There was a gleam in his eyes, a setting of the lips, a line sinking into
the forehead between the eyes.
"I've been watching for him all day, and I'll watch till he comes. I'm
going to say some things to him that he won't forget. I'm going to get
Bobby's money, or have the law do it--unless you think I'm a brute,
Nett." She looked at him wistfully.
"That's all right. Don't worry about me, Jo. He's my brother, but I
know him--I know him through and through. He's done everything that a
man can do and not be hanged. A thief, a drunkard, and a brute--and he
killed a man out here," he added hoarsely. "I found it out myself--
myself. It was murder."
Suddenly, as he looked at her, an idea seemed to flash into his mind.
He came very near and looked at her closely. Then he reached over and
almost touched the scar on her forehead.
"Did he do that, Jo?"
For an instant she was silent and looked down at the floor. Presently
she raised her eyes, her face suffused. Once or twice she tried to
speak, but failed. At last she gained courage and said:
"After Cynthy's death I kept house for him for a year, taking care of
little Bobby. I loved Bobby so--he has Cynthy's eyes. One day Dorland
--oh, Nett, of course I oughtn't to have stayed there, I know it now; but
I was only sixteen, and what did I understand! And my mother was dead.
One day--oh, please, Nett, you can guess. He said something to me.
I made him leave the house. Before I could make plans what to do,
he came back mad with drink. I went for Bobby, to get out of the house,
but he caught hold of me. I struck him in the face, and he threw me
against the edge of the open door. It made the scar."
Foyle's face was white. "Why did you never write and tell me that, Jo?
You know that I--" He stopped suddenly.
"You had gone out of our lives down there. I didn't know where you were
for a long time; and then--then it was all right about Bobby and me,
except that Bobby didn't get the money that was his. But now--"
Foyle's voice was hoarse and low. "He made that scar, and he--and you
only sixteen--Oh, my God!" Suddenly his face reddened, and he choked
with shame and anger. "And he's my brother!" was all that he could say.
"Do you see him up here ever?" she asked pityingly.
"I never saw him till a week ago." A moment, then he added: "The letter
wasn't to be sent here in his own name, was it?"
She nodded. "Yes, in his own name, Dorland W. Foyle. Didn't he go by
that name when you saw him?"
There was an oppressive silence, in which she saw that something moved
him strangely, and then he answered: "No, he was going by the name of
Halbeck--Hiram Halbeck."
The girl gasped. Then the whole thing burst upon her. "Hiram Halbeck!
Hiram Halbeck, the thief--I read it all in the papers--the thief that you
caught, and that got away. And you've left the Mounted Police because of
it--oh, Nett!" Her eyes were full of tears, her face was drawn and grey.
He nodded. "I didn't know who he was till I arrested him," he said.
"Then, afterward, I thought of his child, and let him get away; and for
my poor old mother's sake. She never knew how bad he was even as a boy.
But I remember how he used to steal and drink the brandy from her
bedside, when she had the fever. She never knew the worst of him.
But I let him away in the night, Jo, and I resigned, and they thought
that Halbeck had beaten me, had escaped. Of course I couldn't stay in
the Force, having done that. But, by the heaven above us, if I had him
here now, I'd do the thing--do it, so help me God!"
"Why should you ruin your life for him?" she said, with an outburst of
indignation. All that was in her heart welled up in her eyes at the
thought of what Foyle was. "You must not do it. You shall not do it.
He must pay for his wickedness, not you. It would be a sin. You and
what becomes of you mean so much." Suddenly with a flash of purpose she
added: "He will come for that letter, Nett. He would run any kind of
risk to get a dollar. He will come here for that letter--perhaps today."
He shook his head moodily, oppressed by the trouble that was on him.
"He's not likely to venture here, after what's happened."
"You don't know him as well as I do, Nett. He is so vain he'd do it,
just to show that he could. He'd' probably come in the evening. Does
any one know him here? So many people pass through Kowatin every day.
Has any one seen him?"
"Only Billy Goatry," he answered, working his way to a solution of the
dark problem. "Only Billy Goatry knows him. The fellow that led the
singing--that was Goatry."
"There he is now," he added, as Billy Goat passed the window.
She came and laid a hand on his arm. "We've got to settle things with
him," she said. "If Dorl comes, Nett--"
There was silence for a moment, then he caught her hand in his and held
it. "If he comes, leave him to me, Jo. You will leave him to me?" he
added anxiously.
"Yes," she answered. "You'll do what's right-by Bobby?"
"And by Dorl, too," he replied strangely. There were loud footsteps
without.
"It's Goatry," said Foyle. "You stay here. I'll tell him everything.
