STARTLING NEWS
It was noon on the day after Wandle's flight, and Jernyngham was sitting
with his friends in a room of the Leslie homestead when Muriel, looking
out of the window, saw Prescott's hired man ride up at a gallop. His
haste and his anxious expression when he dismounted alarmed her, but her
companions had not noticed him, and she waited, listening to the murmur
of voices that presently reached her from an adjoining room. They ceased
in a few minutes, she saw the man ride away as fast as he had come, and
soon afterward Leslie opened the door. He was a talkative person and
looked as if he had something of importance to relate.
"Svendsen has been over to ask if I saw Prescott when I was in at the
settlement yesterday," he said. "When I told him that I hadn't, he seemed
mighty disturbed."
Muriel's heart throbbed painfully, but she waited for one of the others
to speak, and Jernyngham, laying down his paper, glanced up sharply.
"Why?" he asked.
This was all the encouragement Leslie needed.
"I'll tell you, so far as I've got the hang of the thing; I thought you'd
like to know. It seems Prescott has been away somewhere for a few days
and should have got home last night. He came in on the train in the
evening, and Harper drove him out and dropped him at Wandle's trail;
Prescott said he wanted to see the man. Well, he didn't get home, and
Svendsen, who'd been to Harper's this morning, found Wandle gone and
three of his horses missing. Then he found out from Watson, who stayed at
the hotel last night, that Curtis rode in on a played-out horse before it
was light, and kept the night operator busy for a while with the wires.
Seems to me the thing has a curious look."
For a moment or two nobody spoke. Muriel felt dismayed by the news, and
she glanced at the others, trying to read their thoughts. Colston looked
troubled, Gertrude's face was hard and stamped with a kind of cruel
satisfaction, Jernyngham was very grim.
"Is that all you know about the matter?" Jernyngham asked.
"I guess so," Leslie answered. "Still, Svendsen did allow he thought he'd
seen Stanton hanging about the homestead yesterday evening."
"Thank you," said Jernyngham with cold politeness. "I'll want the team
after dinner."
Seeing no excuse for remaining, the rancher went out, and Jernyngham
turned to the others. His brows were knitted and his eyes gleamed
ominously.
"There's no mystery about the matter; the man has gone for good," he
said. "In spite of the assurances they gave me, these fools of police
have let him slip through their fingers. That he saw Wandle before he
bolted proves collusion between them. It was a thing I half suspected,
but Curtis, of course, did not agree with me."
Muriel was recovering from the shock. Though things looked very bad, she
could not believe that Prescott had run away. He had promised to call on
Curtis and her confidence in him was unshaken.
"He went away by train a day or two ago, and if he had had anything to
fear, he would have made his escape then," she said.
Mrs. Colston cast a warning glance at her, as if begging her to say
nothing more, but Jernyngham curtly answered her remark.
"The man probably wanted to sell his property where it would excite less
notice than at Sebastian. Then I suppose he found it needful to see his
confederate."
"They could have gone off together in the first instance," Colston
objected.
Jernyngham made an impatient gesture.
"I was merely suggesting an explanation; the point is not important. The
fellow has bolted; but I've reason for believing he won't get across the
boundary!"
He broke off, tearing the newspaper as he opened it, and there was an
awkward silence until Mrs. Leslie brought in dinner. Jernyngham ate very
little, and after spending a few minutes in his room, he drove off in the
sleigh. Somewhat later, Colston met Gertrude in a passage and stopped
her. He thought she looked anxious.
"I'm sorry I couldn't calm your father, but I was afraid that anything I
might say would only make him more excited," he told her. "I meant to go
with him, but he wouldn't permit it."
"No," she said, "there was nothing that you could do; but I'm badly
disturbed." She paused irresolutely, and then resumed: "He has taken a
magazine pistol, though I believe it's the first time he has carried it."
Colston looked grave. He determined, if possible, to abstract the pistol
and hide it on Jernyngham's return.
"I'm very sorry. It must be trying for you. Indeed, I wonder anxiously
where all this is leading us."
"The horrible mystery will be cleared up on Prescott's arrest," Gertrude
said in a harsh voice. "I think that can't be long deferred."
She left him troubled by her expression, and he and the others spent a
dreary afternoon and evening. It was late when Jernyngham returned,
looking worn but very stern.
"From what I've learned, word has been sent to every police trooper
between here and the frontier," he said, and broke into a grim smile.
"Prescott's chance of escape is a very poor one."
