AT SWEET WATER CREEK
Before a fire of buffalo chips Constable Beresford and his prisoner
smoked the pipe of peace. Morse sat on his heels, legs crossed, after
the manner of the camper. The officer lounged at full length, an elbow
dug into the sand as a support for his head. The Montanan was
on parole, so that for the moment at least their relations were
forgotten.
"After the buffalo--what?" asked the American. "The end of the
Indian--is that what it means? And desolation on the plains. Nobody
left but the Hudson's Bay Company trappers, d'you reckon?"
The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle."
"Some, maybe," Morse assented. "But, holy Moses, think of the millions
it would take to stock this country."
"Bet you the country's stocked inside of five years of the time the
buffalo are cleared out. Look at what the big Texas drives are doing
in Colorado and Wyoming and Montana. Get over the idea that this land
up here is a desert. That's a fool notion our school geographies are
responsible for. Great American Desert? Great American fiddlesticks!
It's a man's country, if you like; but I've yet to see the beat of
it."
Morse had ceased to pay attention. His head was tilted, and he was
listening.
"Some one ridin' this way," he said presently. "Hear the hoofs click
on the shale. Who is it? I wonder. An' what do they want? When folks'
intentions hasn't been declared it's a good notion to hold a hand you
can raise on."
Without haste and without delay Beresford got to his feet. "We'll step
back into the shadow," he announced.
"Looks reasonable to me," agreed the smuggler.
They waited in the semi-darkness back of the camp-fire.
Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound of that clear,
bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to listen better.
The constable answered the call.
Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim,
straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swung
from the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion of
her ride shadowed her.
Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness.
"Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called to
the constable.
"How do you know?"
"Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand the
lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behind
it, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to follow
you--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey."
"He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed
hard and chill. He would see about that.
"They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet
Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the
girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better
hurry."
The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those of
the prisoner. Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find out
pretty soon.
"Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail."
"Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?"
Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelight
flickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery.
This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees.
"Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of both hands to
indicate the numbers. "Coming up creek. Here soon."
"We'll move back to the big rocks and I'll make a stand there,"
the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap the saddles on without
cinching. We've got no time to lose." His voice lost its curtness as
he turned to the girl. "Miss McRae, I'll not forget this. Very likely
you've saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better slip away
quietly. You mustn't be seen here."
"Why mustn't I?" she asked quickly. "I don't care who sees me."
She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that little touch of
scornful defiance in the quivering nostrils that seemed to express a
spirit free and unafraid. The sense of superiority is generally not a
lovely manifestation in any human being, but there are moments when it
tells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean.
Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. He
could hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch of
words.
"... must be somewheres near, I tell you."
Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, and
moved toward the big rocks.
The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strange
tricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools or
like prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as the
Three Bears, another as the Elephant.
Among these boulders Morse found the party he had just left. The
officer was still trying to persuade Jessie McRae to attempt escape.
She refused, stubbornly.
"There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot. So am I. For that
matter, if anybody is going to escape, it had better be you," she
said.
"Too late now," Morse said. "See, they've found the camp-fire."
Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approaching
the camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barney
and Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian
trailer of the Piegan tribe.
"He must 'a' heard us comin' and pulled out," Barney said.
"Then he's back in the red rocks," boomed West triumphantly.
"Soon find out." Brad Stearns turned the head of his horse toward the
rocks and shouted. "Hello, Tom! You there?"
No answer came from the rocks.
"Don't prove a thing," West broke out impatiently. "This fellow's got
Tom buffaloed. Didn't he make him smash the barrels? Didn't he take
away his six-gun from him and bring him along like he hadn't any mind
of his own? Tom's yellow. Got a streak a foot wide."
"Nothin' of the kind," denied Stearns, indignation in his voice. "I
done brought up that boy by hand--learned him all he knows about
ridin' and ropin'. He'll do to take along."
