"My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time--
To let the punishment fit the crime;
The punishment fit the crime."
--_The Mikado_
The three rustlers were tried at the following Criminal Assizes held
about two months later.
Fisk, obtaining money from some unknown source, was the only one of the
trio represented by counsel, retaining that eminent criminal
lawyer--Denis Ryan--to defend him. Robbins' craven heart failing him at
the eleventh hour, he pleaded guilty to all charges, and threw himself
unreservedly upon the mercy of the Court. Shorty, actuated more by
motives of spite against Big George, whom he still firmly believed to
have betrayed him, entered a similar plea. Brooding over his former
accomplice's imaginary perfidy during his past two months in the
guardroom awaiting trial, the one thought--to "get even" with his
enemy--had gradually become an obsession, which finally culminated in a
deliberate intention to reverse his original plea on arraignment.
These two totally unexpected occurrences combined to render Fisk's case
hopeless. His counsel, with characteristic ability, put up a brilliant
and spirited defense for his huge, ill-favored client; but it was a
forlorn hope, and he knew it long before the jury returned with their
verdict of "Guilty."
One of the most decisive factors in the case had been the evidence of
the old Indian--"Roll-in-the-Mud"--who, examined through an interpreter,
stated that Fisk had approached him with an offer of a five-dollar bill
and one of Tucker's best colts, in return for his help in driving the
bunch of horses at night up the difficult bush trail in the Ghost River
district.
Sentence in each case was deferred until three days later, when the
prisoners were taken to court again. Big George and Shorty, whose
previous criminal records told heavily against them, were very severely
dealt with by a judge whose lack of sympathy with stock rustlers was
proverbial. The former, proven to be the ringleader and instigator of
the crimes, received a sentence of ten years' penal servitude; the
latter, seven. Scotty, being that it was, as far as could be
ascertained, his first offense, and who, furthermore, was adjudged to
have been the tool of Fisk and Shorty, drew the comparatively lenient
sentence of four years.
The two first named took the announcement of their punishment with the
silent, dogged indifference of men to whom durance vile was no new
thing; but Scotty burst out into loud lamentations and weeping as the
prisoners were quickly ushered downstairs to the court cells underneath.
Filled with pardonable elation at the successful termination of his
cases, Benton left the courthouse and leisurely betook his way back to
the Post. All the genial _bonhomie_ that his many-sided nature could
command now asserted itself, and he strolled along, humming a cheery
lilt, his heart merry within him. Still in this enviable frame of mind,
he departed later in the day for his detachment.
That night, standing on a corner of the main street in Sabbano, idly
smoking and watching the faint reflection of a far-distant prairie fire,
he heard himself hailed and, turning, greeted a man who sauntered slowly
across the street to him with a familiarity that bespoke long
acquaintance.
"Hello, Charley," he said. "What's blown _you_ into this jerkwater
burg?"
The other struck a match and relit his cigar before replying, disclosing
a gaunt, lined, intellectual face with a grim mouth, which was somewhat
accentuated by a close-cropped, grizzled military mustache.
"Case," he answered laconically. "Say, Ellis, where's Churchill? He's
stationed here, isn't he?"
Benton nodded. "Yes," he said; "but he's been in the Post, now, for
three days--waitin' for a case of his to come off at Supreme Court. He
was there when I came away this afternoon. Why? What d'you want _him_
for?"
"M-m! Oh, nothing in particular," his companion mumbled. "Just wondered
where he was, that's all."
The newcomer deserves a more especial mention, for his history was a
sad, though not an uncommon one. Charles Musgrave, M.D., had begun life
as a clever young house-surgeon attached to a famous London hospital.
Possessing extraordinary daring ability, inspired by a genuine love for
his profession, he gradually obtained a reputation that caused him to be
regarded as one of the foremost exponents of surgery of his day. Then it
was--unluckily for him--at the zenith of his fame, that he became
enamored of lovely Blanche Farrel--then a nurse in St. John's Hospital.
It was the old, time-worn, sordid story that the world is aweary of--his
wife's education and morality proved to be inferior to her beauty. After
enduring two soul-wracking years of jealousy and humiliation as the
result of the unfortunate misalliance that he had contracted, he
obtained a divorce, and, abandoning his career, went to South Africa,
where he strove to efface the bitter memories of his past misery amidst
the vast whirlpool of cosmopolitan adventurers that thronged the Rand.
Still retaining the skill and love of his profession that had once
created him a power amongst his fellow-men, he rapidly acquired an
immense practise in Johannesburg. This, coupled with various lucky
mining speculations, enabled him in a few years to amass a considerable
fortune which, alas, was doomed, however, to be swept away, along with
thousands of others, at the commencement of the great war. Declining,
then, the offer of an important position at the Wynberg base-hospital,
he became the principal medical officer of the Irregular Horse, which
Ellis had joined--composed mainly of his fellow-refugees of the Rand.
Possessing much personal bravery, he served throughout the war with
great gallantry, exhibiting on many occasions such an utter disregard
for his own life whilst attending wounded men under fire, that
frequently caused him to be mentioned in despatches.
