THE WOLF AT BAY
Stanley Fyles was back in his quarters at Calford. And Buffalo Coulee
was left behind him somewhat chastened by his visit.
The Buffalo Coulees of the prairie were everyday experiences of
Sergeant Fyles. And the people of them were his most intimate study. No
one knew better than he how swiftly human nature, in these far-flung
places, can drift back to the primitive. No one knew better than he
that human nature without stern control was by no means a pleasing
thing. He was fully conscious that his visit of less than a week and
his arrest of the Wolf for the murder of Constable Sinclair had had an
extremely salutary effect upon the men of the prairie township.
His quarters overlooked Calford’s barrack square. They were just a
single small room furnished in the usual scant fashion ruling in
Mounted Police life. But the sergeant had contrived to impress his own
personality even on such an unpromising background.
Sergeant Fyles had completed a long morning’s work. He was sitting at
the small whitewood table which served him as a desk. It was set under
the double-glassed window, through which he could see such movement
as went on in the snow-covered square, centred by its water tower, and
surrounded by the barrack buildings. His work had been the setting
forth of his case against the Wolf, and it occupied the many sheets of
official foolscap which were scattered over the table.
His gaze was focussed on a small fatigue party engaged in clearing snow
from the barrack sidewalks. But he was not seriously interested in it.
He was pondering, sorting, sifting, arguing to himself the points of
the case he had just set out for his superior officer.
The truth was Stanley Fyles was more troubled and less sure of himself
than he would have cared to admit. He knew his case was complete.
The Wolf was not only arrested, but safely under bolt and bar in the
barrack guardroom. He had arranged for Annette’s quarters in Calford.
And furthermore Sinclair’s body had been brought back for official
identification and burial. Then the illicit still in the hills had
been duly destroyed, while he had received Superintendent Croisette’s
congratulations and commendations for his work.
But the whole thing left him dissatisfied and uneasy. Ever since his
arrest of the Wolf his mind had been haunted by the thought of a bad
time yet to come. For the life of him he was unable to rid himself of
the vision of a pair of derisively smiling black eyes, and those two
clenched fists with their massive, bared wrists thrust out at him,
inviting the cold embrace of steel handcuffs.
The haunt of that grim picture was very disturbing. Fyles was too
familiar with crime and criminals of all sorts to be easily affected by
their tricks. But the picture stuck with him, and somehow it robbed him
of considerable confidence.
To his mind the Wolf was certainly the murderer of Sinclair. The matter
of bootlegging did not arise now. That aspect of the case was lost
under the greater charge of murder. The gang had been clever enough to
clear all liquor. There was only the hidden still. That in itself was
insufficient evidence. A conviction required that the men should have
been taken red-handed with the making of their liquor.
No. He had only to consider the murder of Sinclair. And of that the
case looked clear enough against the Wolf. There was the motive
clear as daylight. There was the eyewitness’ evidence. But it made
no difference. As he sat gazing out of his window, it was not the
snow-sweeping fatigue party he beheld, it was not the many barrack
buildings or the water tower, it was not even the gray sky frowning
down upon his world. He saw only those two clenched fists thrust out at
him, and the derision in the Wolf’s laughing eyes.
Of course he knew the Wolf’s gesture might have been a simple act of
bravado. That sort of thing was not uncommon in youthful criminals. But
somehow bravado did not fit the Wolf. He was clearly a man of unusual
nerve, a criminal of simple, but utterly fearless type. But he was also
a man with only the strangling grip of the hangman’s rope to which to
look forward. Then why? He had invited arrest.
Fyles’ conclusion had been obvious from the first, in a man of cold
reason. He warned himself that the Wolf was confident in his defence.
He was certain of his own innocence.
Fyles stirred irritably. He turned from the window and stood up. Then
he began to pace the narrow limits of his room.
His conclusion drove him to a further consideration of the girl Annette
and of her evidence. He had done it all before, not once but many
times. With tireless concentration, however, he went over the ground
again as he strode to and fro.
He could see nothing unusual in her. He knew the type so well. There
were all too many Annettes amongst the bastard races of the prairie.
