THE FUGITIVE AND HIS PURSUER
Sergeant Silk had at least the satisfaction that he had now discovered
the identity of the man who had taken the life of Henri Jolicoeur, and
that same night, without resting, he hastened to the nearest police
depot to telegraph his report to head-quarters at Regina. He waited for
a reply, which came in the early morning, intimating that Pierre Roche
must be captured, dead or alive. The whole Force would see to it that he
was caught and brought to justice.
Roche had long been suspected as a persistent law breaker, but he had
never yet been convicted. More than half an Indian, he had all the
Redskin's cunning in covering his traces and evading detection; but now
the evidence against him was more than a mere suspicion.
A whole troop of the Mounted Police turned out in pursuit of him. They
were posted to guard all passes through the Rocky Mountains, and a
district of ninety square miles was combed over incessantly by strong
patrols. His escape seemed almost impossible. The district, however, was
one of foothills, bush, winding gorges, tracts of boulders, and, to the
eastward, rolling prairie, where the fugitive's friends, the Piegan and
Blood tribes, were using every subtlety of Indian craft to hide him and
outwit the police.
Day after day went by, and no positive trace of the criminal was found.
The only hint of his whereabouts was given in the fact that Sergeant
Silk, the most energetic of his pursuers, was constantly encountering
unexpected dangers. This was particularly so whenever he rode alone
unattended by scouts.
Artful traps were laid for him. He was misled by a hundred rumours that
took him far astray into lonely places. False trails were set to lure
him into hidden pitfalls and ambuscades.
Once, in the darkness, his horse bolted for a cause unknown until he
found an Indian arrow sticking in her buttock. Once his saddle and
bridle were stolen while he slept in the shelter of a friendly ranch
house.
It did not take him long to realise that he was himself being dogged and
shadowed by the very man he was pursuing and against whom he had given
information. His every movement seemed to be known almost before it was
made. A man less bravely watchful might have gone in fear of his life;
but Silk only welcomed the signs which proved that he was still upon the
fugitive's trail.
At Lee's Crossing one dark night he went out swinging his lantern,
sniffing the warm air, bound for the stable, when he saw a sudden blaze
revealing a dark face behind the horse trough, while a bullet ripped
through his sleeve.
Silk ran back to the house, grabbed his gun, and returned, only to hear
a horse galloping away in the night. The creature was his own favourite
mare, and the man who had stolen her--the man whose face he had seen in
the flash from the gun barrel--was Pierre Roche.
On a borrowed mustang, heavier and less swift of foot than his own
stolen troop horse, Sergeant Silk went off in pursuit. He knew by the
direction taken that Roche was making for the refuge of the Indian
Reservation at Minnewanka, thirty odd miles away across the mountains.
There were two possible trails. He realised that the fugitive would take
the shorter one over the steep shoulder of Minnewanka Peak, and that he
would give the mare a rest before ascending. By taking the longer,
though somewhat easier, trail through One Tree Canyon, it might be
possible to head him off. This is what Silk did, and he urged his horse
forward at almost reckless speed.
It was early dawn when he came out from the gloom of the gulch at the
point where the trails crossed and examined the dewy grass for signs.
There were no hoof marks to be seen, and, satisfied that he had gained
his object, he waited under the shadow of a great boulder, watching and
listening.
In less than an hour's time he heard the familiar sound of his mare's
hoofs, carried towards him by the morning breeze, and soon afterwards
his keenly searching eyes distinguished against the rosy glow of the sky
the form of a horseman riding slowly over the ridge of one of the nearer
hills.
The sound of pattering hoofs came clearer and clearer from the farther
valley, and at length, when Pierre Roche came again into sight, hardly a
hundred yards away, Silk moved out and halted in the middle of the
trail, drawing his revolver.
"Stop, or I fire!" he cried aloud, confronting the fugitive.
His instructions were to shoot at sight, but he held his weapon in front
of him, hesitating to fire, wanting, for the sake of a great tradition,
to make the usual arrest, the taking of an outlaw alive and uninjured.
Roche's rifle lay across the saddle, and he held the reins Indian
fashion with the right hand; but when Silk, riding boldly up to him,
grabbed him by the shoulder, he swerved, touching the trigger with his
left.