The climax of that long-protracted, bitter struggle, leaving him an
impoverished man once more, he forsook the country that had engulfed his
second fortune and prospects. Still resolutely turning his face away
from England, he came to Western Canada, where his ability in his
profession speedily raised him again in the medical world. Here, working
hard and drinking obstinately, he led an existence which, if it was not
commendable, was only in accord with that of many others whom Fate and
the vicissitudes of life have entreated thus unkindly.
Most men can, and invariably do, recover from the first benumbing
effects of misfortune, but--they cannot _forget_. In appearance the
doctor was a rather distinguished-looking man, tall and
powerfully-built, with closely cropped iron-gray hair, and a complexion
that was bronzed and roughened by years of exposure to a tropical sun.
That worn, haggard face of his, though, told a real tale. The furrows
there had been plowed by an enduring bitterness, and though only in his
forty-fifth year, he looked considerably older.
Exchanging a few desultory remarks, they strolled on down the sidewalk
and, passing the station, drew near to the last of the scattered houses.
During their progress Ellis had been aware of light footsteps following
them and, glancing back once or twice, had noticed a woman approaching.
Soon she caught up to them and, thinking that she was about to pass, he
drew in close to Musgrave to give her room to get by. Presently she came
alongside and, to his utter surprise, a sweet, girlish voice said,
coaxingly:
"Why, hello, Church'; coming in?" And a hand caught his that hung at his
side and gave it a gentle squeeze.
They were just within the glare of one of the few street lamps that the
ill-lighted little town boasted, and opposite the gate of the end
cottage. He beheld a girl, whose age he might have computed at anything
between eighteen and twenty-five--tall, and voluptuously formed, with
thick masses of dark hair that curled in little wavy tendrils around a
broad, low, white forehead with level brows. Her complexion still
retained the soft bloom of that of a healthy country girl, and a pair of
bewitching dark-brown eyes flashed into his with a fluttering
self-consciousness that told him many things.
Musgrave took a step or two forward and, turning, contemplated the scene
with lazy curiosity, not unmixed with amusement. Sheer astonishment tied
Benton's tongue for an instant, then:
"Sorry, sister," he said gravely. "Guess you've got the wrong number.
Better ring up again."
The girl uttered a little gasping giggle of surprise.
"Oh," she said. "I thought you were the _other_ policeman."
She fidgeted a little at his silent regard and clicked the gate open,
continuing:
"Well--you look a pretty nice boy!"
But the words, though light and brazen in themselves, rang false, and
betrayed the novice. She began to flinch under the steady stare of those
calm, watchful, passionless eyes and, returning his look with a slight
air of defiance, twisted and untwisted her gloves with a little nervous
laugh.
Ellis hesitated. He was no Joseph--this was Churchill's district, and
_his_ look-out, was his first impulsive reflection. But
something--something that was, perhaps, _childish_, in the girl's great
dark eyes and winsome face, in which there still remained a trace of her
lost innocence and her self-conscious voice and manner, held him awhile
longer, motionless.
And, as the man continued to stand there with bent head, curiously
still, as if carved in stone, just looking--and _looking_--in deep,
thoughtful silence at the wanton young beauty who sought to tempt him,
the filmy, transparent outlines of _another_ face, it seemed to him,
rose up alongside hers.
The sweetly grave, spiritual face of a girl, long since dead, whose love
had once been his--the very incarnation of womanly purity.
"Yes," he mused, "that was it--that was it begad! it was the _eyes_ ...
they were very, very like poor Eileen's."
Presently he cleared his throat and began to speak.
"See here; look, Mandy," he said soberly. "If I was doing my duty
properly I should just take you down to the police station, lock you up,
an' put a charge against you that a certain section of the Criminal Code
prescribes for your offense. D'you get me?"
She shivered and paled a little, and her great eyes opened wide as she
searched his face beseechingly, as if trying to discern whether he was
in earnest. There was no banter in his tones, so she came closer and,
catching his hand again, looked into his face with a forlorn sort of
smile that was at once both roguish and pitiful.
"D'you mean that, or are you on'y just foolin', Policeman?" she
implored. "You wouldn't arrest me, would you?"
The Sergeant contemplated her thoughtfully. And a great pity arose in
him, for the fingers that clasped his own were deadly cold, and the
cheap finery that she was clad in was but a miserable protection against
the chilly wind that had sprung up.
"Now listen," he said. "_You_ haven't been in business long, my girl.
You can't fool me. Quit it, kid, before you get in _real_ wrong. Get
back to th' farm again."
She stared at him with open-eyed astonishment.
"Why!" she gasped, "who told you I come from a farm?"
He laughed quietly. "Just a sayin' sister," he said. "Seems I wasn't far
out, eh? Where _do_ you come from, then?"
But her lips only trembled and closed tightly, as she regarded him now
steadfastly, in dogged silence.
"Now, see here; look," Ellis went on slowly. "If it's because you're up
against it an' want money, why--" He drew out a five-dollar bill from
his pocket and closed her fingers gently over it.
The kind ring in his voice unnerved her. She looked at him vaguely for a
few seconds with heaving bosom and glistening, tear-filled eyes, then
suddenly burst out into passionate sobbing.
