Foster did not know what Lawrence told Lucy, because he was occupied
for some time in his room. His lip was cut, his face was bruised, and
there was a lump on his head where he had struck the steps. After he
had attended to the injuries and frowned at his reflection in the
glass, he rang the bell, and asking for some paper took out his
fountain pen. It was not easy to write, but there was something to be
done that had better not be put off. He knew now what the gang was
capable of, and meant to leave a record, in case an accident of the
kind to which his comrade had nearly fallen a victim happened to him.
Moreover, it might be a safeguard to let his antagonists know that they
could not destroy his evidence if they took his life.
He related his adventures in Scotland, his pursuit of Daly, and his
surmises about the gang, and then going down, asked the hotel clerk to
witness his signature and put the document in the safe. After this, he
went to the veranda, where Lucy came to meet him with shining eyes.
"Jake," she said with emotion, "I felt we would be safe as soon as you
arrived. If you knew how I listened for the train and longed for your
step! But the wretch has hurt you; your face is bruised and cut."
Foster felt embarrassed, but laughed. "My face will soon recover its
usual charm, and if it's any comfort, the other fellow looks, and no
doubt feels, much worse." Then he turned to Lawrence, who sat near.
"You have evidently been telling Miss Stephen a highly-colored tale."
"Lucy!" she corrected him. "I'm not going to call you Mr. Foster.
You're our friend--mother's and mine---as well as Lawrence's." She
stopped and shuddered. "But you shall not make a joke of what you did!
What might have happened won't bear thinking of. If you hadn't come in
time!"
Foster, seeing her emotion, glanced at Mrs. Stephen, begging her to
interfere, but her strained look indicated that her feelings harmonized
with the girl's. Then Lawrence interposed with a grin--
"Jake always does come in time--that's one of his virtues. He's the
kind of man who's there when he's wanted. I don't know how he does it,
because he's not really clever."
"Lawrence," said Lucy severely, "sometimes you're not as humorous as
you think."
"Then I hope I'm tactful, because you're making poor Jake feel horribly
awkward. I believe he thought you wanted to kiss him and was very
nearly running away."
Lucy blushed and Lawrence resumed: "He can't deny it; Jake, you know
you would have run away! However, I knew what I was doing when I made
him my partner some time ago. Jake has a romantic imagination that now
and then leads him into trouble, but although it's perhaps as much luck
as genius, when he undertakes a thing he puts it over. For example,
there was the sawmill----"
Lucy stopped him with a gesture. "We are not going to talk about the
sawmill. It was your--I mean our--troubles Jake plunged into, and
pluck that can't be daunted is better than genius. But you're an
English Borderer and therefore half a Scot; you hate to let people
guess your feelings."
"Jake kens," said Lawrence, smiling. "Before very long you'll be a
Borderer, too."
Lucy's eyes were very soft as she turned to Foster. "Then I must adopt
their customs. I think they have a motto, 'Dinna' forget.'"
To Foster's relief, the hotel manager came in and looked at the two
ladies hesitatingly. Neither took the hint and Lucy said, rather
sharply, "Well?"
"Mr. Walters has come round and demands to be let out of his room.
Your man's there, Mr. Foster, and won't let him move."
"Pete's splendid!" said Lucy. "I haven't thanked him yet. Perhaps you
had better go, Lawrence, but take Jake."
Foster beckoned the manager and when they were outside asked: "When do
you expect the police?"
"Some time to-morrow."
"Then we must watch the fellow closely until they come."
They stopped at a room on the second floor, and the manager frowned
when he turned the handle of the door, which would not open.
"Wha's there the noo?" a sharp voice demanded.
Foster laughed as he answered, the door was opened, and they saw
Walters, who looked much the worse for the struggle, lying on a couch,
while Pete stood grimly on guard. Walters glanced at Foster.
"You're something of a surprise," he said. "We didn't expect much from
you."
"That's a mistake other people have made and regretted," Lawrence
remarked.
"Well," said Walters, "I demand to be let out."
Foster shook his head. "I think not. The room is comfortable, and you
won't be here long."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Hand you to the police."
