THE CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH DIFFICULTIES
The early Northern dusk was falling when Beresford dropped into the
store again. Except for two half-breeds and the clerk dickering at the
far end of the building over half a dozen silver fox furs Morse had
the place to himself.
Yet the officer took the precaution to lower his voice. "I want an
auger and a wooden plug the same size. Get 'em to me without anybody
knowing it."
The manager of the C.N. Morse & Company Northern Stores presently
shoved across the counter to him a gunny-sack with a feed of oats.
"Want it charged to the Force, I reckon?"
"Yes."
"Say, constable, I wancha to look at these moccasins I'm orderin' for
the Inspector. Is this what he wants? Or isn't it?"
Tom led the way into his office. He handed the shoe to Beresford.
"What's doin'?" he asked swiftly, between sentences.
The soldier inspected the footwear. "About right, I'd say. Thought
you'd find what you were looking for. A fellow usually does when he
goes at it real earnest."
The eyes in the brown face were twinkling merrily.
"Findin' the goods is one thing. Gettin' 'em's quite another," Tom
suggested.
The voice of one of the trappers rose in protest. "By gar, it iss what
you call dirt cheap. I make you a present. V'la!"
"Got to bore through difficulties," Beresford said. "Then you're
liable to bump into disappointment. But you can't ever tell till you
try."
His friend began to catch the drift of the officer's purpose. He was
looking for a liquor shipment, _and he had bought an auger to bore
through difficulties_.
Tom's eyes glowed. "Come over to the storeroom an' take a look at my
stock. Want you to see I'm gonna have these moccasins made from good
material."
They kept step across the corral, gay, light-hearted sons of the
frontier, both hard as nails, packed muscles rippling like those of
forest panthers. Their years added would not total more than twoscore
and five, but life had taken hold of them young and trained them to
its purposes, had shot them through and through with hardihood and
endurance and the cool prevision that forestalls disaster.
"I'm in on this," the Montanan said.
"Meaning?"
"That I buy chips, take a hand, sit in, deal cards."
The level gaze of the police officer studied him speculatively. "Now
why this change of heart?"
"You get me wrong. I'm with you to a finish in puttin' West and Whaley
out of business. They're a hell-raisin' outfit, an' this country'll be
well rid of 'em. Only thing is I wanta play my cards above the table.
I couldn't spy on these men. Leastways, it didn't look quite square to
me. But this is a bronc of another color. Lead me to that trouble you
was promisin' a while ago."
Beresford led him to it, by way of a rain-washed gully, up which they
trod their devious path slowly and without noise. From the gully they
snaked through the dry grass to a small ditch that had been built to
drain the camping-ground during spring freshets. This wound into the
midst of the wagon train encampment.
The plainsmen crept along the dry ditch with laborious care. They
advanced no single inch without first taking care to move aside any
twig the snapping of which might betray them.
From the beginning of the adventure until its climax no word was
spoken. Beresford led, the trader followed at his heels.
The voices of men drifted to them from a camp-fire in the shelter of
the wagons. There were, Tom guessed, about four of them. Their words
came clear through the velvet night. They talked the casual elemental
topics common to their kind.
There was a moonlit open space to be crossed. The constable took it
swiftly with long strides, reached a wagon, and dodged under it. His
companion held to the cover of the ditch. He was not needed closer.
The officer lay flat on his back, set the point of the auger to the
woodwork of the bed, and began to turn. Circles and half-circles of
shavings flaked out and fell upon him. He worked steadily. Presently
the resistance of the wood ceased. The bit had eaten its way through.
Beresford withdrew the tool and tried again, this time a few inches
from the hole he had made. The pressure lessened as before, but in a
second or two the steel took a fresh hold. The handle moved slowly and
steadily.
A few drops of moisture dripped down, then a small stream. The
constable held his hand under this and tasted the flow. It was rum.
Swiftly he withdrew the bit, fitted the plug into the hole, and pushed
it home.
He crawled from under the wagon, skirted along the far side of it, ran
to the next white-topped vehicle, and plumped out upon the campers
with a short, sharp word of command.
"Up with your hands! Quick!"
For a moment the surprised quartette were too amazed to obey.
"What in Halifax--?"
"Shove 'em up!" came the crisp, peremptory order.
Eight hands wavered skyward.
"Is this a hold-up--or what?" one of the teamsters wanted to know
sulkily.
"Call it whatever you like. You with the fur cap hitch up the mules to
the second wagon. Don't make a mistake and try for a getaway. You'll
be a dead smuggler."
The man hesitated. Was this red-coat alone?
Tom strolled out of the ditch, a sawed-off shotgun under his arm.
"I judge you bored through your difficulties, constable," he said
cheerfully.
"Through the bed of the wagon and the end of a rum keg. Stir your
stumps, gentlemen of the whiskey-running brigade. We're on the way to
Fort Edmonton if it suits you."
If it did not suit them, they made no audible protest of disagreement.
Growls were their only comment when, under direction of Beresford,
the Montanan stripped them of their weapons and kept guard on the
fur-capped man--his name appeared to be Lemoine--while the latter
brought the mules to the wagon pointed out by the officer.
"Hook 'em," ordered Morse curtly.
The French-Indian trapper hitched the team to the wagon. Presently
it moved beyond the circle of firelight into the darkness. Morse sat
beside the driver, the short-barreled weapon across his knees.
Three men walked behind the wagon. A fourth, in the uniform of the
North-West Mounted, brought up the rear on horseback.