He's all right; he's a true friend. He'll not interfere."
The handle of the door turned slowly. "You keep watch on the post-
office, Jo," he added.
Goatry came round the opening door with a grin. "Hope I don't intrude,"
he said, stealing a half-leering look at the girl. As soon as he saw her
face, however, he straightened himself up and took on different manners.
He had not been so intoxicated as he had made, out, and he seemed only
"mellow" as he stood before them, with his corrugated face and queer,
quaint look, the eye with the cast in it blinking faster than the.
other.
"It's all right, Goatry," said Foyle. "This lady is, one of my family
from the East."
"Goin' on by stage?" Goatry said vaguely, as they shook hands.
She did not reply, for she was looking down the street, and presently she
started as she gazed. She laid a hand suddenly on Foyle's arm.
"See--he's come," she said in a whisper, and as though not realising
Goatry's presence. "He's come."
Goatry looked as well as Foyle. "Halbeck--the devil!" he said.
Foyle turned to him. "Stand by, Goatry. I want you to keep a shut
mouth. I've work to do."
Goatry held out his hand. "I'm with you. If you get him this time,
clamp him, clamp him like a tooth in a harrow."
Halbeck had stopped his horse at the post-office door. Dismounting he
looked quickly round, then drew the reins over the horse's head, letting
them trail, as is the custom of the West.
A few swift words passed between Goatry and Foyle. "I'll do this myself,
Jo," he whispered to the girl presently. "Go into another room. I'll
bring him here."
In another minute Goatry was leading the horse away from the post-office,
while Foyle stood waiting quietly at the door. The departing footsteps
of the horse brought Halbeck swiftly to the doorway, with a letter in his
hand.
"Hi, there, you damned sucker!" he called after Goatry, and then saw
Foyle waiting.
"What the hell--!" he said fiercely, his hand on something in his hip
pocket.
"Keep quiet, Dorl. I want to have a little talk with you. Take your
hand away from that gun--take it away," he added with a meaning not to be
misunderstood.
Halbeck knew that one shout would have the town on him, and he did not
know what card his brother was going to play. He let his arm drop to his
side. "What's your game? What do you want?" he asked surlily.
"Come over to the Happy Land Hotel," Foyle answered, and in the light of
what was in his mind his words had a grim irony.
With a snarl Halbeck stepped out. Goatry, who had handed the horse over
to the hostler, watched them coming.
"Why did I never notice the likeness before?" Goatry said to himself.
"But, gosh! what a difference in the men. Foyle's going to double cinch
him this time, I guess."
He followed them inside the hall of the Happy Land. When they stepped
into the sitting-room, he stood at the door waiting. The hotel was
entirely empty, the roisterers at the Prairie Home having drawn off the
idlers and spectators. The barman was nodding behind the bar, the
proprietor was moving about in the backyard inspecting a horse. There
was a cheerful warmth everywhere, the air was like an elixir, the pungent
smell of a pine-tree at the door gave a kind of medicament to the indrawn
breath. And to Billy Goat, who sometimes sang in the choir of a church
not a hundred miles away--for people agreed to forget his occasional
sprees--there came, he knew not why, the words of a hymn he had sung only
the preceding Sunday:
"As pants the hart for cooling streams,
When heated in the chase--"
The words kept ringing in his ears as he listened to the conversation
inside the room--the partition was thin, the door thinner, and he heard
much. Foyle had asked him not to intervene, but only to stand by and
await the issue of this final conference. He meant, however, to take a
hand in, if he thought he was needed, and he kept his ear glued to the
door. If he thought Foyle needed him--his fingers were on the handle of
the door.
"Now, hurry up! What do you want with me?" asked Halbeck of his
brother.
"Take your time," said ex-Sergeant Foyle, as he drew the blind three-
quarters down, so that they could not be seen from the street.
"I'm in a hurry, I tell you. I've got my plans. I'm going South. I've
only just time to catch the Canadian Pacific three days from now, riding
hard."
"You're not going South, Dorl."
"Where am I going, then?" was the sneering reply. "Not farther than the
Happy Land."
"What the devil's all this? You don't mean you're trying to arrest me
again, after letting me go?"
"You don't need to ask. You're my prisoner. You're my prisoner," he
said in a louder voice--" until you free yourself."
"I'll do that damn quick, then," said the other, his hand flying to his
hip.
"Sit down," was the sharp rejoinder, and a pistol was in his face before
he could draw his own weapon. "Put your gun on the table," Foyle said
quietly. Halbeck did so. There was no other way.
Foyle drew it over to himself. His brother made a motion to rise.
"Sit still, Dorl," came the warning voice.
