "you will ride
at once to the rise a league outside the settlement, and watch the
Montana trail. Courthorne will probably be coming over from Winston's
soon after you get there, riding the big black, and you'll keep out of
sight and follow him. If he heads for Carson's Crossing, ride for
Graham's at a gallop, where you'll find me with the rest. If he makes
for the bridge, you will overtake him if you can and find out what he's
after. It's quite likely he'll tell you nothing, and you will not
arrest him, but bearing in mind that every minute he spends there will
be a loss to the rustlers you'll keep him as long as you can. Trooper
Shannon, you'll ride at once to the bluff above Graham's Pool and watch
the trail. Stop any man who rides that way, and if it's Courthorne
keep him until the rest of the boys come up with me. You've got your
duty quite straight, both of you?"
The lads saluted, and went out, while the sergeant smiled a little as
he glanced at the farmer and the men who were dressing.
"It's steep chances we'll have Mr. Courthorne's company to-morrow,
boys," he said. "Fill up the kettle, Tom, and serve out a pint of
coffee. There are reasons why we shouldn't turn out too soon. We'll
saddle in an hour or so."
Two of the men went out, and the stinging blast that swept in through
the open door smote a smoky smear across the blinking lamp and roused a
sharper crackling from the stove. Then one returned with the kettle
and there was silence, when the fusty heat resumed its sway. Now and
then a tired trooper murmured in his sleep, or there was a snapping in
the stove, while the icy wind moaned about the building and the kettle
commenced a soft sibilation, but nobody moved or spoke. Three shadowy
figures in uniform sat just outside the light, soaking in the grateful
warmth while they could, for they knew that they might spend the next
night unsheltered from the arctic cold of the wilderness. The Sergeant
sat with thoughtful eyes and wrinkled forehead, where the flickering
radiance forced up his lean face and silhouetted his spare outline on
the rough boarding behind him, and close by the farmer sucked silently
at his pipe, waiting with a stony calm that sprang from fierce
impatience the reckoning with the man who had brought black shame upon
him.
It was about this time when Winston stood shivering a little with the
bridle of a big black horse in his hand just outside the door of his
homestead. A valise and two thick blankets were strapped to the
saddle, and he had donned the fur cap and coat Courthorne usually wore.
Courthorne himself stood close by smiling at him sardonically.
"If you keep the cap down and ride with your stirrups long, as I've
fixed them, anybody would take you for me," said he. "Go straight
through the settlement, and let any man you come across see you. His
testimony would come in useful if Stimson tries to fix a charge on me.
You know your part of the bargain. You're to be Lance Courthorne for a
fortnight from to-day."
"Yes," said Winston dryly. "I wish I was equally sure of yours."
Courthorne laughed. "I'm to be rancher Winston until to-morrow night,
any way. Don't worry about me. I'll borrow those books of yours and
improve my mind. Possible starvation is the only thing that threatens
me, and it's unfortunate you've left nothing fit to eat behind you."
Winston swung himself into the saddle, a trifle awkwardly, for
Courthorne rode with longer stirrup leathers than he was accustomed to,
then he raised one hand, and the other man laughed a little as he
watched him sink into the darkness of the shadowy prairie. When the
drumming of hoofs was lost in the moaning of the wind he strode towards
the stable, and taking up the lantern surveyed Winston's horse
thoughtfully.
"The thing cuts with both edges, and the farmer only sees one of them,"
he said. "That beast's about as difficult to mistake as my black is."
Then he returned to the loghouse, and presently put on Winston's old
fur coat and tattered fur cap. Had Winston seen his unpleasant smile
as he did it, he would probably have wheeled the black horse and
returned at a gallop, but the farmer was sweeping across the waste of
whitened grass at least a league away by this time. Now and then a
half-moon blinked down between wisps of smoky cloud, but for the most
part gray dimness hung over the prairie, and the drumming of hoofs rang
stridently through the silence. Winston knew a good horse, and had
bred several of them--before a blizzard which swept the prairie killed
off his finest yearlings as well as their pedigree sire--and his
spirits rose as the splendid beast swung into faster stride beneath him.
For two weeks at least he would be free from anxiety, and the monotony
of his life at the lonely homestead had grown horribly irksome.
Winston was young, and now, when for a brief space he had left his
cares behind, the old love of adventure which had driven him out from
England once more awakened and set his blood stirring. For the first
time in six years of struggle he did not know what lay before him, and
he had a curious, half-instinctive feeling that the trait he was
traveling would lead him farther than Montana. It was borne in upon
him that he had left the old hopeless life behind, and stirred by some
impulse he broke into a little song he had sung in England and long
forgotten. He had a clear voice, and the words, which were filled with
the hope of youth, rang bravely through the stillness of the frozen
wilderness until the horse blundered, and Winston stopped with a little
smile.