Beyond her beauty and youth she had nothing to recommend her. She was
just a foolish, headlong, half-breed wench, whose native treachery
had been brought to the surface the moment she had captured her white
lover. She was ready to betray anybody in the interests of the white
man who had promised to marry her. Her father--the Wolf, with whom she
had been raised--she would sacrifice everything in fact, so long as
Sinclair would----
Fyles ceased his perambulation. He halted abruptly and stood staring
out of the window. And staring thus his whole expression transformed.
Then came a grim smile.
Had Annette really captured her white man? Sinclair. Sinclair’s
weaknesses were well known to him. She had said Sinclair was going to
marry her. Sinclair! Was he?
Fyles moved to his door where his fur coat was hanging. Then in a
moment he was hurrying along the well-swept sidewalk in the direction
of the Orderly Room.
* * * * *
A shadow descended upon the grating which lit the guardroom cell. The
Wolf shot a quick glance of inquiry from where he sat on his wooden
bunk.
He could make out the black of a sheepskin coat beyond the grating,
that was all.
There was a clank of iron levers moving. Then the cell door opened, and
the Wolf discovered two figures beyond. He recognized Sergeant Fyles.
The other he knew to be the sergeant of the guard. It was Fyles who
spoke.
“I want you to come right along with me, Wolf,” he said. “And we can
have a yarn. Maybe you’ll feel glad to see daylight for awhile?”
Fyles’ tone had none of his official abruptness in it. And the Wolf
sprang from his hard seat without a moment’s hesitation.
“I certainly will, Sergeant,” he replied. “Say, I’m sick to death of
these wood walls and a light that ’ud depress a blind man. They haven’t
passed word to hang me yet? Can’t I be set where I ken see daylight an’
breathe air?”
Fyles studied the clean-cut features. And somehow what he saw there
made him glad he had come to the guardroom.
“I’m goin’ to do better for you while you’re here. Though I guess
you’ll soon be sent along to the city jail. I’ve permission for you to
come right across to my quarters where you and me can talk freely. If
you feel like giving your word to make no breaks you won’t be worried
with troublesome precautions. Feel that way?”
The Wolf’s smile broadened.
“You don’t have to worry, Sergeant,” he replied simply.
Fyles inclined his head and moved away. The Wolf was beside him.
And as they passed down the guardroom passage it needed no special
understanding to tell the prisoner that the man beside him had ample
means to his hand for his safeguarding.
But the Wolf had no intention of making any trouble; only was he
speculating. He was wondering what purpose the policeman had in the
unexpected invitation.
They passed from the guardroom into the biting winter air. The Wolf
breathed deeply. He drew great gusts of Nature’s purity into yearning
lungs. And as he did so his thought bridged the years.
His mind swept back to the old mountain life. That time when the whole
horizon of his budding manhood was bounded by the smile or frown of an
impish child whose best delight was his unceasing torment.
Fyles was watching him closely. And his watch was mainly that of the
student. But the Wolf wore impenetrable armor. Fyles had to content
himself with a picture of splendid manhood that betrayed not a sign of
the anxiety or fear which the hideous position confronting his prisoner
should have inspired.
They exchanged no word until Fyles’ quarters were reached. Then the
Wolf was quietly shepherded across to the neatly arranged bed-cot,
which occupied one end of the room across the whole length of the far
wall.
The prisoner submitted readily. He sat on the comparative luxury of the
neatly spread blankets and watched while Fyles possessed himself of the
chair at the desk. The Wolf realized that the other was seated directly
between him and the only exit from the room.
Fyles drew a packet of cheap cigarettes from his fur coat pocket.
“Have they taken your smoke?” he asked.
The Wolf eyed the packet hungrily. He nodded.
“Every darn thing.”
“Take these.” Fyles pitched the packet across to him. “Smoke all you
need.”
The Wolf flashed a look of gratitude.
“Say, Sergeant,” he cried, “that’s pretty swell of you. I’ll likely
remember till they hang me.”
The man’s fingers literally tore the packet open. The tobacco hunger
with which he thrust a cigarette into his mouth was pathetic. Fyles
sympathized.
“I’ve been nigh crazed for one o’ these,” the Wolf sighed. “May I have
a light?”
“Surely. It’s hell without smoke.”
Fyles passed the matches and waited. The Wolf took them hastily and
struck one. Then he watched his companion as he lit his cigarette.
“You’re going to need counsel in a while,” Fyles said presently.