White with rage, the freebooter sat still, his dissipated face and heavy
angry lips looking like a debauched and villainous caricature of his
brother before him.
"Yes, I suppose you'd have potted me, Dorl," said the ex-sergeant.
"You'd have thought no more of doing that than you did of killing Linley,
the ranchman; than you did of trying to ruin Jo Byndon, your wife's
sister, when she was sixteen years old, when she was caring for your
child--giving her life for the child you brought into the world."
"What in the name of hell--it's a lie!"
"Don't bluster. I know the truth."
"Who told you-the truth?"
"She did--to-day--an hour ago."
"She here--out here?" There was a new cowed note in the voice.
"She is in the next room."
"What did she come here for?"
"To make you do right by your own child. I wonder what a jury of decent
men would think about a man who robbed his child for five years, and let
that child be fed and clothed and cared for by the girl he tried to
destroy, the girl he taught what sin there was in the world."
"She put you up to this. She was always in love with you, and you know
it."
There was a dangerous look in Foyle's eyes, and his jaw set hard. "There
would be no shame in a decent woman caring for me, even if it was true.
I haven't put myself outside the boundary as you have. You're my
brother, but you're the worst scoundrel in the country--the worst
unhanged. Put on the table there the letter in your pocket. It holds
five hundred dollars belonging to your child. There's twenty-five
hundred dollars more to be accounted for."
The other hesitated, then with an oath threw the letter on the table.
"I'll pay the rest as soon as I can, if you'll stop this damned
tomfoolery," he said sullenly, for he saw that he was in a hole.
"You'll pay it, I suppose, out of what you stole from the C.P.R.
contractor's chest. No, I don't think that will do."
"You want me to go to prison, then?"
"I think not. The truth would come out at the trial--the whole truth--
the murder, and all. There's your child Bobby. You've done him enough
wrong already. Do you want him--but it doesn't matter whether you do or
not--do you want him to carry through life the fact that his father was a
jail-bird and a murderer, just as Jo Byndon carries the scar you made
when you threw her against the door?"
"What do you want with me, then?" The man sank slowly and heavily back
into the chair.
"There is a way--have you never thought of it? When you threatened
others as you did me, and life seemed such a little thing in others
--can't you think?"
Bewildered, the man looked around helplessly. In the silence which
followed Foyle's words his brain was struggling to see a way out.
Foyle's further words seemed to come from a great distance.
"It's not too late to do the decent thing. You'll never repent of all
you've done; you'll never do different."
The old reckless, irresponsible spirit revived in the man; he had both
courage and bravado, he was not hopeless yet of finding an escape from
the net. He would not beg, he would struggle.
"I've lived as I meant to, and I'm not going to snivel or repent now.
It's all a rotten business, anyhow," he rejoined.
With a sudden resolution the ex-sergeant put his own pistol in his
pocket, then pushed Halbeck's pistol over towards him on the table.
Halbeck's eyes lighted eagerly, grew red with excitement, then a change
passed over them. They now settled on the pistol, and stayed. He heard
Foyle's voice. "It's with you to do what you ought to do. Of course you
can kill me. My pistol's in my pocket. But I don't think you will.
You've murdered one man. You won't load your soul up with another.
Besides, if you kill me, you will never get away from Kowatin alive.
But it's with you--take your choice. It's me or you."
Halbeck's fingers crept out and found the pistol. "Do your duty, Dorl,"
said the ex-sergeant as he turned his back on his brother.
The door of the room opened, and Goatry stepped inside softly. He had
work to do, if need be, and his face showed it. Halbeck did not see him.
There was a demon in Halbeck's eyes, as his brother stood, his back
turned, taking his chances. A large mirror hung on the wall opposite
Halbeck. Goatry was watching Halbeck's face in the glass, and saw the
danger. He measured his distance.
All at once Halbeck caught Goatry's face in the mirror. The dark devilry
faded out of his eyes. His lips moved in a whispered oath. Every way
was blocked.
With a sudden wild resolution he raised the pistol to his head. It
cracked, and he fell back heavily in the chair. There was a red trickle
at the temple.
He had chosen the best way out.
"He had the pluck," said Goatry, as Foyle swung round with a face of
misery.
A moment afterward came a rush of people. Goatry kept them back.
"Sergeant Foyle arrested Halbeck, and Halbeck's shot himself," Goatry
explained to them.
A white-faced girl with a scar on her temple made her way into the room.
"Come away-come away, Jo," said the voice of the man she loved; and he
did not let her see the lifeless figure in the chair.
Three days later the plains swallowed them, as they made their way with
Billy Goatry to the headquarters of the Riders of the Plains, where
Sergeant Foyle was asked to reconsider his resignation: which he did.