He made a scanty meal, without seeming to notice what he ate, and
afterward sat silent. The others seldom spoke and when a word was
exchanged there was strain in their voices. The snapping of the poplar
billets in the stove seemed to emphasize the quiet and jarred on their
nerves, while Muriel, tormented by fears on Prescott's account, found the
suspense and constraint almost intolerable. She was thankful when bedtime
came, though she could not sleep. Her troubled thoughts were with her
lover, and she wondered what perils he was exposed to on the snowy wilds.
As it happened, Prescott was riding steadily through the stinging frost.
He had been unable to obtain a fresh horse, but he had borrowed a saddle,
and the Clydesdale, though far from fast, possessed good staying powers.
For all that, he had been forced to rest part of the day at an outlying
farm, and while there a man brought him word from Stanton, whose line of
travel ran roughly parallel with his, three or four leagues to the west.
The trooper's horse had gone badly lame, and Prescott was instructed to
push on while Stanton sought another mount.
It was a very bitter night, but the young rancher was used to cold, and,
riding alone in the moonlight, he made the best pace he could across the
white desolation. There was no sign of life on it. Nothing moved in the
reeds beside the frozen ponds and the shadowy bluffs he passed; no sound
but the thud of heavy hoofs broke the overwhelming silence. By and by he
left the trees behind, and pressed on into a vast glittering plain which
ran back to the horizon, unbroken by a bush, and inexpressibly lonely.
In the early morning he reached a homestead where he rested until the
afternoon. He chafed at the delay, but as the Clydesdale was badly jaded,
it could not be avoided, and Wandle would have to stop now and then,
unless he could hire fresh horses, which might be difficult. Starting
again, he came to a small wooden settlement in the evening and rode first
to the livery-stable. The telephone wires, which were being stretched
across the prairie, had not reached the place, and he surmised that the
police had been unable to communicate with it. The liveryman was busy in
one of the stalls, but he came out and answered Prescott's question.
"Yes," he said, "a fellow like the one you speak of came in here about an
hour ago. His team looked pretty used up and he wanted to hire another,
but I couldn't deal. Keep my horses hauling cordwood through the winter,
and the only team I have in the stable is ordered by a drummer for
to-morrow."
"Can't you find me a mount? I'll pay you what you like."
"No, sir," said the other. "When I engage to drive a man round, I've got
to make good. If I didn't, it would soon ruin my trade."
Seeing he was not to be moved, Prescott asked:
"How do you strike the south trail?"
"Go straight through the town. It forks in about three miles, and you can
take either branch. They're both pretty bad, but the west one's the
shorter and the worse."
"What's between the forks?"
"A big patch of broken country--sandhills and bluffs. About eight miles
on, the other trail runs in again."
"Are there any homesteads on the way?"
"Nothing near the trail. There's a shack where two fellows cutting
cordwood camp."
Prescott considered when he had thanked the man. He was tired and his
horse was far from fresh, but he understood that Wandle's team was in a
worse condition. There was a possibility of his overtaking him, if he
pushed on at once. Leaving the stable, he meant to walk a short distance
to ease his aching limbs, but he saw a mounted man trotting up the street
and called out as he recognized Stanton.
"I thought I might get news of you here," said the trooper, pulling up.
"Have you found out anything?"
Prescott told him what he had heard, and Stanton nodded.
"Then we had better get on. The horse I've got is pretty fresh."
In another minute or two they had left the lights of the settlement
behind and Prescott prepared for a third night on the trail. His eyes
were heavy, long exposure to extreme cold had had its effect on him, and
the warmth seemed to be dying out of his exhausted body. After a while
they came to a straggling clump of birches with blurred masses of taller
trees behind, where the trail broke in two. Stanton dismounted and struck
a few matches, examining the snow carefully.
"Nothing to show which way Wandle's gone," he reported. "Somebody's been
along with a bob-sled not long ago and rubbed out his tracks. Anyhow,
I'll take the shorter fork."
They separated; the trooper riding on in the moonlight and Prescott
entering the gloom of the trees. He soon found the trial remarkably
uneven. So far as he could make out, it skirted a number of low, thickly
timbered ridges, swinging sharply up and down. In places it slanted
awkwardly toward one edge; in others it was covered with stiff, dwarf
scrub. One or two of the descents to frozen creeks were alarmingly steep
and the Clydesdale stumbled now and then, but it kept its feet and
Prescott felt that, everything considered, he was making a satisfactory
pace. Stanton, he supposed, was two or three miles to the west of him,
following the opposite edge of the high ground, but there was nothing to
indicate which of them was the nearer to Wandle.
He rode on, wishing the light were better, for the faint gleam of the
moon among the trees confused his sight and made it difficult to
distinguish the trail, while to leave it might lead to his plunging down
some precipitous gully. At length he saw a yellow glow ahead, and soon
afterward came upon a shack in an opening. Small logs were strewn about
it and among them stood tall piles of cordwood. The door opened as he
rode up and a man's dark figure appeared in the entrance.
