THE
LONE TRAIL
BY
LUKE ALLAN
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
3 YORK STREET LONDON SW.1
A
HERBERT
JENKINS'
BOOK
Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London
CONTENTS
I. THE MURDER AT THE T-INVERTED R
II. MORTON STAMFORD: TENDERFOOT
III. CORPORAL FAIRCLOTH ARRIVES
IV. THE SHOTS FROM THE BUSHES
V. DAKOTA RUNS AMOK
VI. STAMFORD MAKES A DECISION
VII. AT THE H-LAZY Z
VIII. A LAMB AMONG THE LIONS
IX. COCKNEY'S MYSTERIOUS RIDE
X. STAMFORD'S SURPRISES COMMENCE
XI. THE FOSSIL-HUNTERS
XII. STAMFORD GOES FOSSIL-HUNTING
XIII. THE CONSPIRACY
XIV. RIDERS OF THE NIGHT
XV. ONE MYSTERY LESS
XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE MOONLIGHT
XVII. THE HOWL OF STRANGE DOGS
XVIII. A CATCH OF MORE THAN FISH
XIX. TWO PAIRS
XX. THE SECRET VALLEY
XXI. THE RAFT IN THE CANYON
XXII. PINK EYE AND THE ENGLISH SADDLE
XXIII. PREPARATIONS TO FLIT
XXIV. THE FIGHT IN THE RANCH-HOUSE
XXV. COCKNEY'S STORY
XXVI. THE CHASE AMONG THE CLIFFS
XXVII. THE BATTLE OF THE CLIFFS
THE LONE TRAIL
CHAPTER I
THE MURDER AT THE T-INVERTED R
Inspector Barker, of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, raised his
frowning eyes from the weekly report he was scrawling, to watch
absent-mindedly the arrival of the Calgary express as it roared out
from the arches of the South Saskatchewan bridge and pulled up at the
station.
It was a morning ritual of the Inspector's. Three hundred and
sixty-five days of the year, relatively at the same hour--if Rocky
Mountain slides, foothill floods, and prairie snowstorms
permitted--the same train broke in on the mid-forenoon dullness of
the "cow-town" of Medicine Hat; and the same pair of official eyes
followed it dully but with the determination of established
convention, clinging to it off and on during its twenty minutes' stop
for a fresh engine and supplies to carry it on its four days' run
eastward.
But on Mondays the transcontinental was favoured with a more
concentrated attention. On that morning Inspector Barker prepared
his weekly report. A pile of letters and staff reports scattered his
desk; a smaller pile, the morning's mail, was within reach of his
left hand. His right clumsily clutched a fountain pen. Thirty years
of strenuous Mounted Police duties, from Constable to Inspector,
during a period when Indians, rustlers, cattle-thieves, and the scum
of Europe and Eastern Canada, were held to a semblance of order only
by the stern hand of the "red-coats," had robbed his chirography of
any legibility it ever possessed.
His iron-grey hair was rumpled by frequent delvings of his left hand,
and the left needle of his waxed moustache was sadly out of line.
His tunic was open--he never removed it when on duty--more in
capitulation to mental than to physical discomfort, though Medicine
Hat can startle more records in July than in the depth of winter,
cold-blooded official reports to the contrary notwithstanding. His
pipe lay cold beside the half-spilled tobacco pouch that always
adorned the corner of his blotting pad.
Over on the station platform before his window the crowd thinned. A
man ran along the top of the cars with a hose, thrusting it into a
tiny trap-door, flicking up a slide in the nozzle, holding it a
moment till the tanks below filled, flicking the slide down again,
and then on to the next-trap door. A butcher's boy with a heavy
basket on his arm scrambled down Main Street, crossed the track, and
galloped with shuffling feet along the platform to the diner. The
conductor drew his watch, examined it critically, raised his hand,
and the fresh engine started noisily for its relief at the next
divisional point, Swift Current.
Any morning that the Inspector was on duty the arrival of the Calgary
express produced a similar scene in and out of the Police
barracks--except a few of the trimmings indicative of mental
irritation; any _Monday_ morning you would find trimmings and all.
Yet throughout the tangle of that summer's special Police task
Inspector Barker's mind reverted in his moments of leisure to the
passing of an innocent daily train.
He was lowering his eyes reluctantly to the completion of his weekly
irritation, when the desk telephone rang sharply, peremptorily. He
jerked it to him.
"Yes, yes!"
"I'm sorry, sir, to have to report----"
"Drop the palaver, Faircloth!" snapped the Inspector. "I take that
for granted."
"A murder was----"
"Hold on, hold on! Hold the line a minute!"
The Inspector dropped the receiver, scrawled an illegible but
well-known "Barker, Inspector," at the bottom of the sheet before
him, jammed it into an envelope and sealed it. At least he would
have a week of freedom for the task implied by Corporal Faircloth's
interrupted disclosure.
"Now!" he shouted into the telephone, one hand instinctively
buttoning his tunic to more official formality.
Faircloth restarted:
"Last night, shortly after midnight, at the T-Inverted R----"
"Bite it off, for Heaven's sake!" broke in the Inspector. "Who, and
how, and by whom?"
"Billy Windover--shot--cattle-thieves!" the Corporal chipped off.
For just the fraction of a second Inspector Barker waited. Then:
"Well? Nothing more?"
The Division knew that tone.
"Two hours before we were informed," apologised the Corporal.
"Trouble on the telephone line. Followed the trail--they got the
cattle as well--till lost it in fresh tracks of the round-ups."
The Inspector laughed shortly.
"Did you expect a paper-chase trail?"
The Corporal made no reply. Usually it took him a sentence or two to
remember the Inspector's impatience, but for the particular interview
concerned he observed the training well when he did recall it.
"Why didn't you telephone right away? Why did you give the trail up?
Oh, damn it, wait!"
For a moment or two the only sound in the barracks office was the
buzzing of the flits on the dirty window glass. Thereafter he was
himself.
"Any strangers seen out there in the last couple of days? Any
cowboys off their beats?"
"No time yet to enquire, sir."
"Get Aspee and Hughes out immediately. Did the tracks lead toward
the Cypress Hills?"
"No, sir."
"Hm-m-m!"
"A bit north-east--far as we could follow."
The Inspector paused. "What's your plan?"
"Going to scurry round--to look for the cattle."
It came with just a suggestion of defiance, as if the speaker were a
little ashamed of the sound of it but was prepared to defend it. The
Inspector laughed.
"God bless you!" he mocked. "How did you think of it?"
"The very cattle themselves," Faircloth persisted. "It happens----"
The Inspector's laugh became less pleasant. "And you think----"
"Pardon, sir; but it isn't quite as silly as it sounds. I know this
particular herd almost as well as their own punchers--and I think I
know something of brands."
"Lad, your optimism is contagious--but this dairy-maid tracking is
such a new stunt in the Force. When you come across Co-Bossie and
Spot give them my compliments and ask them to drop in some
afternoon----"
He sickened of his own banter.
"Get Aspee and Hughes out immediately," he rasped. "Remain yourself
within reach of the phone for fifteen minutes. I'll have a campaign
then.... Do you happen to recall that this is the third case of
cattle-stealing in your district in a month? ... By the way, know
anything about dogs--tracking dogs? I expect a couple of rippers
from down East in a day or two. I'll get them out to you. See what
you've let the Force sink to! Now hustle!"
He slammed the receiver into its place and sank back in his chair,
chin resting on breast. A constable, receiving no reply to his
knock, opened the back door softly--and closed it again more softly.
He knew that attitude of his chief.