PRESCOTT MAKES INQUIRIES
Supper was over and Laxton, the land agent, sat in the rotunda of the
leading hotel at Navarino. It was a handsome building, worthy of the new
town which had sprung into existence on the discovery that a wide belt of
somewhat arid country, hitherto passed over by settlers, was capable of
growing excellent wheat. As soon as this was proved, rude shacks and mean
frame houses had been torn down, and banks, stores, and hotels, of stone
or steel and cement rose in their places. Great irrigation ditches were
dug and a period of feverish prosperity began.
Though the frost was almost arctic outside, the rotunda was pleasantly
warm and was dimmed, in spite of its glaring lamps, with a haze of cigar
smoke. In front of the great plate-glass windows rows of men sat in
tilted chairs, their feet on a brass rail, basking in the dry heat of the
radiators. Drummers and land speculators were busy writing and consulting
maps at the tables farther back among the ornate columns, and the place
was filled with the hum of eager voices. The town was crowded with
homestead-selectors, and many, braving the rigors of winter, were camping
on their new possessions in frail tents and rude board shacks, ready to
begin work in the spring. Indeed, determined men had slept in the snow on
the sidewalks outside the land offices to secure first attention in the
morning when cheap locations were offered for settlement.
Laxton had had a tiring day, and he was leaning back lazily in his chair,
watching the crowd, when a man entered the turnstile-door, which was
fitted with glass valves to keep out the cold. He looked about the room
as if in search of somebody; and then after speaking to the clerk came
toward the land agent. Laxton glanced at him without much interest,
having already as much business on his hands as he could manage. The
stranger wore an old fur-coat and looked like a rancher.
"Mr. Laxton, I believe," he said, taking the next chair.
The land agent nodded and the other continued:
"My name's Prescott. I've come over from Sebastian to have a talk with
you."
"I suppose I'll have to spare you a few minutes," said Laxton with more
resignation than curiosity.
"In the first place, I want to ask if you have ever seen me before?"
Laxton looked at him with greater interest. The man's brown face was
eager, his eyes were keen, with a sparkle in them that hinted at
determination.
"Well," he said, "I can't recollect it."
"Would you be willing to swear to that?"
"Don't know that I'd go quite so far; I don't see why I should."
Prescott took out a sheet of paper with some writing on it.
"Do you recognize that hand?"
"No," said the agent decidedly. "It's a bold style that one ought to
notice, but I don't think I've seen it." Then he looked up sharply. "What
you getting after?"
"I'll explain in a minute. Let me say that I've examined the land sale
record here, and have found a deal registered that you were concerned in.
It was made in the name of Cyril Jernyngham."
Laxton started.
"Look here," he said, "I've had a lot of trouble over this thing since I
was fool enough to write to the police; in fact, I've had enough of the
Jernyngham case." He broke off for a moment as a light dawned on him and
then went on: "It's a sure thing I haven't met you, but, when I think,
there was a young lad something like you among others in blanket-coats in
a photograph a sergeant brought me. Montreal snowshoe or toboggan club, I
guess."
"I don't know how the police got it. But what did you tell the sergeant?"
"Said it was no use showing me a photograph like that, because I didn't
trade with kids."
"Then, as I'm the man the police suspect of selling that land of
Jernyngham's, it would be a great favor if you'll tell me candidly what
you know about the matter."
"Hang up your coat," said Laxton; "I'll do what I can. Anyway, you're not
the fellow I made the deal with."
He drew out a cigar-case when Prescott came back.
"Take a smoke and go ahead. I'm willing to talk."
"First of all, turn over the paper I gave you and look at the signature."
"Cyril Jernyngham!" exclaimed Laxton, astonished. "I see your point--the
hand ought to be the same as that on the sale registration form, and I
might have been expected to recognize it, but I can't remember all the
writing I see. However, we'll compare it with the other signature
to-morrow."
"When you do so, you'll find a difference."
