MURIEL PROVES OBDURATE
Some time after leaving Jepson's Curtis was joined by two police
troopers, despatched by the sergeant who had telegraphed to him. He
handed over his prisoner and the wagon to them, though he asked
permission to keep the wad of bills. Then Stanton unhitched the jaded
horses from the back of the vehicle, and while the others drove back to
the west he and Curtis rode on to the post. Reaching it, half frozen, in
the morning, they filled up the stove and went to sleep until supper
time. When the meal was over they sat down to smoke and talk.
Stanton felt lazily good-humored. A sound sleep had refreshed him, and
though his limbs still ached, he was enjoying the pleasant, physical
reaction which usually succeeds fatigue and exposure to the arctic frost.
What was better, he had assisted in the successful completion of an
arduous piece of work. Curtis lay back in a chair opposite him, pipe in
mouth, his expression suggesting quiet satisfaction.
"Toes feeling pretty good?" he inquired by and by.
"I'm glad to say they are, though I thought I was in for trouble,"
Stanton said with a deprecatory smile. "I allow that frost-bite's a thing
I'm easy scared about, after the patrol I made with Stafford through the
northern bush last winter. Got his foot wet with mushy snow crossing a
rapid where the ice was working, and it froze bad; had to pack him the
last two hundred miles on the sled, with the dogs getting used up, and
the grub running out. They paid him off at Regina and sent him home; but
Stafford will never put on an ordinary boot again."
"A frozen foot's bad enough, if you have to walk until it galls," Curtis
admitted. "A hand's easier looked after, though I've three fingers I'm
never quite sure of. That's one reason it took so much shooting before I
plugged Glover's horse."
"You were pretty cute about his jacket," Stanton remarked.
"That was easy enough. The thing was too big for him and newer than his
trousers. Soon as I noticed it, I knew I'd dropped on to something worth
following up."
"I can't see what you made of it, and you haven't told me yet."
"I was too dog-goned cold and tired to talk; wanted to make the post and
get to sleep. However, though I gave Crane's boys no hint, I'll show you
what I've been figuring on. Consider yourself a jury and tell me how it
strikes you. You have as much intelligence as the general run of them."
"If I hadn't any more than the kind of jurymen we're usually up against,
I'd quit the service," Stanton declared.
The corporal's eyes twinkled.
"If you'll learn to think and not hustle, you'll make a useful man some
day. Anyhow, the first thing I caught on to was that Glover had taken off
his jacket because there was something in it he didn't want us to find.
Next, that it was money or valuables, because he could have put any small
thing into the stove or hid it in the snow before he lit out. Now, Glover
knew it was kind of dangerous to leave his jacket with Jepson, who might
find the bills, and as he couldn't tell you were in the ravine he must
have thought he had a good chance of getting clear away; but, for all
that, he wouldn't risk taking the wad along. Guess there's only one
explanation--he'd a reason for being mighty afraid of those bills falling
into our hands. That was plain enough when I asked him about his jacket."
"Yes," Stanton said thoughtfully; "I guess you have got it right. But
what was his reason? He knows Crane can have him sent up for
horse-stealing."
Curtis, opening a drawer, took out a slip of paper with some numbers on
it, and then laid the wad of bills on the table.
"Twenty dollars each, Merchants' Bank, and quite clean," he said.
"It was a five-dollar bill on the same bank we found at the muskeg!"
cried Stanton, starting.
"It was." Curtis took up the list. "Now here are the numbers of the
twenty-dollar bills Morant at Sebastian got from the bank a day or two
before he made the deal with Jernyngham; it was with those bills he paid
him the night he disappeared." He paused and added significantly, "I
guess we have got some of them here."
This proved to be correct when they had compared them with the list. Then
Curtis leaned back in his chair and filled his pipe.
"It's a mighty curious case," he remarked.
"Sure," replied Stanton. "You get no farther with it. You have points
against three different men, and it's pretty clear that they haven't been
working together. They can't all have killed the man."
"That's true. Well, I've made a report for Regina, and they'll keep
Glover safe until we want him. I can't tell what our chiefs will do; but
as Glover's not likely to tell them anything, I guess they'll hold this
matter over until we find out more." He locked up the money. "Now we'll
quit talking about it. I want to give my mind a rest."