Silk knocked the gun upward, and the bullet, meant for his body, tore
through the rim of his hat, grazing his ear.
"Hands up!" he commanded, keeping a watchful eye upon the now desperate
half-breed. "Drop that gun!"
Roche stared into the threatening muzzle of the shining weapon that was
levelled at his forehead. He knew that it was futile to resist one of
the resolute Riders of the Plains. For an instant he glanced around to
see if the sergeant were alone, fearing, perhaps, that he had companions
waiting in ambush. His fingers were twitching at the lock of his
repeating rifle, but he saw that it was no use, and he sullenly obeyed,
letting his weapon fall heavily to the ground as he slowly raised his
empty hands above his head.
Sergeant Silk brought the two horses closer together, took possession of
his prisoner's knife and pistol, and leisurely drew out a pair of
handcuffs, which shone like burnished silver in the sunlight.
At sight of them Pierre Roche swayed in his saddle, then began to
struggle in an attempt to break away, but the cold ring of a revolver
muzzle was pressed against his neck, his right arms was seized by a hand
stronger than his own, and the handcuffs were smartly clasped upon his
wrists.
"Now you will go with me," said Sergeant Silk.
He dismounted to pick up the gun and his hat and to examine his mare to
assure himself that she had suffered no harm at the hands of her strange
rider.
"You tek me to de prison for steal your cayuse?" Roche panted
agitatedly.
Silk nodded.
"For stealing my mare, yes," he answered, bringing his hat into its
proper shape, "and for an offence yet more serious than your old game of
horse stealing. And you may consider yourself lucky that I did not shoot
you at sight just now."
"It is probable you tek me to Bankhead?" questioned the half-breed. "It
is de nearest depot of de police."
"It is the nearest, sure," returned the sergeant. "But as the way to it
lies across the neighbourhood of your Indian friends, who would no doubt
attempt to rescue you, I take you to a stronger lock-up, see? I take you
to Fort Canmore."
"But dat was a two-day journey," exclaimed Roche, "across de prairie!"
"If it were twenty days it would be all the same to me, now that I have
you," Silk retorted.
He tied the mare's bridle over her neck, fastened a rope to the bit
ring, and led her behind the heavy bay mustang, which he continued to
ride.
As the sun rose above the hills the air became oppressively hot, and
Pierre Roche appealed many times to have his hands liberated, if only
that he might wipe the perspiration from his forehead and fend off the
midges and mosquitoes; but all that the police sergeant would do for his
comfort was to give him a drink of water whenever they came to a creek,
and, at midday, to let him dismount for a rest and to feed him with a
share of the remaining contents of his haversack.
By the afternoon they had left the foothills behind in the blue
distance, and were ambling slowly, wearily, over the parched prairie,
miles and miles away from any human habitation.
So fatigued were they and their ponies that even before sundown Sergeant
Silk resolved to halt and make camp for the night beside a water hole in
the hollow of a coulee, where a few dwarf elder trees afforded a meagre
shelter.
On dismounting Roche flung himself down in the long grass, apparently to
sleep, while Silk attended to the horses. He had taken off his tunic,
and laid it neatly folded with his belt and the firearms on a tiny
knoll. Once he glanced round at his prisoner, and saw that he was lying
exhausted, with his face downwards, across his manacled hands.
Having no fear of him, Silk went on with his work of driving stakes in
the dry ground, by which to tether the horses by trail ropes. His back
was turned to the half-breed, but in a pause of his hammering he heard a
slight movement behind him.
He wheeled sharply round, and, to his amazement, saw that Pierre Roche
had crawled forward, caught up one of the loaded revolvers, and was
holding it with both hands, aiming at him point-blank.
With quick instinct Silk gripped his hammer to fling at the man, but
even as he raised his arm there was a flash. The bullet went wide of its
intended mark, but struck the shoulder of the bay mustang, which reared,
kicked and whinnied with pain.
"Say, my boy, you've done yourself no good by that silly trick," cried
the sergeant. "How d'you suppose you could have mounted and ridden away
with the handcuffs on if you'd killed me? You'd sure have died here of
hunger and thirst, and that wouldn't have been anyways nice."
"_Tiens!_ Is dat so?" returned Roche in surprise.