"Ah!" said Laxton. "Then whose hand is this?"
"Cyril Jernyngham's. It was written in my presence, and what's more
important, in the presence of another man. Now will you tell me what the
fellow who made the deal with you was like?"
Laxton did so, and Prescott thought the description indicated Wandle,
though he was not the only man in the neighborhood of Sebastian to whom
it might apply.
"Did you notice how he was dressed?" he asked.
"He had on a suit of new brown clothes."
Prescott sat still, his brows knitted, his right hand clenched. The
reason why the clothes had been hidden near his house was obvious, but
there was something else: a blurred memory that was growing into shape.
Ever since he had heard about them from Muriel, he had been trying to
think where he had seen the clothes, and at last he seemed to hold a
clue. In another few moments it led him to the truth; everything was
clear. He had once met Wandle driving toward the settlement wearing such
a suit, and by good fortune he had shortly afterward been overtaken by a
farmer who must have seen the man. In his excitement he struck the table.
"Now I know!" he cried. "The man who forged Jernyngham's name hid his
clothes near my house to fix the thing on me. I owe you a good deal for
your help in a puzzling matter."
The agent was sympathetic, and after Prescott had given him an outline of
his connection with the case, they sat talking over its details. Laxton
had a keen intelligence and his comments on several points were valuable.
When Prescott went to sleep it was with a weight off his mind; but his
mood changed the next day and he traveled back to Sebastian in a very
grim humor.
Open and just as he was in all his dealings, Wandle's treachery
infuriated him. There would, he felt, have been more extenuation for the
trick had the man killed Jernyngham, but that he should conspire to throw
the blackest suspicion on a neighbor in order to enjoy the proceeds of a
petty theft was abominable. He must be made to suffer for it. However,
Prescott did not mean to trouble the police. He had had enough of their
cautious methods. He determined to secure a proof of Wandle's guilt,
unassisted, without further loss of time, and to do this he must obtain a
specimen of the man's writing to compare with that on the land sale
documents. There was, he thought, a way of getting it.
Reaching Sebastian in the evening, he was going to the livery-stable to
hire a team when he met an acquaintance who offered to drive him home. As
the man would pass within a mile or two of Wandle's homestead and there
was a farm in the neighborhood where he might borrow a horse, Prescott
agreed. His companion found him preoccupied during the journey. He put
him down at a fork of the trail, and Prescott, walking on quickly through
the darkness, saw Wandle's team standing harnessed when he reached the
house. This was a sign that their owner had recently come home, and
Prescott, opening the door without knocking, abruptly entered the
kitchen. The lamp was lighted and Wandle, standing near it with his
fur-coat still on, looked startled. Prescott was sensible of a burning
desire to grapple with him and extort a confession by force, but there
was a risk of the crude method defeating its object, and with strong
self-denial he determined to set to work prudently.
"I see you have just come in, and I'm anxious to get home, so I won't
keep you more than a few minutes," he said.
"How did you come?" Wandle asked. "I didn't hear a team."
"Harper drove me out. I walked up the cross trail; but that doesn't
matter. The last time we had a talk we fell out over the straightening up
of Jernyngham's affairs."
"That's so; you still owe me a hundred dollars."
"I don't admit it," said Prescott, who had laid his plans on the
expectation of this claim being made. "Anyhow, the dispute has been
dragging on and it's time we put an end to it. It was the small items you
wanted to charge Jernyngham with that I objected to, and I may have cut
some of them down too hard. Suppose you write me out a list."
"I can tell you them right away."
"Put them down on paper; then we can figure them out more easily."
"Don't know if I've any ink," said Wandle. "Haven't you a notebook in
your wallet? You used to carry one."
Prescott made a mistake in putting his hand into his pocket, which showed
that he had the book, but he remembered that it would not suit his
purpose to produce it.
"I'm not going to make out your bill," he said. "That's your business.