"On what ground?"
"Attempted murder, to begin with," said Foster dryly.
Walters turned to the manager. "A man can't be arrested without a
warrant. I guess you understand you're making trouble for yourself by
permitting these fellows to lock me in."
"I don't know if it's quite legal or not," Foster admitted, addressing
the manager, who looked irresolute. "Anyhow, you're not responsible,
because we're going to take the matter out of your hands. Besides, you
haven't much of a staff just now and couldn't interfere."
"In a way, that's so," the manager doubtfully agreed. "I don't want a
disturbance in my hotel; I've had enough."
"Very well," said Walters, seeing he could expect no help from him.
"But I'm not going to have this wooden-faced Scotchman in my room. The
fool won't let me move. If you don't take him away, I'll break the
furniture. I can do that, although I'm not able to throw the big brute
out."
Foster walked to the window, which he opened. It was some distance
from the ground and there was nothing that would be a help in climbing
down. Besides, Walters did not look capable of trying to escape.
"We'll take him away," he said, and beckoning Pete and the manager,
went out. He locked the door on the other side and resumed: "Send up a
comfortable chair, a blanket, and a packet of tobacco. If there's any
trouble, you can state that you acted on compulsion and we'll support
you, but I rather think you can seize and hold a criminal when you
catch him in the act. Stop here until I relieve you, Pete."
Pete nodded and the others went to the dining-room. After dinner,
Foster took his turn on watch, but by and by Pete reappeared, holding
the page by the arm. He signed to Foster, who went down the passage to
meet him.
"I thought I'd maybe better tak' a look roon the back o' the hoose and
found the laddie aneath the window. He had a bit paper in his hand."
Foster told him to watch Walters' door, and frowned at the lad.
"I reckon you'd sooner keep out of jail."
"Sure," said the lad, with an effort at carelessness; "I'm not going to
get in."
"Well," said Foster grimly, "you're taking steep chances just now. The
police will be here to-morrow and there'll be trouble if they know you
tried to help their prisoner escape. Where's the telegram he threw you
down?"
"It wasn't a telegram."
"A letter's just as bad. The wisest thing you can do is to give it me."
The lad hesitated, but let him have the crumpled envelope. "I was to
give it one of the train hands when the next freight stops for water."
Foster opened the envelope, which was addressed to Telford at the
mining town. The letter was written guardedly, but after studying it
with knitted brows he thought he understood its purport.
"How much were you to get for sending this?" he asked.
"Mr. Walters threw me three dollars. I allow I'd have to give
something to the brakesman."
"After all, I don't see why you shouldn't deliver the thing," Foster
said thoughtfully. "That means you can keep the money, but as the
brakesman's not allowed to carry letters, he'll probably want a dollar.
Wait until I get a new envelope."
The boy went off, looking relieved, and Foster returned to his chair at
Walters' door. On the whole, he thought he would hear something of the
gang on the morrow, and if his suspicions were correct, looked forward
to an interesting meeting. Telford had been asked for help, which he
would try to send. The west-bound freight had not passed yet, and if
it came soon, should reach the mining town early in the morning.
Foster lighted his pipe, wrapped the blanket round his legs, and opened
a book he had brought.
Next day two policemen arrived in a light wagon and took Walters away.
Lawrence was compelled to go with them, and although but little
disturbance was made, Foster imagined all the occupants of the hotel
knew about the matter. He had ground for regretting this, and kept a
close watch on the page whose duties were light just then, which
enabled him to wander about the building and see what was going on. He
expected to hear something when the train from the coast arrived, but
took care to be about when the express from Montreal was due. He had a
suspicion that Daly had gone up the line.
The west-bound train came first, and Foster, who had sent Pete to the
station, sat in the veranda, where he could see anybody who entered the
hotel. The train stopped and went on again, but nobody came up the
road, and after a time Pete returned. Three passengers had got down,
but they looked like bush ranchers and had taken the trail to a
settlement some distance off. Pete, however, did not know Daly, and
Foster was not satisfied. He thought the fellow might have bought a
cheap skin coat such as the bush ranchers wore. Going out, he walked
through the wood that grew close up to the back of the building. After
all, Daly might try to find out something from one of the servants
before coming to the front entrance.