"Why, cert'nly, you brainless cariboo. Don't you understand that you're
helpless without me to look after you?"
As a precaution against the repetition of any such attempt upon his
life, Silk now took one of the ropes and tied it tightly about his
prisoner's legs and body, leaving him lying there unable to stir hand or
foot. Then he went to examine the wounded bay.
The wound was much more serious than he had supposed, and he was
occupied for a long time in trying to extract the bullet and staunch the
flow of blood from the animal's chest. Darkness came over the prairie
before he had finished, and he had no lantern. All that he could do was
to plug the wound with his handkerchief and wait for daylight, snatching
a few hours' rest meanwhile.
Before lying down he saw that his mare was secure. There was no need for
him to concern himself further with Pierre Roche, who could do no harm.
So he wound his watch, took a drink of water, glanced at his prisoner,
spread his blanket, and curled himself up to sleep.
The difficulties and anxieties of his situation, isolated here on the
desolate prairie in charge of a desperate criminal and a wounded horse,
without food or the immediate hope of getting any, did not prevent him
from sleeping soundly. He had had no rest on the previous night, and had
been in the saddle for a score of hours, and he yielded to his fatigue.
He awoke with a start. There was a dry, choking sensation in his throat,
which made him cough. His mare was snorting impatiently and tugging
violently at her halter.
A strange, weird moaning filled the air, like the sound of distant waves
breaking against a rocky coast.
Silk sat up, staring about him wonderingly. All was dark around,
excepting in the east, where there was a rosy flickering glow in the
sky. He could see Pierre Roche lying near him, still sleeping soundly.
He leapt to his feet and strode up to the wounded horse. It lay
motionless on its side, and, as he bent over it and touched it, he found
that it was dead.
He turned away from it and stood staring upward at the sky, sniffing
curiously, agitatedly, at the warm air. It was heavily charged with
nipping, pungent mist. Flocks of prairie birds were in flight--sage
hens, sand owls, linnets--all winging their way westward.
Silk knew the awful meaning of these signs. He ran up the sloping side
of the hollow coulee, and when he reached its rim his worst fears were
realised. The prairie was on fire!
Far back the whole wide expanse was wrapped in a vast rolling cloud of
grey-brown smoke. The rising sun shone dimly through it, red as the
flames beneath, that curled and leapt and twisted like a long ocean
wave, sending up a spray of sparks into the overhanging gloom.
He heard the fierce crackling of the burning grass as the fiery tide
swept towards him, devouring all in its way. He saw the wild creatures
of the prairie bunched together in a moving mass--elks and antelopes
first, then a host of the smaller fry--all bounding along, friend and
foe alike, in a frantic stampede.
He was cool, as he always was, in the face of danger; but he knew the
value of every moment now, and he ran back to his prisoner.
"Quick! Quick!" he cried, awakening him with a rough shake as he began
to untie the rope with which the half-breed was bound. "The prairie's on
fire! Look at the smoke! Quick; get to your feet. We've no time to lose.
There's only one horse--my mare. The other's done for, see? You killed
it--as you meant to kill me."
"Holy!" exclaimed Pierre Roche. His bronzed face had become suddenly
livid. His dark eyes showed the abject terror that had come over him.
"Only one horse? Yours? Den you will abandon me? You will tek your
revenge so?"
A ghost of a smile played about the lips of Sergeant Silk. He turned
away without answering, and the crackle of the advancing flames grew
louder, the hot breath of the burning prairie grew hotter and hotter,
the smoke more dense and choking. He went up to his mare, caressed her
as he loosened her halter from the bit ring.
"All right, my beauty," he said very tenderly. "Be brave, keep cool. It
all depends upon you. But you can do it, eh? At least you'll try."
He flung the saddle over her back and fastened the cinches. Then he led
her to where Pierre Roche stood, with a foot across the two revolvers,
while he frantically tried to squeeze his wrists from the handcuffs.
"Steady there! Steady!" cried Silk. "What's your game?" He gave him a
shove backward, took up his own revolver, slipped it into his holster,
and then flung the other away.
"So?" objected Roche. "You refuse me even de satisfaction for shoot
myself? You leave me here, handcuffed, for de flames?" He made a step
forward. "Pardon," he said, "but will you not do me de favour for shoot
me yourself? It is more queek, less 'orrible. And for your revenge it is
all de same. I die anyway. What?"
