THE MYSTERY OF GREY WOLF FOREST
There were two boys in the household of Rattlesnake Ranch--Percy Rapson,
who had come out from England to learn farming, and Dan Medlicott, the
sixteen-year-old son of the ranch mistress. They were different in many
ways, these two, as might be expected when one had been brought up in an
English public school and the other had spent the whole of his life in
the wilds of Western Canada. But there was one thing in which they were
entirely alike: they both had a tremendous respect and admiration for
Sergeant Silk.
He was their hero, and they were proud to count him also as their
friend. They admired him especially because he was such a splendid
horseman; he could manage any horse you liked to offer him, and could
subdue even the wildest of bucking bronchos. He was a sure shot, too,
with rifle and revolver, and an extraordinarily fine swimmer. He
excelled in all the outdoor exercises that appeal to most boys, and as
for pluck and endurance, he was a constant marvel.
Most of all, they respected him for his knowledge of woodcraft and his
skill in scouting. He knew all the secrets of the plains, he could tell
you the name of every flower and tree and bird and beast, and for
following up a trail, for seeing and hearing and smelling and drawing
correct conclusions from every little sign that any one else would pass
by unnoticed, he was quite as clever as any Indian.
Naturally, his work as a member of the Mounted Police and his duty of
going on lonely patrol over prairie and mountain, gave him plenty of
opportunity for exercising these powers, and somehow he had the luck of
being always at hand when there was any danger to be faced, or when a
man of fearless courage and ready resource was wanted to carry out some
perilous adventure.
"I don't believe Silk knows the meaning of real danger," said Percy
Rapson one day when he and Dan Medlicott were discussing one of the
sergeant's exploits that they had just heard of. "I wonder what he's got
up his sleeve to-day. You may bet he's got something. He always has when
he's more than usually quiet, as he is now."
"You might ask him," urged Dan. "He's out there on the verandah."
"It would look too inquisitive," objected Percy.
"Well, if you don't, I will," Dan resolved. "I'll go right now, while
he's alone."
Sergeant Silk had called in at the homestead on his way along the trail
to the depot of the North-West Mounted Police at Canmore, and had been
induced by Mrs. Medlicott to stay to supper and give his pony a needed
rest.
The meal was over, and he was now on the point of going round to saddle
the mare and resume his lonely journey, lingering only, as it appeared,
to smoke a pipe. But since coming out into the verandah he had, as his
young friends had noticed, suddenly become unaccountably morose.
He was standing with his shoulder against a post of the verandah when
Dan went out to him.
"Say, Sergeant," said Dan, making a successful grab at a mosquito that
buzzed about his head, "you're gloomy, all of a sudden, aren't you?
Anything gone wrong?"
Silk turned his calm, blue eyes upon the boy beside him.
"Can't say that anything has gone particularly wrong, Dannie," he
answered slowly. "At least, not with myself. I'm just a bit puzzled,
that's all, trying to figure out a problem that occurred to me this
afternoon as I rode along through the forest trail." He blew a cloud of
tobacco smoke into the midst of the mosquitoes. "Dare say you could help
me, some. Two heads are better than one, you know."
Dan Medlicott laughed his free, boyish laugh.
"I'm afraid mine isn't a whole lot of good alongside of yours," he
said. "What's your difficulty?"
Sergeant Silk did not answer immediately. But presently he opened a
button in the front of his brown canvas tunic, and, thrusting in his
hand, drew forth something which looked like a long parcel, in wrappings
of dirty white cloth.
Dan watched him unwinding the wrappings. They were ominously stained
with ragged smears of a dull red colour.
"My!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "What have you got there? A dagger!"
"Looks so," Silk nodded as the cloth dropped to his feet. He laid the
weapon across his left hand and held it for the boy's inspection. "What
d'you think of it?" he asked.
Dan bent over it without touching it. The weapon had a long, slender,
double-edged blade, which tapered to a very sharp point. The handle was
of ivory, decorated with bands of tarnished silver, wrought in a curious
Oriental design.
"What a wicked-looking weapon!" he declared, drawing back with a
shudder.
Silk closed his fingers over the haft.
"Ever seen anything like it before!" he inquired.
Dan shook his head.
"Never."
"Neither have I," said the sergeant. "At least, not in Canada. It's the
sort of thing you might come across in a museum. I'd say it was of
Moorish workmanship. Dare say some Bedouin Arab once carried it in his
waist-belt, riding across the desert, as we ride across the plains with
our revolvers."
"You're going to keep it as a curiosity, I suppose?" Dan surmised.
"Where did you pick it up? Buy it? Have it given you?"