"Oh!" she wailed between the convulsive spasms of emotion that shook
her. "Oh, my God! D'you think I'd be doin' this if we didn't! No, no!
Oh, dear!"
The Sergeant's brows contracted with a sudden, sharp, lowering glance.
"Who's _we_?" he inquired with significant interest.
With a few long-drawn, shuddering sobs, like a child that has been
scolded for crying, she quieted down curiously at his question and,
presently pulling out a handkerchief, began to dry her eyes.
He reiterated his query, but she only stared back at him with dumb,
though not defiant, obstinacy, as before.
"You stayin' _here_?" He indicated the cottage. She nodded. He turned on
his heel and prepared to depart.
"You go in then, kid; you're cold," he said. "You be a good girl, now,
an' don't get chippyin' round no more or you'll be gettin' into trouble.
Good night."
And, leaving her gazing after him wistfully, he rejoined the waiting
doctor, and they moved off slowly back the way they had come.
"Moral reformer, eh! for a change?" Musgrave remarked with a flippant,
gibing laugh. "Well, it isn't worse than many of your vagaries. We shall
have you entering Holy Orders next, I suppose?"
In his heart the savage old cynic approved; but, for the life of him, he
could not check the sneer.
Ellis made no reply. It was a habit of his very often not to answer
Charley, and the latter did not mind it in the least.
"Now listen," pursued Musgrave. "I'll tell _you_ something now. I've
been here for two days. Langley, who owns the hotel here, is an old
patient of mine. He wired me to come down an' see a man who was ill in
his place--chap asked him to get a doctor. Rattray, the medico here, is
in hospital himself, undergoing an operation for appendicitis, so I came
along. Now, I'm a specialist. I don't undervalue _my_ professional
services in the least, I can assure you. Quit that, years ago. I have my
fee. Those that don't care to pay it are welcome to get somebody
else--that's all there's to it. Now--coming back to this case in
hand--naturally, after having to come all the way down here, one of the
first things I did was to sound Langley as to my prospective patient's
financial stability. May sound mercenary, or merciless, whichever you
please--to _you_--but, as I said before--Well, Langley said he was all
right, as far as he knew. Seemed to have plenty of money--has paid up
square enough during the week or so he's been in the hotel--was an
absolute stranger to him--registered as John Walters, from Toronto--said
he'd been sick for a couple of days. So I went upstairs to have a look
at him. He looks to me like a clerk, counter-jumper--town-bred,
anyway--might be anything--I don't know what his line in life is--never
asked him. He must have divined that I'd been questioning Langley about
him, for one of the first things he said to me was: 'Money's all right,
Doctor. Oh, I've got plenty of "dough."' And he fumbles under the
bedclothes and shakes three or four _hundred_-dollar bills at me.
_Hundred-dollar_ ones, mind you! Afterwards, when I was examining him, I
found he was wearing a leather money-belt next to his skin--you
know--the kind we used to have in South Africa, with pockets all round.
I don't know, of course, how much he's got in it; but he hangs on to it
mighty close, and seems very nervous and suspicious. He's a pretty sick
man, anyway. I may have to rush him into town to one of the hospitals,
and operate on him right away. I'm just waiting for a certain symptom to
show up. Now, here's one of the queerest parts about this business. The
morning after he'd put up at the hotel--so Langley tells me--_this girl_
came here, along with some chap. Whether they're man and wife, or not, I
couldn't say; they're living together _as_ such, at all events, and
they've rented that cottage. What the fellow's name is I don't know, or
what his business here is, either. He dresses fairly well, and he's got
good looks--of a certain type. But it sure is a d--d bad face, all the
same. Typical 'white-slaver's.' Well, yesterday afternoon I went
upstairs to see my patient. I'd just got to the landing where his room
is, when I heard somebody talking to him--in precious loud, ugly tones,
too. I heard this: 'Yer thought yer could "shake" me--hidin' away in
this burg, eh? Now, look a-here. I'm nigh broke--you're flush. If yer
don't come across quick, I'm a-goin' to start somethin'. I've bin here
close on a week now, an' I ain't a-goin' to wait no longer!'
"I promptly opened the door and stepped in, and here was my gentleman,
standing by the side of Walters' bed. The expression on his mug was
anything but sweet, and as for Walters--he was all in--collapsed,
absolutely. 'What's the trouble?' I said. 'Oh, nothin',' says Mr. Man,
kind of off-hand; 'just a-talkin' over a little business matter with my
friend, here.' 'Well, now look here,' I said; 'I'm the doctor attending
this man. He isn't in a fit condition to talk business to anybody,
especially _your_ kind. Just _look_ at him, man! Now, you get straight
out of here--right now. I'm not going to have you worrying this man in
the condition that he's in; and remember, you're to stay out--for good.
You keep away from here altogether, or I'll d--d soon take steps to make
you. D'you hear?' He looked at me in a precious mean, ugly sort of way,
but he slunk out, and he hasn't been near Walters since. That's _why_ I
wanted Churchill. Looks now as if _he_ might know something, eh?"
Ellis uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "That's what," he answered
succinctly.
They walked on in silence for awhile.