Curtis had few of the qualities needed for the making of a great
detective; he was merely a painstaking, determined man, with a capacity
for earnest work, which is perhaps more useful than genius in the ranks
of the Northwest Police. He could tirelessly follow the dog-sleds,
sometimes on the scantiest rations, for hundreds of miles over the snow,
sleeping in the open in the arctic frost. He had made long forced marches
to succor improvident settlers starving far out in the wilds; in the
fierce heat of summer he made his patrols, watching the progress of the
grass-fires, sternly exacting from the ranchers the plowing of the needed
guards; and cattle-thieves prudently avoided the district that he ruled
with firm benevolence. The man was a worthy type of his people, the new
nation that is rising in the West: forceful, steadfast, direct, and, as a
rule, devoid of mental subtleties. He admitted that the Jernyngham
mystery, every clue to which broke off as he began to follow it, was
harassing him.
While he spent the evening, lounging in well-earned leisure beside the
stove, Mrs. Colston was talking seriously to her sister in a room of the
Leslie homestead. Owing to the number of its inmates, she had found it
difficult to get a word with the girl alone, and now that an opportunity
had come, she felt that she must make the most of it.
"Muriel," she said, "do you think it's judicious to speak so strongly in
Prescott's favor as you have done of late? You were rude to Gertrude last
night."
The girl colored. She had, as a matter of fact, lost her temper, which
was generally quick.
"I hate injustice!" she broke out. "Gertrude and her father make such an
unfair use of everything they can find against him, and I think
Gertrude's the worse of the two." She looked hard at her sister. "She
shows a rancor against the man which even the disappearance of her
brother doesn't account for."
The same idea had occurred to Mrs. Colston, but it was a side issue and
she was not to be drawn away from the point.
"You stick to the word disappearance," she said.
"Yes," Muriel answered steadily. "Cyril Jernyngham isn't dead!"
"You have only Prescott's word for that."
Muriel made no answer for a few moments; then she looked up with a
resolute expression.
"I'm satisfied with it!"
Her sister understood this as a challenge. She had indulged in hints and
indirect warnings, and they had been disregarded. The situation now
needed more drastic treatment.
"That," she said, "is a significant admission; I can't let it pass. Your
prejudice in favor of the man has, of course, been noticeable; you have
even let him see it. Don't you realize what damaging conclusions one
might draw from it?"
"Damaging?" Muriel's eyes were fixed on her sister, though her face was
hot. "As you have been thinking of all this for some time, perhaps you
had better explain and get it over."
Mrs. Colston leaned forward with a severe expression.
"I feel that some candor is necessary. You have taken the man's side
openly; you have sympathized with him; I might even say that you have led
him on."
Muriel's wayward temperament drove her to the verge of an outbreak, but
with an effort at self-control, she sat still, and her sister resumed:
"Besides his lying under suspicion, the man is a mere working farmer,
imperfectly educated, forced to live in a most primitive manner, thinking
of nothing but his crops and horses."
"He is not imperfectly educated! As a matter of fact, he knows more about
most things than we do; but that's not important. Mind, I'm admitting
nothing of all that you suggest, but you might have said that I'm a
penniless girl, living on your husband's charity. I must confess that he
gives it very willingly."
"That is precisely why I'm anxious about your future." Mrs. Colston's
voice softened to a tone of genuine solicitude. "Of course, we are glad
to have you--Harry has always been fond of you--but, for your sake, I
could wish you a completer life in a home of your own. But so much
depends on the choice you make."
"Yes; a very great deal depends on that. I'm expected, of course, to make
a brilliant match!"
"Not necessarily brilliant, but there are things we have always enjoyed
which must be looked for--a good name, position, the right to meet people
brought up as we have been, on an equal footing."
Muriel broke in upon her with a strained laugh.
"Once, for a little while, it looked as if we should have to do without
them, and somehow I wasn't very much alarmed. But your list's rather
short and incomplete. There are one or two quite as important things you
might have added to it; though perhaps I'm exacting."
There was silence for a few moments, and a faint flicker of color crept
into Mrs. Colston's face while the girl mused. Her sister had got all she
asked for, but Muriel suspected that she was not content; now and then,
indeed, she had seen a hint of weariness in her expression. Harry Colston
made a model husband in some respects, but he had his limitations. His
virtues were commonplace and sometimes tedious; his intelligence was less
than his wife's. Muriel was fond of him, but his unwavering good-nature
and placidity irritated her. She was inclined to be sorry for her sister
in some ways.
"Muriel," Mrs. Colston resumed gently, "your happiness means a good deal
to me. A mistake might cost you dear, and, after all, one cannot have
everything."
"That is obviously true. I suppose it's a question of what one values
most, or perhaps what most strongly appeals to one's fancy. It would be
difficult to fix an accurate standard for judging suitors by, wouldn't
it?" Then her tone grew scornful. "Besides, as those who are eligible
aren't numerous, a girl's expected to wait with an encouraging smile and
thankfully take what comes."
Mrs. Colston looked at her reproachfully.
"You're hardly just, my dear; I only urge you to be prudent now."