Give me a proper list of the disputed expenses and we'll see what can be
done."
He was a poor diplomatist and erred in showing too keen a desire to
secure a specimen of the other's handwriting, which is a delicate thing
to press an unskilful forger for. Wandle was on his guard, though he
carefully hid all sign of uneasiness.
"Well," he said, "I'll send you a list over in a day or two; after all,
if I think them over, I may be able to knock something off one or two of
the items. But now you're here, I want to say that you were pretty mean
about that cultivator. They're not sold at the price you allowed me."
This was intended to lead Prescott away from the main point and it
succeeded, because, being at a loss for an excuse for demanding the list
immediately, he was willing to speak of something else while he thought
of one.
"You're wrong," he said curtly. "You can get them at any big dealer's. I
looked in at a western store where they stock those machines, yesterday,
and the fellow gave me his schedule."
He had taken off his mittens, but his hands were stiff with cold, and
when he felt in his pocket he dropped several of the papers he brought
out. The back of a catalogue fell uppermost, and it bore the words,
"Hasty's high-grade implements, Navarino." Near this lay an envelope
printed with the name of a Navarino hotel.
There was nothing to show that Wandle had noticed them--he stood some
distance off on the opposite side of the table--but Prescott was too
eager in gathering them up. Opening the catalogue, he read out a
description of the cultivator and the price.
"Taking the cash discount, it comes to a dollar less than what I was
ready to pay you," he said. "Now make out the list and we'll try to get
the thing fixed up before I go."
Wandle sat down for a few moments, for he had received a shock. His
suspicions had already been aroused, and Prescott's motive in going to
Navarino was obvious; besides, he thought he had read Laxton's name on
the envelope. He could expect no mercy--Prescott's face was ominously
grim--and there was no doubt that, having seen Laxton, he knew who had
hidden the brown clothes. The game was up, but, shaken by fear and rage
as he was, he rose calmly from his seat.
"Well, since you insist on it, I guess I'll have to write the thing; but
I can't leave my team standing in the frost. Sit down and take a smoke
while I put them in."
Prescott could not object to this. He lighted his pipe when Wandle left
him. He heard the door shut and the horses being led away, for the stable
stood at some little distance from the house, and after that no further
sound reached him. Mastering his impatience, he began to consider what he
would best do when Wandle had given him the list. He supposed he ought to
hand it over to Curtis, but he was more inclined to go back to Navarino
and compare the writing with the signature on the documents relating to
the sale. Then, having proof of the forgery, he would communicate with
the police. He was sensible of a curious thrill at the thought that the
suspicion which had tainted him would shortly be dispelled.
After a while it occurred to him that Wandle should have returned, but he
reflected that the man might be detained by some small task. After
waiting some minutes longer, he walked to the door, but finding that he
could not see the entrance to the stable, he stood still, irresolute. He
thought he had been firm enough, and to betray any further eagerness
would be injudicious. The matter must be handled delicately, lest Wandle
take alarm.
When he had smoked out his pipe, Prescott could no longer restrain his
impatience. He hurried toward the stable. The moonlight fell on the front
of the building and the door was open; but Prescott stopped with a start,
for all was dark inside and there was no sign of the vehicle in which the
rancher had driven home. A worse surprise awaited him, for when he ran
inside and struck a match it was clear that Wandle and his team had gone.
Prescott dropped the match and stood still a few moments, in savage fury.
There was no doubt that he had been cleverly tricked; Wandle, guessing
his object, had quietly driven away as soon as he had led the team clear
of the house. Moreover, Prescott had good cause for believing that he
would not come back. With an effort, he pulled himself together. To give
rein to his anger and disappointment would serve no purpose; but he had
no horse with which to begin the pursuit. He remembered having told
Wandle so when he first entered the house. Striking another match, he
lighted a lantern he found and eagerly looked about. A plow team occupied
two of the stalls, and though they were heavy Clydesdales with no speed
in them, they would be capable of traveling faster than a man on foot. As
he could not find a saddle, he ran back to the house and returned with a
blanket. A bit and bridle hung on a nail, he found a girth, but his hands
were cold and he spent some time adjusting straps and fastening on the
blanket before he led one of the horses out and mounted.