"Found it," returned the soldier policeman, puffing slowly at his pipe.
"Found it 'way back in the forest. What I'm trying to figure out is the
problem of who left it there, yesterday, see?"
"Yesterday?" repeated Dan, in wonder at this precision as to time.
"Yes. You see, there's no rust on it. It's too clean and bright to have
been there more than a few hours. Besides----"
"Those red stains on the cloth wrappings----" Dan interrupted. "What are
they?"
Silk glanced behind him through the open window of the room, where Maple
Leaf, the kitchen girl, was clearing the supper table. Maple Leaf was an
Indian, and she had sharp ears. He lowered his voice as he resumed in
response to his companion's inquiry--
"Not much need to ask what they are. Of course, they're blood. You see,
I found the dagger sticking in the trunk of a soft maple tree. The long
blade had been driven clean through a man's chest, between the ribs,
pinning him against the tree. Who killed him, and why, I have yet to
find out. One sure thing is that, whoever it was, he hated his victim so
badly, so vindictively, that he wanted him to stay there where he was,
fastened with his back against the tree, while the knife should hold
him."
"Who was the victim--the dead man?" Dan asked abruptly. "You knew him?"
Silk nodded. There were not many inhabitants of the province of Alberta
whom he did not know, at least by sight.
"Oh, yes!" he responded. "It was a French half-breed, Henri Jolicoeur, of
Hilton's Jump--the same who won the cup at Regina races last spring,
beating Flying Feather, the Iroquois Indian."
Dan Medlicott looked up sharply.
"Those two have always been rivals in horsemanship," he reminded the
sergeant. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if it was that same Indian who
killed poor Henri, out of revenge."
Sergeant Silk shook his head.
"It wasn't an Indian who did it," he decided. "No Indian would have left
so valuable a weapon behind. An Indian would have robbed his victim of
everything that was worth stealing, and would probably have taken his
scalp. He would almost certainly have appropriated the poor chap's
horse. No; it wasn't an Indian."
Dan Medlicott then asked--
"Would a white man--a Canadian--have been any more likely to leave the
dagger behind as evidence against himself?"
"I don't feel sure that a white man would use such a weapon in any
case," returned Silk. "He'd be much more likely to use his revolver,
openly. But, even allowing that the criminal may have been a white
Canadian, the dagger may not have been his own. It may have been the
property of some one else, who had nothing to do with this crime, and
his leaving it behind would provide a convenient false clue, drawing
suspicion away from himself."
"Yes, I see," admitted Dan. And, after a pause, he added: "I expect they
had a struggle--a fight--back there in the forest?"
"No. There was no struggle," Silk argued. "It was done stealthily,
suddenly."
Dan Medlicott did not ask for an explanation of this theory; but he
waited, knowing that one would come.
"I've figured it out this way," the sergeant presently resumed. "The
two men met each other on the forest trail and decided to make camp
together. They hobbled their ponies, and went on foot in among the trees
to fix up their camping place. They made a fire beside a stream, boiled
some water, and made tea. I saw the ashes of their fire, the tea leaves,
and some bacon rind. I found a crust of bread, with teeth marks on it.
They were very even teeth; not the teeth of Henri Jolicoeur, which were
crooked and broken."
"They seem to have been friendly enough, anyway," remarked Dan, "eating
together and meaning to camp together."
"Yes," acknowledged the sergeant, "but, at the same time, there was
treachery in the mind of one of them. When they had finished eating they
went aside from the fire and sat together on a bank under the maple
tree, where they remained for a long time, smoking cigarettes. Henri
never suspected what was coming. But the other knew. He was nervous,
very nervous."
"Eh?" interrupted Dan Medlicott. "Nervous? How on earth did you make
such a discovery as that?"
Silk took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the tobacco ash on
the rail of the verandah.
"Well," he answered. "For one thing, it was shown by the fact that,
having spoilt a cigarette paper, he tore it up into little bits. For
another thing, he used quite a heap of matches to keep his cigarettes
alight, and he chewed the ends of his cigarettes to tatters. He was
restless, too, always moving, cutting the dry grass and ferns with his
spurs, and digging his heels into the parched ground. They were high
heels, like those of a cowboy's boots."
"An Indian would have worn moccasins, and no spurs," said Dan.
"Why, cert'nly," assented his companion. "It's clear he wasn't an
Indian. I'm inclined to think he was a half-breed, the same as Henri
himself. Still, I'm puzzled."
"I don't wonder," nodded Dan. "You don't seem to have got any clue
that's of much value, except the weapon. What has become of Henri's
horse? It wasn't stolen, you say."