"Hmp! He always fooled you, Brad. Different here. I'm aimin' to give
him the wallopin' of his life when I meet up with him. And that'll be
soon, if he's up there in the rocks. I'm goin' a-shootin'." Bully West
drew his revolver and rode forward.
The constable had disposed of his forces so that behind the cover of
the sandstone boulders they commanded the approach. He had tried to
persuade Jessie that this was not her fight, but a question from her
had silenced him.
"If that Bully West finds me here, after he's killed you, d' you think
I can get him to let me go because it wasn't my fight?"
She had asked it with flashing eyes, in which for an instant he had
seen the savagery of fear leap out. Beresford was troubled. The girl
was right enough. If West went the length of murder, he would be an
outlaw. Sleeping Dawn would not be safe with him after she had ridden
out to warn his enemy that he was coming. The fellow was a primeval
brute. His reputation had run over the whole border country of
Rupert's Land.
Now he appealed to Morse. "If they get me, will you try to save Miss
McRae? This fellow West is a devil, I hear."
The officer caught a gleam of hot red eyes. "I'll 'tend to that. We'll
mix first, him 'n' me. Question now is, do I get a gun?"
"What for?"
"Didn't you hear him make his brags about what he was gonna do to me?
If there's shootin' I'm in on it, ain't I?"
"No. You're a prisoner. I can't arm you unless your life is in
danger."
West pulled up his horse about sixty yards from the rocks. He shouted
a profane order. The purport of it was that Beresford had better come
out with his hands up if he didn't want to be dragged out by a rope
around his neck. The man's speech crackled with oaths and obscenity.
The constable stepped into the open a few yards. "What do you want?"
he asked.
"You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden gust of passion.
"Think you can make a fool of Bully West? Think you can bust up our
cargo an' get away with it? I'll show you where you head in at."
"Don't make any mistake, West," advised the officer, his voice cold as
the splash of ice-water. "Three of us are here, all with rifles, all
dead shots. If you attack us, some of you are going to get killed."
"Tha's a lie. You're alone--except for Tom Morse, an' he ain't fool
enough to fight to go to jail. I've got you where I want you." West
swung from the saddle and came straddling forward. In the uncertain
light he looked more like some misbegotten ogre than a human being.
"That's far enough," warned Beresford, not a trace of excitement in
manner or speech. His hands hung by his sides. He gave no sign of
knowing that he had a revolver strapped to his hip ready for action.
The liquor smuggler stopped to pour out abuse. He was working himself
up to a passion that would justify murder. The weapon in his hand
swept wildly back and forth. Presently it would focus down to a deadly
concentration in which all motion would cease.
The torrent of vilification died on the man's lips. He stared past the
constable with bulging eyes. From the rocks three figures had come.
Two of them carried rifles. All three of them he recognized. His
astonishment paralyzed the scurrilous tongue. What was McRae's girl
doing at the camp of the officer?
It was characteristic of him that he suspected the worst of her.
Either Tom Morse or this red-coat had beaten him to his prey. Jealousy
and outraged vanity flared up in him so that discretion vanished.
The barrel of his revolver came down and began to spit flame.
Beresford gave orders. "Back to the rocks." He retreated, backward,
firing as he moved.
The companions of West surged forward. Shots, shouts, the shifting
blur of moving figures, filled the night. Under cover of the darkness
the defenders reached again the big rocks.
The constable counted noses. "Everybody all right?" he asked. Then,
abruptly, he snapped out: "Who was responsible for that crazy business
of you coming out into the open?"
"Me," said the girl. "I wanted that West to know you weren't alone."
"Didn't you know better than to let her do it?" the officer demanded
of Morse.
"He couldn't help it. He tried to keep me back. What right has he to
interfere with me?" she wanted to know, stiffening.
"You'll do as I say now," the constable said crisply. "Get back of
that rock there, Miss McRae, and stay there. Don't move from cover
unless I tell you to."
Her dark, stormy eyes challenged his, but she moved sullenly to obey.
Rebel though she was, the code of the frontier claimed and held her
respect. She had learned of life that there were times when her will
must be subordinated for the general good.