THE END OF THE PURSUIT
When they had ridden some distance through the wood, Stanton checked his
horse.
"Hold on!" he cried. "Here's a bit of an opening in the brush!"
He moved away a few yards, and then called out:
"Looks mighty like a trail. I guess you didn't notice it when you came
along."
Prescott admitted that he had not done so, which was not surprising.
There was little to distinguish the gap between the nut bushes from
others that opened up all round; but Stanton seemed satisfied that he was
right.
"Somebody has driven out this way not long ago," he explained.
"It doesn't follow that the man was Wandle."
"Why, no. Still, I guess it's likely; and if there's a trail, it leads to
a homestead. Anyway, we'll track it up."
When they reached the open prairie, the moonlight showed faint wheelmarks
running on before them to the east. The country was open and empty; a
wide plain, with one slight rise some miles away that cut with a white
gleam against the deep blue of the sky. They headed toward it wearily,
following the track, and drew bridle when they gained the summit. A
half-moon floated rather low in the western sky, glittering keen with
frost, and they could see that the prairie ahead of them was more rolling
and broken. Dusky smears of bluffs checkered its white surface here and
there, and a low irregular dark line ran across it. Prescott supposed
this to be a small timber growing along the edge of a ravine. Beyond it,
in the distance, a faint glimmer of yellow light caught and held his eye.
It was the one touch of warm color in the chill and lifeless waste of
white and blue.
"A homestead," said Stanton. "We'll ride as far as the ravine together;
and then I guess I'll make for the farm alone. If Wandle's been there
looking for horses, he'll strike south and take the trail we left,
farther on. You'll head down that way and watch out to cut him off if he
lights out before I come up."
Prescott understood the maneuver. By driving east the fugitive had lost
ground, and if he could push on fast enough, Prescott might reach a
position from which he could either run him down or turn him back into
the hands of the trooper.
When they came to the ravine and descended the deep shadowy hollow, they
parted company, Prescott following the opposite brink, because Wandle
would have to cross it lower down to regain the south trail. Once or
twice he left it for a while when the gorge twisted in a big loop away
from him, but he could see nothing of his companion. They had commanded a
wide sweep of plain when they crossed the rise, but now that he was on
low ground, the scattered bluffs obstructed his view. Indeed, he fancied
from their position that they would prevent Stanton's seeing the farm.
Once he stopped and listened with strained attention, but he could hear
only the faint sighing of a light wind among the trees he skirted and the
snapping of a twig, made by what means he could not tell, for there was
no sign of life in all the frozen wilds. It was very dreary, and Prescott
had little expectation of overtaking Wandle after the time they had lost,
but he doggedly rode on.
At length an indistinct sound, too regular for the wind to account for,
reached him, and grew louder when he pulled up his horse. It was a dull,
measured throbbing, and he knew it to be the beat of hoofs. It was
drawing nearer, but it might be made by Stanton riding to join him, and
he headed so as to clear one of the bluffs which prevented his seeing far
across the plain. On passing the end of the timber he saw another taller
patch half a mile off, which hid most of the prairie between him and the
farm, and knowing that time might be valuable he clung to the ravine,
urging the jaded Clydesdale to its fastest pace, which was very moderate.
He had gone about a mile, opening up the flat waste beyond the second
bluff, when the black shape of a team and rig appeared on it. The team
was being driven furiously, and in another few moments Prescott was not
surprised to see a horseman sweep out from the gloom of the trees behind
them. It was, however, soon obvious that the trooper was not gaining
ground; Wandle had got fresh horses, his rig was light, while Stanton's
mount had already carried him a long way. Prescott's Clydesdale had been
harder taxed, but he knew he could not spare the beast. Wandle must have
seen him, but he was holding straight on, and this could only be because
he was following a trail which led to the easiest crossing of the ravine.
The man would shrink from the risk of getting entangled among thick
timber with his team.