Silk was not listening to him. He glanced round apprehensively as a
shower of black dust and smouldering grass blades fell from the midst of
the heavy pall of rolling smoke. Then he stretched out his hands and
caught hold of his prisoner in his strong arms, lifted him bodily, and
flung him across the mare's back, holding him there while he seized the
reins, raised a foot to the stirrup, and leapt up behind him.
"Go!" he cried, when his seat was secure. "Go, my beauty!"
With a snort and a shake of her mane the mare went forward, dashed up
the slope, gained the level, and plunged off with a long, racing stride
to mingle with the panic-stricken crowd of bellowing, screeching
creatures of the prairie in the mad stampede for escape.
Mile after mile she galloped with her double burden, making never a
pause or a break, while the fire, with its terrible crackle and moaning,
came closer and closer, and the blinding, choking reek swept by in a
thickening cloud.
Silk had no need to use spur or reins. He let her go her own
instinctive way, and only strove to keep his awkward seat in the saddle
and to hold grimly, desperately to the man lying helpless across his
knees. Once only he tightened the reins to check the mare's headlong
flight as they came to the brink of a creek. Then, with coaxing,
affectionate words, he bade her go warily, guiding her through the
shallows, where a struggling crowd of coyotes, rabbits, and prairie dogs
wallowed or swam or sank exhausted.
At the farther side of the sluggish stream Silk dismounted, trusting
that the fire would not yet leap the water.
"Reckon we can take breath for a while," he said to his moaning
prisoner. "Say, I'll just fix you in a more comfortable position and
give you a drink. Guess you're needing it. I'd take the handcuffs off
you, only I'm afraid you can hardly be trusted, even now. What do you
say?"
As he brought a hatful of water and held it up, the half-breed dipped
his face in it, and then looked down at him appealingly.
"Sergeant," he pleaded, leaning over and holding out his swollen hands
and exhibiting the bruised wrists, "you tek dem off. You 'ave pity, eh?"
Silk shook his head and emptied his hat upon the mare's face.
"Do you think you deserve so much pity?" he asked. "If I took them off
you'd only try to escape."
Pierre Roche drew back his hands and awkwardly moved his body as if he
meant to slip to the ground.
Silk stopped him.
"Stay where you are," he ordered sternly. "What are you up to?"
"I go no more," returned the half-breed. "I was coward. I no deserve any
pity. It ees true. Listen, Sergeant. You was de mos' brave man I ever
know. It ees not good you reesk you good life for me any longer. You
leave me. You go on alone. I remain. I die. I gif myself to de flame. It
ees bes' you go alone, see?"
Sergeant Silk recognised that the man was sincere in his curious
entreaty to be left to his fate.
But he shook his head gravely.
"No," he responded. "I must do my duty. I cannot go without my
prisoner, and, though you were the worst sinner that ever breathed, I
could not bring myself to abandon you to _that_!"
He nodded in the direction of the fiercely advancing flames. A spark
nipped his cheek. Round about him he saw tiny jets of smoke rising from
among the dry herbage.
"It's coming," he said. "The water won't stop it. Quick!" he cried.
"Your wrists!" He seized the handcuffs and adroitly whipped them free.
"There!" he nodded, "I trust you, see? You could dash off without me
now."
Pierre Roche drew a deep breath of relief. He looked down into the
sergeant's eyes.
"Dat is true," he acknowledged. "But I give you my parole. I go wid you.
I am you prisoner. I no try for mek my escape. No. I go to my
punishment. Quick! Quick!"
He held out his blue and swollen hands to help the soldier policeman to
mount.
The mare sped on again, panting hoarsely, snorting, swaying sometimes,
but never faltering, never slackening her onward rush, until, at last,
she reached safety on a wide stretch of blackened earth, where a
previous fire had stripped the prairie.
And late on the following morning Sergeant Silk rode into Canmore and
delivered up his prisoner at the barracks.
"Ah!" declared the commandant with satisfaction. "I am glad it was you
who arrested the rascal, Sergeant. And single-handed, too. You look some
jaded. I hope you have had no difficulties?"
"No, sir," returned Silk, "nothing to speak of."