The Wolf inhaled deeply. He breathed the tobacco smoke with intense
enjoyment. He repeated the operation before replying. Then he shook his
head.
“Guess I don’t need any attorney,” he said, with simple decision.
Fyles bestirred. His brows drew across his forehead. A spasm of
irritation sounded in his voice.
“But you got to have one. If you haven’t got counsel the Court will
appoint one for you.”
The Wolf seemed absorbed in the consumption of his cigarette. His eyes
were smiling down at it in the friendliest manner. But he saw the
policeman’s change of expression. He was alive to his tone.
“It don’t cut any ice, Sergeant,” he said, with a shake of the head.
Fyles glanced at his desk. He looked up at the window above it. He sat
thinking for some silent moments while the Wolf smoked furiously. Then
he turned to his prisoner again as the latter took a fresh cigarette
from the packet and lit it from the stump of his first.
“Do you get it all?” he asked quietly, but significantly. “It’s murder,
boy. It’s a straight case. I’ve never had a straighter. There’s a rope
lying around at the finish.”
The Wolf nodded and smiled pleasantly.
“An’ a boy to get busy with it.”
“Just so.”
Gazing across at the Wolf surrounded by a haze of tobacco smoke Fyles
thought of a stone wall. But he felt it to be a rather fine stone wall,
nothing crude or ugly. Somehow, he knew, he must get beyond it. The
man’s attitude was unaltered from that at the time of his arrest.
Fyles suddenly sat forward in his chair.
“I don’t think it’s quite filtered through yet, Wolf,” he said, using
his prisoner’s name for the first time. “If you go to the Court without
proper defence you’ll hang--sure as hell. We’re talking man to man
now. This is no third degree. I’m not trying to make you incriminate
yourself. It’s the reverse. There’s not a soul within earshot of us to
bear witness. So I want to tell you right here I don’t believe you shot
Sinclair. And I think I know who did!”
The stone wall was passed in one clean leap. It was not that the
Wolf moved a muscle of his body to indicate the home thrust. On the
contrary, he sat without movement beyond the process of smoking
heavily. But Fyles was watching his eyes. It was only momentary. It
flashed and was gone. It was not fear. Just a quick, anxious question.
That was all.
“And so do you,” Fyles added, after a pause.
But the stone wall was back in place again, and the policeman saw its
setting up. The Wolf turned from the man who was honestly trying to
befriend him.
The window came into his view. There was considerable movement going on
beyond it. A double bobsleigh was moving over the snow, with several
men in brown stable uniforms and woollen tuques in it. A bugle sounded.
It was “officers’” call. A small squad of men in single file were
passing along the sidewalk, armed with brooms and shovels.
“Say, Sergeant,” the Wolf said challengingly. “You’re wise to things.
They mostly ask a boy if he’s guilty or not guilty?”
“Sure.”
“If he says ‘guilty’?”
“A man can’t plead ‘guilty’ in a murder case. They enter his pleading
as ‘not guilty.’ The Crown must prove him guilty. What’s the big
notion?”
“Just nothin’.”
The Wolf went on smoking. It was his third cigarette.
“I said you know who shot Sinclair?” Fyles said. “Don’t forget, boy,
it’s a hanging. Hanging isn’t easy. Life’s mostly good while we got it.
It’s not worth a cent when we haven’t. Won’t you talk?”
The Wolf nodded.
“Talk? Sure, Sergeant,” he laughed. “Why I’m crazy to talk. Later maybe
I won’t be able to.”
His cigarette hung on his lower lip. The man was breathing its smoke
as though it were the sweetest thing in life. His eyes were alert and
flashing with good humor.
“You’re a swell feller, and I haven’t a thing on you, Sergeant,” the
Wolf went on amiably. “Not a thing. I can’t forget these smokes you
handed me. You’re white, anyway, which I wouldn’t say of all the
police. You see right here, I’m not a fool, though maybe you reckon me
crazy. I got things clear in my head. An’ the way I see things is the
way I mean ’em to go. Your hangin’ don’t worry me a thing. I could
buy all the defence I needed if I felt like it. But I’m not buyin’. If
the Court sets a boy to defend me it’s up to them. But he won’t get a
thing, nor a cent from me. You got a straight case. You never had a
straighter. Then push it thro’. An’, when the time comes I’ll be glad
fer that boy with the rope. I’ll thank him. When they hang me it’ll be
good an’ fixed who killed Sinclair.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Eh?”