"No. The fellow was too cunning to risk being discovered in possession
of his victim's broncho. He left it hobbled in the forest, where I found
it. It's there now, in charge of one of my men--Trooper Collins."
Silk had wrapped the dagger in its windings of dirty cloth, and now he
thrust it back under the cover of his tunic.
"Will you do me a favour, Dannie?" he asked, as he went down the steps.
"I'll do anything you wish," returned Dan, accompanying him along the
garden path. "What do you want me to do?"
"To ride to Hilton's Jump to-night," said Silk, "and break the news to
Marie Jolicoeur about what has happened to her son. And perhaps while you
are there in the half-breeds' village you might be able to discover who
were Henri's enemies. I can trust you to be discreet."
Dan said nothing of this affair to Percy Rapson, leaving Percy to guess
what he liked concerning his reason for going out on horseback after
Silk had said good-night and ridden off alone along the trail.
On the next morning Sergeant Silk was back again at Rattlesnake Ranch,
on the same chestnut mare. He had had no sleep, but if he was fatigued
the fact was not betrayed in his appearance, for his eyes were as
brightly alert as always. He had shaved. His dark moustache had its
usual curl, and his brown canvas uniform--even to the shine on his long
boots and the gleam of newly-polished brass in buttons and
cartridges--was as tidy as if he were going on parade.
Dan Medlicott met him as he approached the homestead.
"I see you did not fail to go to Hilton's Jump last night," the sergeant
smiled.
Dan looked at him queerly.
"How do you know?" he asked.
Silk glanced down at the feet of Dan's pony.
"By the mud on your broncho's fetlocks," he answered. "You took the
short cut by the edge of the marsh, and you didn't give yourself time to
groom your plug this morning. Well, have you any news? Did you see Marie
Jolicoeur?"
"Yes. She was in an awful state about it. Henri was her only support.
Of course, she wanted to know everything, and I told her as much as I
could. When I spoke about the dagger and described it, she screamed and
rushed excitedly to a corner cupboard and flung it open and brought out
an old leather scabbard, which she dropped on the table. It was empty,
but I saw in a moment that it was ornamented with the same sort of
silver bands as those on the handle of the dagger you showed me."
"Ah!" cried Silk. "That is significant. It means that it was with his
own weapon that Henri Jolicoeur was killed."
"Yes," Dan agreed. "His mother saw him handling the dagger, day before
yesterday, but she didn't know he'd taken it out with him."
"I see," nodded the sergeant. "It was probably snatched from his
belt--and used--while he stood up beside the maple tree. In that case it
isn't of much further use as a clue. Did you discover the name of his
enemy? He must, after all, have been afraid of being attacked."
"It seems he had several enemies," said Dan Medlicott. "There was Dick
Transom for one, who hated him like poison, and Emile Guyot for another,
who owed him a grudge on account of some gambling affair."
"It wasn't Transom," promptly decided Sergeant Silk. "Dick Transom has
lost one of his front teeth. And it wasn't Emile Guyot, for he is in
prison at Moose Jaw. Any others?"
"Henri's mother believes it was Flying Feather," Dan went on. "They had
a bad quarrel just after the races in the spring. But I assured her that
it wasn't an Indian who did it. The only other enemies of Henri's that
she could think of were Pierre Roche and Adolf Simon, both of them
half-breeds; but she didn't reckon it could be either of them who took
her son's life."
Silk repeated the two names thoughtfully as he turned to remount.
"Pierre Roche?--Adolf Simon? Let's see! Yes. Thank you, Dan; I was
right about two heads being better than one. You have put me on a new
scent. I hope you haven't mentioned either of these men to any one
else?"
"Not I," Dan assured him, adding, as the soldier policeman leapt into
his saddle: "Aren't you coming into the house to have some breakfast?"
Silk shook his head.
"I am on duty," he answered. "I am off to Pincher's Creek. That is where
Adolf Simon and Pierre Roche usually hang out."
"Then it's one of them that you suspect?" said Dan.
"I did not say so," smiled Silk, touching his pony's side with his
spurred heel.
He rode through the stifling heat of the summer noon across the parched
prairie and among the winding valleys of the foothills, arriving at
Pincher's Creek in the early evening, covered with dust, but with his
well-cared-for broncho as free from fatigue as he was himself.
No one guessed what he had come for. The ranchers and cowboys supposed
that his purpose was only to make one of his periodical patrol visits to
inquire into any complaints that they might have to make, and to see
that the settlers' homesteads were guarded against fire, as the law
required them to be.
Silk made the tour of the far-stretching cornfields, where the men were
at work harvesting the ripe grain, and when the labours in the fields
were over and he had taken supper with the ranch-master's family, he
strolled down to the bunkhouse, where most of the hands fed and slept.