Prescott would have found speed difficult, even had he been mounted on a
fresh horse. The snow was thin, but it was loose and dusty beneath the
crust, through which the hoofs broke, while Wandle was making excellent
progress along a beaten trail. Still, Prescott was nearer to the point
the man was making for, and if he could reach it first, Wandle could not
escape. Riding with savage determination, he sped on, the snow flying up
behind him, the thrill of the pursuit firing his blood and filling him
with fierce excitement. Wandle's fresh team was going at a gallop, the
hoofs beating out a sharp drumming that mingled with the furious rattle
of wheels, and through these sounds broke a rapid, pounding thud which
told that Stanton was following hard behind. The trooper was, however,
less close than he had been; too far, Prescott thought, to use his
carbine; and as he mercilessly drove his beast he feared that he could
scarcely reach the trail in time. He was closing with the rig and could
see Wandle savagely lash his team; the trouble was that instead of riding
to cut off the fugitive, in another few minutes he would be behind him,
which was a very different thing.
While he plied the quirt he saw the rig vanish among the trees close
ahead. They stretched out some distance into the prairie, and he might
not be too late yet, if he were willing to take a serious risk. He did
not think the trail ran straight down into the ravine--the hollow was too
deep for that--it would descend the slope obliquely and might trend
toward him. If so, he should still be able to intercept the rig by
cutting off the corner and riding straight down the steep bank through
the timber. The odds were in favor of his killing the horse and breaking
his own neck, but this did not count, and the next moment there was a
crash as the Clydesdale rushed through a brake. A branch struck
Prescott's leg a heavy blow, but he was too numbed to feel much pain, and
as he swung round a bush that threatened to tear him from the saddle he
could look down between the trees. Then he was filled with exultation,
for the trail had turned his way. Below him, but farther from the bottom
of the dipping track than he was, Wandle's horses were plunging downhill
at a furious gallop, the rig jolting behind them, the driver leaning
forward and using the whip. There was no sign of Stanton except the
pounding of hoofs that rose among the trees.
Then the slope grew dangerously sharp and Prescott set his teeth. The
Clydesdale flinched from the descent, but it was too jaded to struggle
hard, and the next moment it stumbled and slid over the edge. They went
down, slipping over ground as hard as granite under its thin coat of
snow, smashing through nut bushes, tearing off low branches. Prescott saw
Wandle turn his head and look up at him. Then the fugitive sent up a
hoarse cry of rage and warning, too late. If he could stop his team,
which was very doubtful, he might escape the threatened collision; but
this would involve his capture by Stanton, and he lashed his horses and
went on, while Prescott and the great plow horse came madly rushing down
at him. He looked at them again, with a breathless yell; then he let the
reins fall and seized a seat rail.
The Clydesdale struck the light off-side horse, hurling it upon its
fellow, breaking the pole. Both lost their footing and were driven round.
Prescott, flung upon the backs of the horses, grasped the front of the
rig, which ran on a yard or two and overturned with a crash. The
Clydesdale went down among the wreckage, another horse was on its side,
kicking savagely; and Stanton, hurrying up, saw Prescott crawl slowly
clear of it. Seizing him, he lifted him to his feet, and to his great
surprise the man leaned against a tree with a half-dazed laugh.
"Well," he gasped, "I'm not in pieces, anyway!"
"Then you ought to be!" said Stanton, too startled to congratulate him on
his escape. "But where's Wandle?"
Prescott seemed unable to answer and the trooper, looking round, saw
Wandle lying in the snow; but before he could reach him the man began to
raise himself on his elbow. This was disconcerting, for Stanton had
thought him dead.
"Well," the trooper said stupidly, "what's the matter with you?"
"I don't know," Wandle replied weakly. "Don't feel like talking; let me
alone."
Stanton had no fear of his escaping, so he went back to the horses. One
of them stood trembling, attached to the rig by the deranged harness; the
other still lay kicking, while the big Clydesdale rolled to and fro, with
its leg through a wrenched-off wheel. It was astonishing that none of
them was killed. Prescott apparently needed no assistance, and Stanton
felt that he required some occupation to calm himself. Accordingly, he
freed the Clydesdale of the broken wheel, narrowly escaping a kick which
would have broken his ribs. The horse was a valuable one and must not be
left in danger, and after a few minutes of severe exertion Stanton got it
on its feet. Then he turned to the fallen driving horse and began, at
some risk, to cut away its harness. Prescott came to help him, and
together they raised the beast. Then Stanton sat down heavily on the
wreckage.