The Wolf’s startled gaze leaped at the policeman’s face.
They sat eye to eye. It was a wordless duel. The sergeant’s smile
was grimly taunting. The Wolf’s study of him was a search capable of
reading desperately. Suddenly the latter’s head went back and his laugh
was cheerfully derisive.
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” he cried. “We ken just leave it that way.
But you ken hand your folks my last noise. It’s no use fer an attorney
boy to get around me. I haven’t use fer attorneys, anyway. An’ he’ll
just be breathing up what little air they leave a feller to use in a
prison cell.”
* * * * *
Superintendent Croisette was sitting back in his chair in the Orderly
Room. Sergeant Fyles was facing him, standing just beyond his
superior’s desk. They were alone for a confidential word which would
never be permitted to escape beyond the four walls surrounding them.
“It’s no use, sir, I’ve done my best,” Fyles jerked out in a
disgruntled tone. “The man won’t talk. He won’t plead. He means to go
straight to the rope, and--he’s innocent!”
“Innocent? You’re feeling sure as a result of your interview? Then he
must have talked--unconsciously?”
Fyles nodded abruptly. He liked dealing with this man who was always so
swift in the uptake.
“That’s just it, sir,” Fyles said sharply. “I guessed before. I’m sure
now. The Wolf never killed Sinclair. It was that half-breed wench. And
that crazy goat of a man intends to swing for a trollop that ought
to be flayed alive. I feel hot, sir. They got me fooled between ’em,
and it makes me sore. But that’s not the worst. I think that Wolf’s a
pretty fine man. Oh, I know he’s a crook. He’s a bootlegger. Maybe he’s
anything at all. But he’s a man. And if he dodges the gallows, one day
he’ll show he is.”
Superintendent Croisette smiled. Sergeant Fyles was his favorite
officer, and, in private, was distinctly privileged.
“It looks to me you’ve stirred a nasty mess for us.”
Fyles shook his head doggedly.
“No, sir. I think the police are going to get big credit out of this
yet, if things are the way I reckon them. That boy knows Annette
Estevan killed Sinclair. How I can’t say. But he does. It’s the whole
answer to everything. I told you ’bout his arrest. That beat me and set
me thinking. It was my only clue, and I couldn’t get it out of my fool
head. I watched him all through the girl’s story. And what I saw told
me how it was with him. That boy was near crazed to think she was to
have a baby by Sinclair. I’ve tried to work it out. And this is the way
I see him. He was raised with that girl and is crazy for her. She won’t
look at him. He’s the sort of fool kid that don’t reckon life worth a
thing without her.”
Croisette nodded.
“Now, sir, let’s look at her side. This is where I tripped. But I’m not
tripping now, if there’s a grain of savvy in my head. I know Sinclair.
You know something of him now, sir, too. That girl hit his trail, and
he fell for her. He outfitted her with a baby. She’s a Breed. He was
white. She means that baby to make him marry her. How? It’s easy with
a man like Sinclair. He’s crazy to pull Pideau and the Wolf. Well,
Annette can help him. And she’s a Breed. He promises to marry her if
she’ll show him that liquor cache and hasn’t a notion of carrying out
his promise. That’s Sinclair, where a woman’s concerned. She takes him
to the cache. But she’s wily. She talks that marriage there at the
cache. He puts her off. Maybe he laughs at her. Then she pulls one on
him, with the Wolf’s gun, and leaves the gun there.”
Croisette nodded again and his eyes were far gazing with thought.
“And the Wolf?” he asked.
“She put it on him to save her own skin.”
“You think the Wolf--saw?”
Fyles stood thinking for some moments.
“It’s difficult. Maybe he did, though, sir. I think he did. The way
he acts now makes me think so. He’s _certain_ in his mind she killed
Sinclair. And being the mad-headed fool he is, he’s crazy to save her
skin for her.”
“Though she’s done her best to hang him?”
Superintendent Croisette shook his head.
“No, Sergeant, I’m sorry. It’s a good story. And I’ll not say but
you may be right. But in my logic there’s not even a half-breed
girl so callous that she’d wilfully send the boy she was raised
with to the rope _knowing him innocent_. She believes him guilty,
which--automatically clears her.”