SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION
When Bully West discovered that such part of the cargo of wet goods
as was in wagon number two had disappeared and along with it the four
mule-skinners, his mind jumped to an instant conclusion. That it
happened to be the wrong one was natural enough to his sulky,
suspicious mind.
"Goddlemighty, they've double-crossed us," he swore to his partner,
with an explosion of accompanying profanity. "Figure on cleanin' up on
the goods an' cuttin' back to the States. Tha's what they aim to do.
Before I can head 'em off. Me, I'll show 'em they can't play monkey
tricks on Bully West."
This explanation did not satisfy Whaley. The straight black line of
the brows above the cold eyes met in frowning thought.
"I've got a hunch you're barkin' up the wrong tree," he lisped with a
shrug of shoulders.
Voice and gesture were surprising in that they were expressions of
this personality totally unexpected. Both were almost womanlike in
their delicacy. They suggested the purr and soft padding of a cat, an
odd contradiction to the white, bloodless face with the inky brows.
The eyes of "Poker" Whaley could throw fear into the most reckless
bull-whacker on the border. They held fascinating and sinister
possibilities of evil.
"Soon see. We'll hit the trail right away after them," Bully replied.
Whaley's thin lip curled. He looked at West as though he read to
the bottom of that shallow mind and meant to make the most of his
knowledge.
"Yes," he murmured, as though to himself. "Some one ought to stay with
the rest of the outfit, but I reckon I'd better go along. Likely you
couldn't handle all of 'em if they showed fight."
West's answer was a roar of outraged vanity. "Me! Not round up them
tame sheep. I'll drive 'em back with their tongues hangin' out.
Understand?"
At break of day he was in the saddle. An experienced trailer, West
found no difficulty in following the wagon tracks. No attempt had been
made to cover the flight. The whiskey-runner could trace at a road
gait the narrow tracks along the winding road.
The country through which he traveled was the border-land between the
plains and the great forests that rolled in unbroken stretch to the
frozen North. Sometimes he rode over undulating prairie. Again he
moved through strips of woodland or skirted beautiful lakes from the
reedy edges of which ducks or geese rose whirring at his approach. A
pair of coyotes took one long look at him and skulked into a ravine.
Once a great moose started from a thicket of willows and galloped over
a hill.
West heeded none of this. No joy touched him as he breasted summits
and looked down on wide sweeps of forest and rippling water. The
tracks of the wheel rims engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze. If
the brutish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been far from
pleasant ones.
The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault, slid toward the
horizon. Dusk found him at the edge of a wooded lake.
He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of triumph. From the timber
on the opposite shore came a tenuous smoke skein. A man came to the
water with a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods. Bully
West knew he had caught up with those he was tracking.
The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and rode through the
timber toward the smoke. At a safe distance he dismounted, tied
the horse to a young pine, and carefully examined his rifle. Very
cautiously he stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill and
the stealth of a Sarcee scout.
Camp had been pitched in a small open space surrounded by bushes.
Through the thicket, on the south side, he picked a way, pushing away
each sapling and weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of his
huge body. For such a bulk of a figure he moved lightly. Twice he
stopped by reason of the crackle of a snapping twig, but no sign of
alarm came from his prey.
They sat hunched--the four of them--before a blazing log fire,
squatting on their heels in the comfortable fashion of the outdoors
man the world over. Their talk was fragmentary. None gave any sign of
alertness toward any possible approaching danger.
No longer wary, West broke through the last of the bushes and
straddled into the open.
"Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore boss," he jeered,
triumph riding voice and manner heavily.
He waited for the startled dismay he expected. None came. The drama of
the moment did not meet his expectation. The teamsters looked at him,
sullenly, without visible fear or amazement. None of them rose or
spoke.
Sultry anger began to burn in West's eyes. "Thought you'd slip one
over on the old man, eh? Thought you could put over a raw steal an'
get away with it. Well, lemme tell you where you get off at. I'm gonna
whale every last one of you to a frazzle. With a big club. An'
I'm gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of whipped curs.
Understand?"
Still they said nothing. It began to penetrate the thick skull of
the trader that there was something unnatural about their crouched
silence. Why didn't they try to explain? Or make a break for a
getaway?
He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley of curses,
than to repeat his threat. "A thunderin' good wallopin', first off.
Then we hit the trail together, you-all an' me."
From out of the bushes behind him a voice came. "That last's a good
prophecy, Mr. West. It'll be just as you say."
The big fellow wheeled, the rifle jumping to his shoulder. Instantly
he knew he had been tricked, led into a trap. They must have heard him
coming, whoever they were, and left his own men for bait.
From the other side two streaks of scarlet launched themselves at him.
West turned to meet them. A third flash of red dived for his knees. He
went down as though hit by a battering-ram.
But not to stay down. The huge gorilla-shaped figure struggled to
its feet, fighting desperately to throw off the three red-coats long
enough to drag out a revolver. He was like a bear surrounded by
leaping dogs. No sooner had he buffeted one away than the others
were dragging him down. Try as he would, he could not get set. The
attackers always staggered him before he could quite free himself for
action. They swarmed all over him, fought close to avoid his sweeping
lunges, hauled him to his knees by sheer weight of the pack.
Lemoine flung one swift look around and saw that his captors were very
busy. Now if ever was the time to take a hand in the mêlée. Swiftly he
rose. He spoke a hurried word in French.
"One moment, s'il vous plaît." From the bushes another man had
emerged, one not in uniform. Lemoine had forgotten him. "Not your
fight. Better keep out," he advised, and pointed the suggestion with a
short-barreled shotgun.
The trapper looked at him. "Is it that this iss your fight, Mistair
Morse?" he demanded.
"Fair enough. I'll keep out too."
The soldiers had West down by this time. They were struggling to
handcuff him. He fought furiously, his great arms and legs threshing
about like flails. Not till he had worn himself out could they pinion
him.
Beresford rose at last, the job done. His coat was ripped almost from
one shoulder. "My word, he's a whale of an animal," he panted. "If I
hadn't chanced to meet you boys he'd have eaten me alive."
The big smuggler struggled for breath. When at last he found words, it
was for furious and horrible curses.
Not till hours later did he get as far as a plain question. "What does
this mean? Where are you taking me, you damned spies?" he roared.
Beresford politely gave him information. "To the penitentiary, I hope,
Mr. West, for breaking Her Majesty's revenue laws."