"Prudence is such a cold-blooded thing! I'm afraid I never had it. After
all, what seems wise to me might appear to be folly to you. I think if
ever what looks like a chance of happiness is offered me, I shall take
all risks and clutch at it."
She picked up a book, as if to intimate that she had no more to say, and
Mrs. Colston wondered whether her worst fears were justified or whether
Muriel had been behaving with unusual perverseness. In either case, she
might make things worse by laboring the subject. She hesitated a moment
and then went out in search of her husband.
"Harry," she said, "we have been away a long while. Don't you think it is
time to go home?"
"No," he answered; "I haven't thought so. What suggested the idea?"
It was obvious that he had no suspicion of her motive, and she was not
prepared to explain that she wished to place Muriel beyond Prescott's
reach.
"Well," she said lamely, "aren't you rather neglecting your duties?"
"No," Colston replied with a smile; "as they're to a large extent merely
formal ones, I believe they can wait a little longer without much harm
being done."
Mrs. Colston was surprised. She had not expected such an admission from
her husband, though she agreed with him. Harry was not, as a rule,
susceptible to new impressions, but there was a subtle influence in the
simple life on the prairies which altered one's point of view and led to
one's forming a new estimate of values. She had felt this. Things which
had seemed essential in England somehow lost their importance in Canada.
"Besides," he resumed, "you will remember that I made arrangements to be
away a year, if necessary, and perhaps if I make the most of my
opportunities in this country, I may have something worth while to say
when we go home again."
This was more in his usual vein; but his wife did not encourage him.
Harry was apt to grow tiresome in his improving mood.
"But you don't think of staying the full year?" she asked in alarm.
"Oh, no; we might wait another week or two, or even a month more. It
wouldn't be the thing to desert Jernyngham; and, as we're mixed up in it,
I feel it would be better to see the matter through." He smiled at his
wife with cumbrous gallantry. "Then, though you always look charming,
you're now unusually fresh and fit; there's no doubt that the place
agrees with you."
Mrs. Colston could not deny it. She yielded for the present, deciding to
wait until some turn of events rendered him more amenable. In spite of
his good humor, Harry was obstinate and often hard to move.
She went to join Gertrude, while Muriel, sitting alone where she had been
left, laid down her book, and let her eyes range slowly round the room,
trying to analyze the impression it made on her. There was no carpet on
the floor; the walls were made of mill-dressed boards which had cracked
with the dryness and smelt of turpentine. The furniture consisted of a
few bent-hardwood chairs and a rickety table covered with a gaudy cloth.
The nickeled lamp, which diffused an unpleasant odor, was of florid but
very inartistic design; the plain stove stood in an ugly iron tray, and
its galvanized pipe ran up, unconcealed, to the ceiling. A black
distillate had trickled down from a bend in it, and stained the floor.
Muriel realized that had she been expected to live in such a place in
England it would have struck her as comfortless, and almost squalid; but
now, perhaps by contrast with the frozen desolation without, it looked
cheerful, and had a homelike air. This, she thought, was significant, and
she followed up the train of ideas to which it led. She had a practical,
independent bent; she liked to handle and investigate things for herself,
to get into close and intimate touch with life. At home, this had not
often been possible; she was too sheltered and, in a sense, too secluded.
The people she met were conventional, acting in accordance with a
recognized code, concealing their feelings. If she rode or drove,
somebody got ready the horse for her; it was the same with the car. When
she strolled through an English garden, she might pluck a flower or take
pleasure in the smoothness of the lawn, but it was always with the
feeling that others had planted and mown. She could take no active part
in things; there was little that she could really do.
It was different on the Western prairie. Here men and women showed anger
or sorrow or gladness more or less openly. One could realize their
emotions, and this, instead of deterring, attracted her; one came to
close grips with the primitive influences of human nature. Then they were
strenuous people, toiling stubbornly, rejoicing in tangible results that
their hands and brains had produced. Woman was man's real helpmate, not a
companion for his idle hours. She kept his house, and in time of pressure
drove his horses; she had her say in determining the count of the cattle
and the bushels of seed, and it was sometimes conceded that her judgment
was the better.
But this was only one aspect of the subject that filled the girl's
thoughts. She knew that Prescott loved her and she was glad of it; but
here she stopped. She was sanguine, impulsive, courageous, but, with all
that could be said for it, the change she must face if he claimed her was
a startling one. Besides, he must clear himself of suspicion, and because
the part of a mere looker-on was uncongenial, there was a course which
she would urge on him. She must see him and convince him of the necessity
for it. Soon after she had made up her mind on this point, Jernyngham and
Colston came in, and she had to talk to them.