"It's like this," resumed Musgrave. "I'm purely and simply in the
position of a doctor called in to see a patient. As long as I'm
remunerated for my professional services it's none of my business to go
poking about, prying into other people's affairs, and I don't intend to
in this case. That's up to _you_. But, all the same, the whole thing
seems a kind of a rum go, and I thought I'd better mention it to one of
you. Whatever's this fellow, Walters, going around with all this money
cached on him for? keeping indoors always, religiously, at night--so
Langley says ... of no occupation--never speaking to anybody if he can
help it ... as mum as you please.... Never letting on to Langley, or any
one, that he knew this other chap, either. Then this talk I overheard in
his bedroom ... proper blackmail. The plot thickens--ahem! I think we'd
better temporarily assume the respective roles of Sherlock Holmes and
his pal, Dr. Watson, to clear up this dark mystery," he concluded, with
a melodramatic chuckle.
The Sergeant nodded, with a thoughtful grin.
"M-m, yes! it sure does look kind of queer," he murmured. "Guess I'll
take a _dekho_ at both these ginks tomorrow, Charley, before I pull out
to the Creek. That girl, for instance. You can take your oath she's just
travelin' with that chap. Been enticed away from some little country
burg--you know the ways and means these brutes have o' working these
things? Once away from home they're done for, and scared to go back. He
must be just usin' her as a decoy-duck for some rotten business best
known to himself, but you could see how green she was. Churchill--what?
the d--d fool--riskin' his job--gossipy one-horse _dorp_ like this!"
They had reached the door of the hotel.
"Well, I'm going to turn in," said the doctor. "Sure you won't come in
and have a drink?"
Ellis shook his head. "No, thanks, Charley," he said; "I'll enjoy one
better tomorrow. See you then. Good night, old man."
And he walked slowly on towards the detachment. Half an hour later he
threw aside the paper that he had been reading and, yawning wearily,
prepared to go to bed. Suddenly, there came to him the remembrance of
some mail matter that he had brought with him from the Post, and which
he had neglected to look at as yet. Mechanically he felt in his pockets.
No!--it wasn't there--must have left it in his red serge when he changed
into his stable-jacket. His surmise was correct, and presently he began
to tear the envelopes open, glancing carelessly through their various
contents. Well, well, the General Orders for the current month, his
shoeing account returned with a small mistake in it, a peremptory
request--obviously dictated from the Quartermaster's Store--anent having
his Monthly Returns despatched at a somewhat earlier date than had
hitherto been his habit ... nothing very _important_, there. What did
Dudley mean? Hello! What was _this_? He had drawn from the last envelope
a typewritten copy of a circular. He stared vaguely at the headlines of
the notice, which ran:
WANTED FOR MURDER AND BURGLARY
$500 REWARD
The above amount will be paid to any one giving information that
will lead to the arrest of either of the below-described men,
who, on the night of August 28th, 190-- in company with
one--Joseph Lipinski, alias George Winters--since arrested in
Seattle--shot and killed, John Hetherington, night-watchman of
the Carter-Marchmont Trust Building, who surprised them in the
act of robbing the safe in the Company's offices, in New
Axminster, B. C.
Description. No. 1. Henry Shapiro (alias Harvey Stone, alias
Nathan Porter). Known to the Chicago police as "Harry the Mack."
Age 37; 5 ft. 11 in.; about 190 lbs.; black hair; has peculiar
light gray eyes, with slight cast in the left one; complexion,
swarthy; clean shaved; is of Jewish descent; nationality,
American;--
Followed details of dress and general habits. Concluding:
Lipinski, in a statement that he has made, alleges that it was
Shapiro who fired the shot which killed Hetherington. Was a
former prison mate of Shapiro's in Elmira Penitentiary, where
the latter was serving a term of five years for safe-blowing.
This man has a criminal record also, he says, in Chicago, and
has served a three-year term in Joliet, Ill., on a charge of
white slavery. We are endeavoring to obtain his photo, Bertillon
measurements, and finger-print classification from one of these
institutions.
No. 2. Herbert Wilks. Age 26; 5 ft. 8 or 9; about 165 lbs.; blue
eyes; brown hair; complexion, fresh; clean shaved; nationality,
Canadian; dressed in a dark-blue serge suit; gray Fedora hat,
with black band round it; brown boots. This man is a former
employee of the Trust Co., and was discharged by them two days
previous to the date on which these crimes were committed. As
far as is known, he has no record and has never been in trouble
before. Has the reputation of being quite a sport. Possesses a
jaunty air, drinks heavily, is a cigarette fiend, carries a
cane, and is said to be fond of women. Comes from Hamilton,
Ont., and is believed to have relatives there. Lipinski states
that Wilks must have the bulk of the money (approximately
$2,000.00) that was stolen, as he had quit them earlier, leaving
the safe open, in which they only found $150.00. That they were
in the act of splitting this when they were surprised by the
watchman. That they separated and ran different ways immediately
after the murder, being fired at by the patrolman on the beat,
who had heard the shot. Has not seen either of them since, and
has no idea which way they went. Had often seen Shapiro in
company with a woman, whom he did not know. The greater part of
the money stolen is in the shape of Bank of Commerce bills of
large denominations, which they may have difficulty in changing.