"Have you seen a rig going south?" Prescott asked.
"I heard one, about seven or eight minutes ago. The fellow didn't seem to
be driving quick."
"Thanks," responded Prescott, and rode off with a feeling of
satisfaction.
He had gained on Wandle, who had probably been delayed by some mischance
on the trail. If the Clydesdale could be urged to a faster pace, he might
overtake him, but this must be done before the fugitive could hire a
fresh team. Next, he began to wonder what progress Stanton had made, for
the relative positions of Wandle and the constable were now important. If
Stanton were far enough ahead, he would reach the spot where the trails
united before the absconder, in which case they would have him between
them and it would be better for Prescott to save his horse's strength,
because speed might be required. On the contrary, if Stanton were not yet
abreast of him, he ought to push on as fast as possible. Wandle, he was
glad to remember, could not know how closely he was being followed.
Turning the matter over in his mind, he rode at a moderate pace while the
rough track wound deeper into the bluff. The partial obscurity was now
extremely puzzling. Here and there a slender trunk glimmered in the faint
moonlight that streamed down between the branches, and patches of
brightness lay across the path, but this intensified the darkness of the
background. It was hard to tell which of the dim avenues that kept
opening up was the trail; the state of the short scrub could no longer be
used as a guide, for the cordwood cutters had not penetrated so far with
their sled.
Prescott knew that he must go forward, however; and he was gazing
anxiously ahead with eyes that ached from long exposure to the reflection
from the snow when the Clydesdale stumbled violently. He had scarcely
time to clear his feet of the stirrups before the beast went down and he
was flung into a clump of brush with a force that nearly drove the breath
out of him. For a few moments he lay still, dimly conscious that the
horse was struggling in the snow; and then, rousing himself with an
effort, he got up unsteadily. He felt badly shaken, but he saw the horse
scramble to its feet without assistance and stand trembling, looking
about for him.
Neither he nor the animal seemed to be seriously injured, but he felt
incapable of mounting and waited a while, wondering what he should do. He
was tired out and was sensible of a depressing lassitude, the result of
nervous strain. Then, as the bitter cold nipped him, a reaction set in.
Wandle, he remembered, had with detestable cunning plotted to ruin him;
it might be difficult to clear himself unless the man were arrested. For
the sake of the girl who had maintained his innocence with steadfast
faith, the suspicion under which he labored must be dispelled. Prescott
was seized by a fit of fury against his betrayer. Nerved by it, he got
into the saddle and rode on, urging the Clydesdale savagely through the
wood.
Half an hour later he heard a measured drumming sound and Stanton's voice
answered his hail. Then a horseman rode out of a gap in the trees and
pulled up near him.
"I suppose you have seen nothing of Wandle?" Prescott asked.
"Not a sign," said Stanton shortly. "Have you?"
Prescott raised his hand and sat listening while he struggled with his
rage and disappointment. The night was still; he thought he would hear
any sound there might be a long distance off, but nothing broke the
silence.
"I learned from a chopper that I wasn't far behind him, and I half
expected you would have headed him off. I can't think he has passed this
spot."
"We'll try to fix that."
Stanton dismounted and struck several matches. The flame burned steadily,
but it showed none of the marks for which he searched the beaten snow
with practised eyes.
"No," he said, "I'd stake a month's pay that the fellow's not ahead."
They looked at each other, frankly puzzled; and then Prescott broke out
angrily:
"Where can the blasted rustler be?"
"Couldn't have left the bluffs on my side without my seeing him, and if
he'd doubled back on his tracks, you'd have met him," Curtis remarked.
"He's not likely to be hiding in the woods. He'd freeze without a proper
outfit, which he can't have got."
They grappled with the problem in silence for a minute or two.
"We'll take the back trail," Stanton decided. "The fellow must have
broken out for open country on your side. I guess he knows where there's
a homestead where he might find a team."
Prescott agreed, and they rode off wearily the way he had come, shivering
with the cold that had seized them while they waited. The expectant
excitement which had animated them for the past hour had gone and was
followed by a reaction. Their bodies were half frozen, their minds worked
heavily, but both were conscious of a grim resolve. It was the trooper's
duty to bear crushing fatigue and stinging frost, one that was sternly
demanded of him; and the rancher had a stronger motive. He must clear
himself for Muriel's sake, and he was filled with rage against the man
who had tried to betray him. He would go on, if necessary, until his
hands and feet froze or the big Clydesdale fell.