"It's four long years since I felt as I do to-night," he said.
Then he drew bridle and checked the horse as the lights of the
settlement commenced to blink ahead, for the trail was rutted deep and
frozen into the likeness of adamant, but when the first frame houses
flung tracks of yellow radiance across the whitened grass he dropped
his left arm a trifle, and rode in at a canter as he had seen
Courthorne do. Winston did not like Courthorne, but he meant to keep
his bargain.
As he passed the hotel more slowly a man who came out called to him.
"Hello, Lance! Taking the trail?" he said. "Well, it kind of strikes
me it's time you did. One of Stimson's boys was down here, and he
seemed quite anxious about you."
Winston knew the man, and was about to urge the horse forward, but in
place of it drew bridle, and laughed with a feeling that was wholly new
to him as he remembered that his neighbors now and then bantered him
about his English, and that Courthorne only used the Western
colloquialism when it suited him.
"Sergeant Stimson is an enterprising officer, but there are as keen men
as he is," he said. "You will, in case he questions you, remember when
you met me."
"Oh, yes," said the other. "Still, I wouldn't fool too much with
him--and where did you get those mittens from? That's the kind of
outfit that would suit Winston."
Winston nodded, for though he had turned his face from the light the
hand he held the bridle with was visible, and his big fur gloves were
very old.
"They are his. The fact is, I've just come from his place," he said.
"Well, you can tell Stimson you saw me starting out on the Montana
trail."
He shook the bridle, laughed softly as the frame houses flitted by, and
then grew intent when the darkness of the prairie once more closed
down. It was, he knew, probable that some of Stimson's men would be
looking out for him, and he had not sufficient faith in Courthorne's
assurances to court an encounter with them.
The lights had faded, and the harsh grass was crackling under the
drumming hoofs when the blurred outline of a mounted man showed up on
the crest of a rise, and a shout came down.
"Hello! Pull up there a moment, stranger."
There was nothing alarming in the greeting, but Winston recognized the
ring of command, as well as the faint jingle of steel which had
preceded it, and pressed his heels home. The black swung forward
faster, and Winston glancing over his shoulder saw the dusky shape was
now moving down the incline. Then the voice rose again more
commandingly.
"Pull up, I want a talk with you."
Winston turned his head a moment, and remembering Courthorne's English
flung back the answer, "Sorry I haven't time."
The faint musical jingle grew plainer, there was a thud of hoofs
behind, and the curious exhilaration returned to Winston as the big
black horse stretched out at a gallop. The soil was hard as granite,
but the matted grasses formed a covering that rendered fast riding
possible to a man who took the risks, and Winston knew there were few
horses in the Government service to match the one he rode. Still, it
was evident that the trooper meant to overtake him, and recollecting
his compact he tightened his grip on the bridle. It was a long way to
the ranch where he was to spend the night, and he knew that the further
he drew the trooper on, the better it would suit Courthorne.
So they swept on through the darkness over the empty waste, the trooper
who was riding hard slowly creeping up behind. Still, Winston held the
horse in until a glance over his shoulder showed him that there was
less than a hundred yards between them, and he fancied he heard a
portentous rattle as well as the thud of hoofs. It was not unlike that
made by a carbine flung across the saddle. This suggested unpleasant
possibilities, and he slackened his grip on the bridle. Then a
breathless shout rang out, "Pull up or I'll fire."
Winston wondered if the threat was genuine or what is termed "bluff" in
that country, but, as he had decided objections to being shot in the
back to please Courthorne, sent his heels home. The horse shot forward
beneath him, and, though no carbine flashed, the next backward glance
showed him that the distance between him and the pursuer was drawing
out, while when he stared ahead again the dark shape of willows or
birches cut the sky-line. As they came back to him the drumming of
hoofs swelled into a staccato roar, while presently the trail grew
steep, and dark boughs swayed above him. In another few minutes
something smooth and level flung back a blink of light, and the timbers
of a wooden bridge rattled under his passage. Then he was racing
upwards through the gloom of wind-dwarfed birches on the opposite side
listening for the rattle behind him on the bridge, and after a struggle
with the horse pulled him up smoking when he did not hear it.
There was a beat of hoofs across the river, but it was slower than when
he had last heard it and grew momentarily less audible, and Winston
laughed as he watched the steam of the horse and his own breath rise in
a thin white cloud.
"The trooper has given it up, and now for Montana," he said.