The moonlight was clear enough to show him that there were no fresh
wheelmarks in the snow. Wandle had kept to the trail, and Prescott
surmised that he would travel south toward the American boundary.
Although he feared he would lose ground steadily, he meant to follow,
since there was a chance of the fugitive's being delayed by some
accident, which would enable him to come up. It was extremely cold,
Prescott was not dressed for riding, and the folded blanket made a very
bad saddle. At times pale moonlight shone down, but more often it died
away, obscured by thin cloud. The trail, however, was plain and the big
Clydesdale was covering the ground. Prescott's hands and feet grew
numbed, and there was a risk in this, but he trotted steadily on.
After a while he heard two horsemen following him. He did not pull up;
time was precious, and if the others wished to overtake him, he had no
doubt that they could do so. During the next few minutes it became
evident that they were gaining, and he heard a cry which he answered
without stopping. Then, as the moon came through, another shout reached
him, sharp and commanding:
"Stop, before we drop you!"
This was not to be disregarded. Pulling up, he turned his horse. Two
mounted men rode furiously down on him, loose snow flying about their
horses, and one poised a carbine across his saddle. Struggling to check
his horse, he swept past, shouting to his comrade:
"Hold on! It's Prescott!"
They were a little distance ahead when they stopped and trotted back, and
Prescott waited until Curtis pulled up at his side.
"Where were you going?" cried the corporal.
"After Wandle."
"I might have guessed!" said Curtis savagely, and turned to Stanton.
"This explains the thing."
"How far is he ahead of you?" Stanton asked.
"He got off half an hour before I did, as near as I can guess."
They sat silent for a moment or two, breathless and crestfallen, their
horses distressed.
"Let's get into the lee of the bluff yonder; this wind's keen," Curtis
said.
"You're losing time," Prescott objected.
"We've lost it," Curtis told him grimly. "My mount has been out since
noon, and it's near midnight now. Stanton's isn't much fresher."
Prescott rode with them to the bluff, where they got down.
"That's a relief; it's quite a while since I could feel the bridle," said
Curtis, turning to Prescott. "How did you scare Wandle off? Be as quick
as you can!"
Prescott briefly related what led to his call at the farm and the
corporal's face was filled with scornful anger.
"This is what comes of you blamed amateurs butting in!" he remarked.
"Jernyngham was bad enough, but he can't come near you at mussing up our
plans. Guess you don't know that we've been watching Wandle for some
weeks, ready to corral him, and you start him off like this, without
warning."
"I'd reason to believe you were watching me," Prescott dryly rejoined.
"Oh, well," said Curtis, "that's another matter. Anyhow, I had trailed
Wandle to Kelly's place since dark, and I'd trotted round to see if he'd
got back to his homestead when I found that he had gone. Stanton and I
were prospecting out this way when we struck your trail."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"We'll make the next farm and try to borrow horses. Then I'll ride to the
railroad and get the wires to work. Stanton will keep the trail by Long
Lake."
"Then I'll push right on by the Traverse. There's a ranch I should make
by daylight where I might get a mount. I'm going to see the thing
through."
Curtis considered this.
"Well," he said, "I guess you can't do much harm, and Wandle may not have
gone by the lake after all. You can pick up Stanton if you find out
anything, and I'll try to join you from one of the stations along the
line."
They mounted, and on reaching the trail forks where they must separate,
Prescott turned to Curtis.
"Aren't you afraid of letting me out of your sight?" he asked.
"No, sir," Curtis answered with a smile. "You're not quite so important
to us now; and I'm not running much risk, anyway, considering the horse
you've got."