INDIAN OR POLICEMAN?
The tang of the northern evening drifted through the open door of the
shack, within which the contractor lounged in his big arm chair,
smoking hard but thinking harder. Near the table, bending to let the
full light from window and door fall on her work, Tressa stitched at a
rip in a disreputable old vest of her father's.
The days were getting noticeably shorter, and the advance breath of the
long, tight winter was beginning to add a new snap to the air. The
noises of the camp drifted up over the grade fitfully, dreamily; some
new hunger that might have been called homesickness was urging a new
tone into the evening sounds.
Torrance, the stability of his work assured, imagined that he was
supremely happy. But life had lost a fraction of its zip, though he
refused to acknowledge it.
But Tressa knew it. Idleness was worse than medicine to her father,
and for days he had been fuming with impatience for the opening of the
last operation, more than a little irritable. She knew it as she
watched the smoke breathe more slowly from his lips and the pipe grow
cold. Presently, without opening his eyes, he dropped the pipe on the
table and nestled his head against the cushion. Tressa smiled, for she
was happier than her father--and Adrian would be up shortly.
She heard the familiar whistle break out far down the sloping path
beyond the grade. Higher and higher it mounted, and with hand held she
listened with smiling eyes. She would keep on with her mending as if
she had not heard; and the whistle would grow more impatient as it
approached, calling her to reply.
Now he was half way up the slope--now only a few yards beyond the
grade. She grabbed her mending and began to work industriously. Now
he was on the grade--he would see her sitting there working as if she
had forgotten there was an Adrian Conrad.
But just then the whistle ceased abruptly. That was not part of the
formula, but she would not raise her eyes; he would break out in a
moment more impatiently than ever, and she would look up as if she had
just heard--
She looked up sooner than she reckoned, for the silence continued. Yet
she anticipated only by a second Conrad's flying entrance, his face
tense with a sudden alarm. Without a word he seized the rifle from its
rack beside the door and dashed to the kitchen. Torrance blinked
himself awake at the scurry.
"Wha-at-what--"
Conrad turned in the kitchen doorway and pressed finger to lip. They
found him kneeling on the floor beside the kitchen window, the rifle
pointing over the sill past the side of the stable.
Torrance, still blinking with sleep, looked along the rifle barrel.
For several seconds he could see nothing but the dead grey grass. Then
a dim movement focussed his eyes. A hundred yards away the Indian was
creeping toward them.
At intervals the redskin raised his head to peer across the grade. Not
until he was close to the stable did he appear to notice the three
watchers, then he lifted a hand and disappeared behind the stable. As
he wormed his way to cover Torrance spoke eagerly.
"Let him have it, Adrian. I've always had my suspicions. It's some
devilish trick or he wouldn't sneak up that way. Soon as he saw us he
scrambled to cover. Watch for him around the other side."
But Conrad shook his head and pushed aside Torrance's extended hand;
but he did not lower the rifle.
The Indian came round the other side of the stable, as Torrance had
predicted, but there was no attempt at secrecy, except that he
continued to hug the ground. Torrance grunted. Tressa sighed. Conrad
lowered the rifle. The Indian crawled over the back step and lifted
himself to his feet. Torrance forgot every suspicion before that smile.
"You got a nerve taking a chance like that, Big Chief. If I'd 'a' had
the gun you'd 'a' got your blanket full."
The Indian looked significantly at Conrad and shrugged his shoulders.
"Him no shoot Indian."
"You're too blamed sure," replied the contractor pettishly. "What's
all the fuss about, anyway?"
"Bad paleface mebbe see." The Indian pointed toward the camp.
"Not likely! We could hardly see you ourselves. You better drop a
postcard next time. I was just in the middle of a dream that the
trestle was done and I was cashing the check in Winnipeg in
thousand-dollar bills, after polishing off a few bohunks for a real
bang-up finale. Then in booms Conrad here and grabs the rifle, and I
wake up with the feeling them bohunks are doing the polishing on me. I
was mighty near scared. By the way, we wanted you. The Police want
you to identify the bohunks in that gang the other night that tried to
blow up the trestle. If you'll come down to the camp with me and pick
'em out--"
"No good." The Indian shook his head. "You shoot. No save bridge
that way. Others blow up. Job never done."
Torrance's admiration showed in his grin. "That's thinking, Big Chief.
Of course the Police don't give a cuss about the trestle, if they can
get some one to hang." His face sobered. "Just the same, when this
thing's off my hands and there's nothing to blow up but a pile of dirt,
I'm going through the camp with an arsenal on me, and I'll splash blood
over the ugly place till it looks like a Chicago beef-cannery. It
would save transportation expenses, too. When the last shovel's dumped
and the Police gone home to supper I'm going to boil over and roast a
dozen bohunks alive--"
"Daddy!" chided Tressa. "He'll believe you."
"Think so?" asked Torrance delightedly. "Then here goes: Say, I'll eat
my last breakfast of bohunk livers, seasoned with bohunk brains--if
there are any--and as an appetiser, bohunk tongues steeped in--"
"Heap big talk," broke in the Indian wearily.
"And that," snorted Torrance, "just about puts the blinkers on that.