"Well," he remarked, "that was the blamedest fool trick, your riding down
the grade; they wouldn't expect that kind of work from us in the service!
What I can't account for is that you look none the worse."
Prescott, standing shakily in the moonlight, smiled. "It is surprising;
but hadn't you better look after Wandle? He seems to be getting up."
Wandle was cautiously getting on his feet, and the trooper watched him
until he moved a pace or two.
"You don't look very broke up," he said. "Do you feel as if you could
walk?"
"I believe I could ride," Wandle answered sullenly.
"Well, I guess you won't. You have given us trouble enough already, and
you'll be warmer on your feet." Then he drew out a paper. "This is my
warrant. It's my duty to arrest you----"
Wandle listened coolly to the formula, in which he was charged with
fraudulently selling Jernyngham's land and forging his name. Indeed,
Prescott fancied that he was relieved to find that nothing more serious
had been brought against him.
"Well," he said, "you'll hear my defense when it's ready. What's to be
done now?"
"Head back to the homestead where you got the team. Think you can lead
one of them? It's either that or I'll put the handcuffs on you--make your
choice." Stanton turned to Prescott. "It will be warmer walking, and I've
ridden about enough."
The suggestion was agreed to, and after looping up the cut harness
awkwardly with numbed fingers, they set off; Wandle going first, holding
one horse's head, Prescott following with two, and the trooper bringing
up the rear. When they reached the farm, to the astonishment of its
occupants, they were given quarters in the kitchen, where a big stove was
burning. Soon afterward, Prescott and Wandle lay down on the wooden
floor, wrapped in blankets supplied them by the farmer, and Prescott sank
into heavy sleep. Stanton, sitting upright in an uncomfortable chair,
kept watch with his carbine laid handy on the table. He spent the night
in a tense struggle to keep awake, and when Prescott got up at dawn the
trooper's face was haggard and his eyes half closed, but he was still on
guard.
After breakfast, they borrowed a saddle for Wandle and set out on the
return journey, meeting Curtis, who had ridden from the railroad, at the
first settlement they reached. Prescott left the others there, and rode
toward the station the corporal had just left, taking some telegrams
Curtis asked him to despatch. He spent an afternoon and a night in the
little wooden town, and went on again the next day by a local train.
While Prescott was on the way, Jernyngham drove to Sebastian with
Gertrude. The girl had insisted on accompanying him. Soon after they left
the homestead Colston, who was trying to read a paper from which his
interest wandered, looked up at his wife.
"It's fine weather and not quite so cold," he said. "Suppose we go to the
settlement and get supper there? I've no doubt there's something you or
Muriel would like to buy."
"As it happens, there is," Mrs. Colston replied. "But I don't think
that's all you have in your mind."
"The fact is, I'm disturbed about Jernyngham," Colston admitted. "He has
been in an extremely restless mood since Prescott disappeared."
"I have noticed that. But do you know why he has gone to Sebastian
to-day?"
"He told me. One of the police authorities, whom he has seen already, is
staying at the hotel to-night. Jernyngham means to get hold of him and
insist upon an explanation of what they are doing."
Muriel leaned forward in her chair. She looked anxious, for no news of
anything that had happened since Wandle's flight had reached the
neighborhood. It was only known that the police were in pursuit of him;
and local opinion was divided as to whether Prescott was also a fugitive
or, knowing more about the matter than anybody else, had offered Curtis
his assistance.
"I think you ought to go," she said. "And you may hear something."
"Well," Colston replied, "I'll confess that I'm curious, though I'm going
mainly on Jernyngham's account." He turned to his wife. "Don't you think
it's advisable?"
"I do, and it would be better if we all went. Then you will have an
excuse for following Jernyngham and can watch him without making the
thing too marked. It's a pity you didn't succeed in getting the pistol
away from him."
"I've done what I could. I had another try this morning, but he caught me
looking for it and I believe he guessed what I was after, because he was
unusually short with me. It's my opinion that he has taken to wearing the
thing; so far as I can discover, it's nowhere in the house. One hesitates
about ransacking his room."