He entered very casually, and was greeted as a friend.
At first he gave his attentions to the white men, but presently he
approached a group of Indians and half-breeds. Amongst the latter he had
seen Adolf Simon, one of the men against whom his suspicions were
directed. Adolf was now seated at the end of a bench, rolling a
cigarette, while he chattered volubly in Canadian French to his
companions.
"Say, Adolf, are you making that fag for me?" Silk inquired.
The half-breed looked up and smiled, showing his white and even teeth
under a small, black moustache.
"Oh! but yes, if m'sieur will accept," he answered gaily, as he
delicately held forth the cigarette ready to be licked. "_Voila!_"
Sergeant Silk took it and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of
the paper, smoothing it down neatly and nipping off the shreds of
tobacco which protruded from the ends. He crumpled the fragments between
a finger and thumb and sniffed at them critically.
"Ah! you no like such tabac," said Adolf. "It ees no good for mek de
cigarette; only good for pipe, eh?"
"I dare say it smokes all right," nodded Silk, striking a match.
He was not concerned whether the tobacco were good or bad. What he
wished to discover was whether it was the same quality as the tobacco in
the cigarettes smoked by Henri Jolicoeur and his enemy at the foot of the
maple tree in Grey Wolf Forest. He quickly assured himself that it was
different. It was darker and coarser. He noticed also that the paper
used by Adolf was yellow instead of white.
As he lighted the cigarette Silk glanced down at Adolf's feet. They were
clad in very much worn moccasins. Already he had decided that Adolf
Simon was not the criminal of whom he was in search. Nevertheless, he
put his judgment to the proof. Watching the half-breed's face, he
casually asked--
"Say, Adolf, have you seen anything of your friend Henri Jolicoeur,
lately?"
Adolf's countenance betrayed no agitation at this abrupt mention of a
name which would certainly have disturbed his conscience had he been
guilty.
"Henri Jolicoeur?" he repeated, pausing in rolling another cigarette. "He
is no friend of mine. I tink you mek meestek, Sergeant. Once--long tam
since--we was _bons camarades_, but since two, tree month we 'ave
nevaire speak. We 'ave not meet. Dere is no occasion, you un'erstand."
"In that case," returned the soldier policeman, "it is needless for me
to ask you anything about him. I shall probably get all the information
I require from Pierre Roche. Pierre is on the ranch here, isn't he."
Adolf sent a very long, slow jet of tobacco smoke into the air and
watched it fade.
"Not since four day," he responded, meeting Silk's keen scrutiny. "He
'ave mek heemself absent on private affair."
Presently, when Silk went out of the bunkhouse, Adolf followed him at a
distance and overtook him as he came within sight of the lighted windows
of the homestead.
"Pardon, Sergeant," he began mysteriously. "Why you come here, nosing
round? I tink you come for de special police duty, eh? Is not dat so?"
"It is possible," admitted Silk. "But is there anything wonderful in
that? Why are you anxious about my being here--on special police duty?"
Adolf shrugged his shoulders.
"You spek of Henri Jolicoeur, of Pierre Roche," he went on. "You savee
dey was enemy, hating each oder lak de poison--what? You 'ave discover
som'ting."
Sergeant Silk stood facing the half-breed looking into his dark, alert
eyes, wondering if he were to be trusted.
"Why, cert'nly," he nodded. "I have discovered something. I have
discovered the dead body of Henri Jolicoeur in Grey Wolf Forest."
"So?" ejaculated Adolf, with less surprise than might have been
expected. "_Tiens! tiens!_ And you 'ave come for try mek de arrest of
Pierre Roche? Dat is ver' queek, certainly. You 'ave lose no tam. But
dere is no use you come 'ere. He no come back to Pincher's Creek. It ees
de las' place he come to."
"You appear to have no doubt of his guilt, anyway, Adolf," observed
Silk.
"But what would you?" rejoined the half-breed. "Was it not hees
intention? Many tam I hear heem say he will tek de life of Henri
Jolicoeur. Yes, many tam. And now he 'ave tek it! Well, M'sieu', it will
be ver' interesting suppose you catch heem. You are clever tracker,
Sergeant Silk. You catch many criminal. But you no catch Pierre Roche.
It is impossible, absolutely. You nevaire catch heem--nevaire. He 'ave
too many friend. He ees too cunning--cunning as de fox."
"There can be no harm in trying," Silk smiled. "Canada is a large
country, and there are many places where a hunted criminal may hide
successfully--for a while. But Pierre Roche will not escape."
"We shall see," laughed Adolf, turning on his heel.