The sun had sunk behind the range and the light was dim among the
pines. The air was keen and a bitter wind that came down the valley in
gusts rustled the masses of heavy needles, while the roar of the river
throbbed among the stately trunks. This was in Foster's favor, because
he had to make his way between fallen branches and through thick
undergrowth, and wanted to do so without being heard. He was a good
hunter and bushman, and did not think there was much risk of his being
seen.
For a time he heard nothing suspicious and began to feel keen
disappointment. He had hoped that Walters' message would bring Daly to
his rescue, but it looked as if it had not done so. Then, as he stood
nearly breast-high among dry brush and withered fern, he heard a faint
noise. Not far off, a narrow trail led through the trees to the back
of the hotel. Standing quite still, he searched the wood with narrowed
eyes.
It was shadowy all around him, but where the trees grew farther apart
their tall straight trunks cut against the glimmer of the snow. The
noise had stopped, but he could see anybody who crossed the nearest
opening, and waited, tense and highly-strung. Then he heard steps
coming from the hotel, and an indistinct object emerged from the gloom.
It was a man, taking some care to move quietly. When he got nearer,
Foster, knowing there was dark brush behind him, thrust his arm into
the fern and made it rustle as a gust of wind swept the wood.
The man, who wore an old skin coat, stopped and looked round, and
Foster saw his face. It was Daly, and he seemed uncertain if the wind
had made the noise or not. After standing motionless for a few
moments, he took out his watch, and then moved on again as softly as he
could.
The meaning of this was plain. Daly had learned that Walters had been
taken away by the police and had concluded that Lawrence meant to
fight. As it was too late to interfere, he meant to make his escape.
Foster resolved to prevent this if he could, but Daly had the advantage
of an open trail, while he was entangled in the brush. He crept out
and pushed through the wood as fast and silently as possible, but when
looking for a way round a thicket caught his foot and fell among some
rotten branches with a crash. He got up, growling at the accident, for
there was no use in following the other after this, although he did not
feel beaten yet. Daly no doubt hoped to get away by the Montreal
express, but would hide in the bush until the last moment.
Foster went back to the hotel for Pete, and leaving a note for
Lawrence, dressed for a journey and took the road to the station. On
reaching a bend, however, he plunged into the wood and made his way to
the line, beside which he and Pete crept in the gloom of the trees, and
only came into the open for a few yards near the agent's shack. Here
they sat down behind a big water tank and Foster felt satisfied. If
they had reached the station without being noticed, they would find
Daly when he got on board the train, and if he had seen them, they had
cut off his best chance of escape.
It was nearly dark and very cold, but Foster was glad the train was
late. By and by he got up and lighted his pipe, though he was careful
how he held the match. If Daly was hiding near, he did not want the
fellow to see his face, but the latter would not expect anybody who
might be on his track to smoke. Strolling carelessly round to the
front of the shack, Foster opened the door and asked the agent: "Are
you going to stop the east-bound?"
"I am," said the other. "Got a wire to hold her up."
"Ah," said Foster. "I expect we can get tickets on board, but if you
don't mind, we'll wait in here. It's freezing pretty fierce."
He imagined that Telford or another of the gang had sent the telegram,
and sat down when Pete came in. He heard the wind among the pines and
the humming of the telegraph wires, but for a time this was all. Then
a faint throbbing came up the valley and got louder until he could
distinguish the snorting of a locomotive.
The snorting stopped, a bell began to toll, and with lights flashing
the cars rolled past the shack. Foster waited a moment or two,
standing at the window, and then as the conductor called "All aboard"
saw a man run along the line and jump on to the step of the end car.
Then, beckoning Pete, he dashed out and got on board as the train began
to move.
It was with a thrill of triumph he sat down in a corner as the cars
gathered speed. They would not stop for some time and the game was in
his hands at last. The long chase was ended; he had run Daly down.