"It is not in the house, and he is not to be trusted with it," Muriel
said quietly.
Colston cast a surprised glance at her.
"Oh! You seem to know. I've no doubt you are cleverer with your fingers
than I am and wouldn't be so afraid of leaving your tracks."
"Gertrude knows where the pistol is and she thought it necessary to go
with her father," Mrs. Colston said significantly. "We'll get off as soon
as you have asked Leslie for the buggy; I wish it had been the sleigh."
They drove away in half an hour; but Jernyngham reached the settlement
some time before they did. Leaving Gertrude at a drygoods store, he went
to the hotel, where the commissioned officer of police had a room. The
officer was acquainted with all that Prescott had told Curtis about his
absence in search of the missing man, and had been advised by telegraph
of the assistance he had rendered in Wandle's arrest. This was, however,
a matter that must stand in abeyance until he saw Curtis, for he had come
down to investigate some complaints about the reservation Indians, who
were in a restless, discontented state, and the business demanded careful
thought and handling. He was studying the report of a local constable
when there was a knock at the door, and he looked up with annoyance as
Jernyngham came in. The man had his sympathy, but he was troublesome.
"I'm afraid I can't spare you more than a minute or two," he said. "I'm
expecting a constable I've sent for."
"One would have imagined that my business was of the first importance,"
Jernyngham rejoined. "Have you any news of the fugitives?"
"Wandle has been arrested."
"Ah! That's satisfactory, though I don't think it will carry us very far.
His attempt to escape with Prescott, however, makes it obvious that they
were confederates."
The officer let this remark pass, for he was anxious to get rid of his
visitor. Jernyngham was piqued by his silence.
"I suppose you have not apprehended Prescott yet?" he resumed.
"No," answered the other shortly. "He will remain at liberty."
There was a knock at the door and a trooper looked in and withdrew.
"Mr. Jernyngham," said the officer, "if you will make an appointment to
meet me on my return from the reservation, I will be at your service, but
you must excuse me now. I have some instructions to give the constable,
who has a long ride before him."
"A minute, please; I'll be brief. Am I to understand that you have no
intention of seizing Prescott?"
"That is what I meant. So far as I can determine at present, we shall not
interfere with him."
Jernyngham's haggard face grew red with anger.
"What are your grounds for this extraordinary decision?" he demanded.
"A strong presumption of his innocence."
"Preposterous!" Jernyngham broke out. "The scoundrel killed my son, and
you refuse to move any further against him! I must carry the matter to
Ottawa; you leave me no recourse."
The officer rapped on the table and the trooper entered.
"Come and see me when I get back, Mr. Jernyngham, and we'll talk over the
thing again. I have other business which demands urgent attention now."
Jernyngham's face was deeply colored and the swollen veins showed on his
forehead.
"Understand that I insist on Prescott's arrest! I will, spare no effort
to secure it through your superiors!"
Seeing that he was in no mood to listen to reason, the officer let him
go, and Jernyngham walked slowly to the lobby downstairs. There were a
number of men in it, but two or three strolled into the bar and the
others drew away from him when he sat down. They were not without
compassion, but they shrank from the grim look in the man's worn face.
For a while he sat still, resting one elbow on a table, and trying to
arrange his confused thoughts. He knew nothing of Prescott's interview
with Curtis or the reason for his visit to Wandle on the night of the
latter's flight; the discovery of the brown clothes occupied the most
prominent place in his mind, and convinced him of Prescott's guilt.
Then he began to consider how he could best bring pressure to bear on the
administration in Ottawa. From inquiries he had made, it appeared less
easy than he had supposed. It was, he had been told, unusual for anybody
to interfere with the Northwest Police, who had been entrusted with
extensive powers; and there was a strong probability of his failing to
obtain satisfaction. It was, however, unthinkable that Prescott should
escape. Jernyngham's poignant sense of loss and regret for past harshness
to his son had merged into an overwhelming desire for vengeance on the
man whom he regarded as Cyril's murderer. He was left without an ally;
the organized means of justice had signally broken down; but the man
should not go unpunished.
Tormented by his thoughts, he went out in search of Gertrude.