Wire all information to
_John Mason_,
_Chief Constable_.
Below, ran the usual injunctions:
Members of Line, or other detachments are notified to keep a
sharp look-out for these men, who may have come East.
(_Signed_) _R. B. Bargrave_, _Supt._
_Officer Commanding L. Divn._
For some few seconds the Sergeant sat perfectly motionless, failing at
first to grasp the full significance of what he had just read, the typed
characters of the circular appearing but a mere indistinct blur to his
abstracted eyes. Then, slowly but surely, the conviction grew in his
mind that here--_here_ in his hand, he held, undoubtedly, the very key
to the mystery that Musgrave had confided to him that night.
"Well, I'll be ----!" he ejaculated softly to himself. He looked again
at the date of the crime. "Ten days ago. Holy Doodle! they must have
been a bloomin' long time makin' up their minds to wire East, or I'd
have got this long ago. S'pose they figured they had 'em corralled all
hunkadory in the town somewhere ... couldn't get away ... or, when they
nailed this Lipinski man in Seattle, that they'd all beat it the same
road. Ten days ... an' this chap--Walters, as he calls himself--has been
here for a little over a week. That fits in O. K."
He sprang to his feet and buckled on his side-arms beneath his
stable-jacket; then, putting on his hat, he extinguished the light and
slipped stealthily out of the detachment into the dark of the night.
"Here goes for that five hundred 'bucks,'" he muttered grimly. "No use
wastin' time over Walters. _He_ can't run away. Let's have a _dekho_ at
this Mr. Shapiro--if it _is_ him. Why in thunder should they choose
_this_ place of all places to get playin' hide-an'-seek in? Well, I
guess we'll know later."
Entering the lane that lay at the rear of the buildings paralleling the
main street, he strode swiftly and silently back towards the cottage
where the girl had informed him she was staying. As he approached it
there came through the stillness a smothered murmur of voices and,
presently the low-pitched, guarded tones of a man's growling bass, mixed
with a woman's sobbing, reached his ears.
Quickening his pace, he noiselessly drew near the scene of the
altercation, the thick carpet of dust effectually deadening his
footsteps. There, under the light of the lamp, he beheld the figures of
a man and a woman, the latter unmistakably the young would-be "Delilah"
who had accosted him earlier in the evening.
"How come you to make such a ---- fool break as that?" came the man's
voice, fierce and indistinct with passion. "_He_ ain't th' cop that's
here reg'lar. He's easy, _that_ guy. This feller, he _knows_ me--beat me
up one time--him. I---- By G--d! I believe you were a-puttin' him wise!"
The girl's weeping response was inaudible to the listening policeman,
but it only seemed to add fresh fuel to her persecutor's rage for, with
an inarticulate snarl, he struck at her savagely and, with a piteous,
heart-broken cry, she reeled back from the cruel blow.
The sight maddened Ellis and, with an angry shout, he sprang forward.
The man, who hitherto had been standing with his back to the light, now
swung sharply around at the interruption. In a flash the Sergeant
recognized that face again. It was "_Harry_"--the man who had robbed the
woman on the train, and whom he had thrashed so severely some two months
earlier.
Like lightning both men's hands streaked to their hips, but the yeggman
was the quicker of the two. The girl saw his action and, with a hasty
movement, flung herself between the combatants with raised, protesting
hands.
"No, no, no! Harry, _don't_!" she screamed.
But, simultaneous with her cry, came the flash and crack of his gun.
Staggering with the shock of the bullet, she clutched at her bosom in
stupid bewilderment.
"Oh, God!" she gasped in her agony. "Oh, bub-bub-bub!" And, swaying with
a side-long lurch, she fell heavily to the ground.
For a few seconds the two men remained motionless, stupefied at the
tragedy that had been enacted before their eyes. Then the policeman's
gun spoke and, with a groaning blasphemy, Harry reeled back, dangling a
shattered left wrist that he had flung up instinctively to shield his
head.
Again and again the Sergeant pressed the trigger, but a succession of
empty clicks were all that followed. With dismay he then recollected
expending four fruitless long-range shots at a coyote that evening
whilst exercising Johnny, and neglecting to reload.
He was at the other's mercy. But that individual, seemingly demoralized
by the excruciating torture of his wound, failed to profit by his
advantage. Still clutching his gun, he wheeled around and dashed for the
railroad track.
In feverish haste Ellis ejected the spent shells, dragged forth three
more cartridges and, thrusting them into the cylinder of his weapon,
with the practised flip of the finished gun-fighter, flung two more
shots after the fugitive, who had recoiled from his sudden contact with
the barbed-wire fence that ran alongside the track.
At the second report Harry pitched forward on his face, but the next
moment he had rolled under the lower strand of the wire, arisen to his
feet again and limped away in the gloom, heading for the station.
Benton's first fierce impulse was to follow in immediate pursuit, but a
low moan of intense half-conscious agony from the stricken girl checked
him.
"Can't get far winged like that, anyway," he muttered. "I'll get him
later."