Even strangers don't believe me. But you put before me bohunk hearts
stuffed with bohunk sweetbreads--"
The Indian turned up his eyes in disgust. Torrance chuckled.
"He knows the belly-ache it would give a fellow, and I bet he's et more
men for breakfast than I ever dreamed of murdering. If your appetite's
up to it, Big Chief, take a mouthful of that thug living up on the bank
above the camp. He's got all the pizen of Russia in him, flavoured
with the rankest sauces of Europe."
The Indian waited.
"Shouldn't wonder," ventured the contractor, "if he's got something in
his system."
"If you'll let him get in a word edgeways," laughed Tressa.
"That's the way all yours get in," grumbled her father.
"Bohunk have big plans," grunted the Indian.
"We know that, but what's eating us is what they are."
"Indian find out."
"Then you'll do more than a squad of Police. But what's the charge?"
He eyed the Indian with suspicion. "They're laying for you, you know."
The Indian smiled scornfully.
"That shows you know the bohunk, friend. Because there's really no
need to be afraid if they're afraid of you. It's the nature of the
beasts. In three or four days I'll take the starch out of them by hard
work, but in the meantime you can help us a lot--and earn enough
cartwheels for yourself to keep you in fire-water the rest of your
days. Look here"--he smiled magnanimously--"for every bohunk you give
me an excuse to hang there's a dollar for you. That's five hundred
dollars--and it's yours with my blessing."
"Aren't you extravagant?" asked Tressa slyly.
He regarded his daughter with an injured expression. "You take all the
pleasure from my bargains, Tressa. Make it three dollars a day, Big
Chief. It sort of makes a man reckless to have his own detective
force."
The Indian waited patiently until the torrent of talk ceased.
"Indian take no pay," he said stolidly.
The contractor rubbed his chin. "What's the big idea? That's plumb
crazy--it ain't human nature. I had an Indian working for me once--and
come to think of it, it didn't take us long to strike much the same
bargain--and he was the best man I ever had working for me. If there's
a tribe like you and him, I'll engage the whole caboose on the spot--at
the same price. And I'll give you the sweetest job an Indian ever had
since the North-West Rebellion. All you need do is surround that mess
of huts down there, make a noise like an apple pie, and shoot
everything that comes out to take a bite--that is, after the trestle's
done. If you can handle a spade and crowbar, and live on dessicated
sawdust and tinned whale, you can take the shooting job on instanter.
There's a good two weeks' work for you afterwards. Only start on
Koppy. Eh, how's it look to you?"
"No pay Indian," repeated the Indian.
"There's a sting in the tail somewhere," Torrance muttered to his
foreman. "Either he wants my calabash pipe, or he plans to land his
whole family of papooses on my breakfast table while he's on the job.
And their annual bath may be eleven months back. Go on, Chief, what's
the answer?"
"Indian no work with P'lice."
"I don't ask you to--I don't want you to."
"Call off P'lice, then Indian find out everything."
"Mm-m! So that's the cue?" He turned his back to look meaningly at
Conrad. "You want the Police called off, eh?"
"Indian no can work with P'lice."
The redskin went through exaggerated motions of peering about, his
moccasins scraping noisily on the floor. Torrance began to understand.
"I see. The Police give the show away by snooping too much?"
"P'lice lookin'--bohunk good," grunted the Indian. "Nothin' doin'.
Indian watchin'--bohunk not know."
"If I could I'd do what you want, but I'm not the Commissioner. Just
the same, I'll put it to them. If they bother you, truss 'em up--only
don't say I advised it, or leave me your widow to look after. By the
way, where is she? Tressa wants to talk the latest prairie styles with
her, and how to cure freckles. But come on into the sitting room and
be comfortable."
He started for the front room, pushing the others ahead of him.
Turning at the door to throw another banter at his guest, he faced an
empty kitchen.
"By gad! There he goes again!" He went into the sitting room and sat
down with a loud sigh. "That fellow can't even leave like a civilised
being, and he don't come like one. He gets on my nerves. I don't know
whether it's best to go down with the trestle with a knife in my
gizzard, or to die of that spooky feeling nobody's ever invented a
patent medicine for since Peruna."
Sergeant Mahon heard the Indian's curious demand with a calmness that
surprised even himself. As for Torrance, he was completely bewildered.
"I suppose it sounded fishy to you," Mahon reflected. "I don't quite
understand why it doesn't to me--except that we've found no reason yet
to suspect him. . . . Wish I could talk with him."
"You kick around here for a day or two; he's sure to turn up down the
chimney or through the keyhole."
Mahon shook his head. "He doesn't want to talk to the Police. It
doesn't necessarily imply guilt in an Indian. He's watching us as
closely as he is the bohunks. I'll wager he knows I'm here now. The
Indians never liked the Police--like a boy under his dad's eye. I
guess they know they've given us our hardest jobs. You should hear
Inspector Barker's stories." He strolled to the door and looked over
the river. "He's been guarding the trestle better than any of us," he
mused.
Suddenly he swung about.
"Tell him he's got a clear course, unless something big threatens. I
don't seem to be on the right track. We're only crossing and mussing
trails by working separately. . . . If he won't work with me--tell him
I'm trusting him."