Stooping down, he gently gathered up the inanimate body in his powerful
arms and strode towards the cottage with his burden. The head, with its
soft mass of curly dark hair, lolling over helplessly against his
shoulder like a tired child's, whilst the bright arterial blood pumped
in quick jets from the bullet wound in her breast all down the front of
his stable-jacket.
With an impatient thrust of his knee, he burst open the gate and,
climbing the few steps, entered through the open door into the front
room, where a lamp was burning. Here he deposited the girl on a low
couch.
Attracted by the shots, soon there came the sounds of hurrying feet and
the murmur of many voices and, presently, a small concourse of excited
and curious people began to gather in front of the cottage where the
light was showing through the open door. The Sergeant stepped forward
hastily.
"Quick!" he said. "One of you run up to the hotel and get Dr. Musgrave;
he's staying there. Quick! By G--d! This girl's been shot, and she's
bleedin' to death!"
And, in response to his appeal, two figures immediately detached
themselves from the gathering and sped away. Turning back to the couch,
he kneeled down and, ripping open the girl's flimsy blouse, rolled his
handkerchief into a pad and pressed it tightly over the wound. She lay
quite still, with closed eyes, groaning occasionally with the deadly
pain that wracked her, a bloody foam bubbling up from her lips at each
gasping breath. Soon Musgrave came bursting in.
"Why, what's this?" he said breathlessly.
"That fellow--with her," answered Ellis disjointedly. "Wanted for
murder--B.C.--went to arrest him--shot at me--hit her--instead-- Can't
tell you now-- Here, Charley!--look after her--goin' after him--not far
away--hit bad."
He was on his feet as he spoke, swiftly ramming fresh shells into his
gun; and, with one last look at the unconscious face, he jumped down the
steps and started for the station via the direction that Harry had
taken. A few of the more adventurous spirits attempted to follow him but
he peremptorily ordered them back. Catching sight, though, of a face
that he knew, he hastily beckoned its owner aside.
"See here; look, Wardle!" he said, in a tense undertone to the
kindly-faced old man who officiated as postmaster in the little town.
"I'm glad you're here. There's a girl in the house there, who's been
shot up pretty bad, an' I think it's all up with her." He rapidly
explained the situation to the other, adding: "You're a J.P.... Don't
attempt to worry her if she's too far gone, remember, but try an' get a
deposition off her if the doctor will allow it, an' get him an' somebody
else to witness it.... Can't stop now--got to get after this chap,
quick!" And he hurried away.
A man swinging a railroad lamp came forward and accosted him, whom he
recognized as the station agent.
"Look, now, Carey," he said significantly, in response to the other's
excited offer of help. "Come, if you want to. But I tell you
flat--you're takin' a big chance of gettin' hurt. Douse that cursed
light," he added irritably, "or you'll be makin' a proper mark of us."
The other promptly obeyed, and presently they reached the beginning of
the platform. The Sergeant produced a small electric torch.
"Should be some blood to trail him by," he muttered. "I got him twice.
Hello! here it is!"
Pressing the button at intervals, they followed the faint dribbles and
spots along the ties. Clear past the station offices and freight shed,
it led them, right to the shelving terminus of the platform, where they
brought up a dozen or so yards beyond when the blood marks suddenly
ceased.
"What place is that?" whispered the policeman, indicating a small
structure whose shadowy outlines loomed up vaguely against the
surrounding gloom.
"Section men's hut," the agent whispered back. "There's only some tools
and a handcar in there. It's locked, though, and Petersen, the section
boss, has the key. He can't get in there. Let's go on a piece--we may
pick it up again."
They crept cautiously on for a short distance, but the sanguinary trail
failed to reappear.
"No use goin' any farther," protested Ellis, in a low tone. "P'r'aps
he's doubled back an' cached himself under the platform."
They retraced their steps and soon picked up the blood spots again.
Benton, gun in hand, halted irresolutely in front of the section hut.
"You _sure_ it's locked, Carey?" he said.
The other moved ahead impatiently. "Yes, _sure_" he answered. "It's no
good lookin' there, Sergeant--let's rout around the platform."
A sudden impulse, though, moved Ellis to step over to the shed. Grasping
the door handle, he pulled on it. To his surprise it swung open.
The next instant there came a rattle as of tools being displaced as a
dark form arose. Followed a blinding spurt of flame and a deafening
report right, it seemed, in his very face. Instinctively, he winced
away, with a burning pain in his left ear and, ducking down, with deadly
calculation he fired upwards twice as he did so.
The detonation in the galvanized-iron structure was terrific. When the
echoes gradually died away, a curious scraping, threshing noise,
monotonous in its regularity, succeeded, coupled with a horrid,
long-drawn, liquid gurgle, as of water issuing from the neck of an
inverted bottle.
These ominous sounds, too, eventually ceased, and the silence of the
night settled over all once more. Carey clutched Benton with a shiver,
and his teeth chattered like castanets.
"Is--is he--dead--d'you think?" he quavered.
"Don't know," returned Benton in a low voice. "Sufferin' Moses! my
_ear's_ hurtin' me somethin' fierce. I'm bleedin' like a stuck pig. Keep
you well to the side, there, when I flash the light in. You never know
what's goin' to come off."
Cautiously he pressed the spring of his torch and, as the little halo of
radiance penetrated the obscurity, he gave a quick, searching look. With
a satisfied sigh, he released the button and turned in the darkness to
his companion.
"All right, Carey," he said reassuringly. "You can light up again now."
With shaking fingers, the other produced a match and, relighting his
lamp, cast its rays into the opening. He beheld a sight that was to
remain in his memory for many a day. With a cry of horror, he tumbled
back, the lantern falling from his nerveless grasp.
"Oh, my God!" he cried. "Oh, Lord!"
Ellis stooped and picked up the smoking globe.
"Here, here!" he remonstrated callously. "What's wrong with you, Carey?
Get a hold of yourself, man. You're a peach to want to come man-hunting,
you are. Have you never seen a stiff before? Get in an' have a good look
at everythin', because you'll most likely be an important witness at the
inquest.... O-oh!" he broke off, with a sharp intake of his breath, "my
ear's givin' me h--l. Lend me your handkerchief."
Thus urged, and trembling violently with horror and repugnance, the
agent nerved himself again to the ordeal. Raising the lamp once more, he
gazed with morbid fascination at the ominous heap that but a short while
back had been a strong, hot-blooded man.
With the handkerchief pressed to his wound, and cursing softly with the
pain, the Sergeant jerked his gun back into its holster again. Stepping
forward, he inspected his handiwork critically. The two heavy, smashing
bullets of the Colt's .45, fired at close range, had done their deadly
work effectively. One, penetrating a little beneath the left eye, had
blown away a portion of the skull in its exit, whilst the other, tearing
its passage through the thick, bull throat, had turned the place into a
veritable shambles.
Still clutched in the stiffened right hand was a huge, unfamiliar type
of pistol, which weapon the policeman examined with curious interest,
coming--as it nearly had--to ending _his_ earthly existence. The
terrible simplicity of the creed that was his in such matters forbade
his evincing the slightest vestige of pity or remorse for his dead
enemy. The vision of a pale, pinched-faced young mother, with a little
child, seemed to arise before his eyes, and the heart-broken cry of a
stricken girl still rang in his ears and hardened his heart.
"Blast you!" he muttered savagely. "You only got what was comin' to you.
It was me or you, this trip, an' no error. You had an even break,
anyway."
The agent turned aside, shaking in every limb.
"Let's get!" he said, with an oath. "Ugh! I can't stand it no longer. I
guess sights and happenings like this ain't nothing to you, Sergeant ...
you're used to it in your line of business. Besides, you've been through
a war and must have killed and seen lots of fellers killed before. It
don't turn you up like it does me. Come away, for the love of God. By
Gosh! but I could have sworn that place was locked. Petersen must have
forgot to snap the padlock. I've got a duplicate key here. Guess I'd
better lock everything up tight, eh? and give you the key."
"Yes," said Ellis. "And give Petersen strict orders not to open it up
again till I say so. Nothing's got to be touched till the coroner gives
the word. Old Corbett acts in this district. Wonder whether he's at his
place?"
"Oh, he's there, all right," said Carey. "But he's sick--all crippled up
with rheumatism. His daughter--you know, the one that rides--she was in
today and I was talking to her."
"That settles it," said Benton. "I'm goin' to wire the O.C. now, an'
I'll get him to send a coroner down by the mornin' train. Let's have
that key for a bit. I want the doctor to have a look at this body."
Some twenty minutes later he returned to the cottage. Musgrave and old
Wardle met him on the threshold, and the former, with a significant
gesture enjoining silence, softly closed the door. With the light of a
strange exultation showing in his haggard face and bloodshot eyes, he
proceeded to acquaint them with all that had happened. They listened
with eager curiosity.
"Whew!--some shave, all right," remarked the doctor. "Here, Ellis! Let's
fix up that ear of yours. You're bleeding like the deuce, and that tunic
of yours is soaked." And, as Benton removed the handkerchief. "Why, man,
it's clipped the lobe clean away! Come on in, then, but be as quiet as
you can--I've put her on the bed in the other room. I've given her a
strong morphine injection to ease the pain. It'll keep her quiet for a
time."
He turned, with his hand on the doorknob, but Ellis caught him by the
arm.
"Charley," he said, with a catch in his voice. "That girl saved me. Is
she--is there any--"
"No," answered the doctor quietly. "That slug's gone slap through the
right lung and out under the shoulder. She's done for, though she may
live for a few hours. Must have been an awful high-pressure gun that he
used."
"It sure was," said the Sergeant. "It was one of those German 'Lugers.'
You'll see it still clutched in his fist when you go down there."
"Eh, laad!" said the kindly old postmaster, who originally hailed from
Yorkshire. "But she's rare an' weak ... an' th' doctor don't think as
'er'll last th' night out. It's nobbut o' a deposition she were able to
gie us, th' poor lass, for 'er could scarcelins speak, an' I had'na th'
heart to worrit 'er. She says as 'ow 'er name's Elsie Baxter, an' that
yon man o' 'ers as she calls 'Arry--shot at yo' but 'it 'er, instead,
accidental, when she got betune ye. She wouldn't tell me where 'er coom
fra', tho', or what _'is_ other name be. Fair frightened, 'er is, 'bout
'im bein' ketched, an' 'er keeps on a-cryin' out 'is name real
pitiful-like, an' sayin' as 'e did'na _mean_ to shoot 'er. I 'ad 'Arry
Langley, from th' 'otel, in there, an' 'im an' th' doctor's witnessed
it. Did yo' say yo' gaffled 'un, laad?"
The Sergeant, with his brooding mind still obsessed with the memory of
his recent conflict, regarded his questioner absently, with a livid,
scowling face.
"Eyah!" he snarled darkly, with an ugly oath, and with grimly
unconscious humor imitating the other's dialect: "A gaffled 'un, all
right, Dad!--nobbled 'un proper. A knaws 'un's name, too, an' all 'bout
'un!"
Quickly and deftly, the doctor dressed the Sergeant's torn ear,
bandaging the wound with an antiseptic pad against it. Whilst this was
in progress, they conversed in low tones.
"Why, come to think of it," said Musgrave, "I remember now seeing an
account of that business in the paper, at the time. Lord! I was
slow--not to have tumbled before. I wouldn't make much of a sleuth, I'm
afraid." He carefully replaced his surgical apparatus in his bag.
"Didn't you see it?" he inquired.
Ellis shrugged indifferently. "Lord, no!" he said. "Why, I go from a
month on end and never _see_ a paper--out there at the 'Creek.' Besides,
we don't go by the _papers_. I was officially notified in this case.
'Course, I'm not forgettin' if it hadn't been for you tellin' me what
you did, I'd never been able to connect up."
He was silent for a moment or two. "How about the other chap, Charley?
Walters--Wilks--or whatever his name is," he asked, a trifle anxiously.
"I suppose it'll be safe enough to leave _him_ till tomorrow?"
"Oh, sure," said the doctor reassuringly. "I don't think he's exactly
able to 'take up his bed and walk' _just_ yet. I'll keep an eye on
_him_. There! that'll do for the time. I'll fix it up again tomorrow for
you."
With a weary yawn, Benton arose from the chair on which he had been
sitting during the ear-dressing process.
"Here's the key of that section house, Charley," he said, handing the
other over that article. "Take a run on down there, will you? an' have a
look at that body. I'll stay an' watch this poor kid. An' say! I can't
very well wear _this_!"--he indicated his ensanguined
stable-jacket--"you might bring me back my serge, old man! It's lying on
the bed in the detachment."
"All right. I'll go now," said Musgrave. "Remember," he added, "the
kindest thing you can do is to keep her as quiet as possible. I've done
all that I'm medically able to do, but it's a parson _she_ needs--more
than a doctor. Aren't there any here?"
"Yes," said Ellis listlessly, "on Sundays. There's denominations galore
represented _then_. This is a sanctimonious little '_dorp_.' The Church
of England man is the only one resident here, though. He's away in
town--attending the Church Convention. I was talking to him this morning
when I was going to court, an' he said he didn't expect to come back
till the day after tomorrow."
"Well, she's sleeping now," said the doctor. "I've stopped the external
bleeding and given her a strong morphine injection, as I think I told
you. Give her all the water she wants to drink, if she wakes up, but
beyond getting the necessary particulars regarding her, I wouldn't
encourage her to talk. Come on, Wardle! We'll go on down to this place."
The two men tip-toed out softly and closed the door, whilst the
Sergeant, carefully stripping off his blood-stained stable-jacket,
entered the bedroom noiselessly, and seated himself at the side of the
suffering girl. Still under the influence of the powerful drug, she was
dozing peacefully and, but for an occasional gurgle of blood in her
throat, her breathing was considerably less labored.
Long and earnestly he gazed at the face of the girl who had,
undoubtedly, saved his life, though at the forfeit of her own. The
features were already pinched and drawn, and the rich color of the
cheeks had faded to a dull, ashen gray, save where two hectic spots
indicated her rising temperature. For, upon that countenance, the Angel
of Death had set his dread seal, and passed upon his way.
Oppressed by deep pity and many troubled thoughts, Ellis sank into a
gloomy reverie from which he was aroused by Musgrave returning--alone.
Arising quietly, he obeyed the other's silent motion and followed him
outside.
"Well," he said listlessly, slipping on the red serge which his
companion handed to him, "did you see him, Charley?"
Musgrave glanced curiously at the powerful, still profile of the man
before him.
"Yes," he said slowly. And even _his_ trained nerves could not suppress
a slight shudder at the remembrance. "Poor old Wardle's gone home
feeling pretty sick, I can tell you ... an' I don't wonder. You're some
bad man with a gun, Ellis."
The Sergeant, with mind sunk in a fit of abstraction, eyed him absently.
"Eyah," he said. "I guess I put the sign on him, all right."
The doctor scrutinized the drawn, blood-stained face closely.
"Look here," he said kindly. "You look a bit strapped, old man. You go
on home to bed now. _I'll_ stop with the girl!"
The considerate words seemed to arouse the other strangely.
"No, by ----!" he said vehemently, with a sobbing oath. "I'm goin' to
stay till--till--"
His voice broke. Recovering himself, he continued, with an effort:
"It's the least I can do. You can sleep on that couch in the front room.
I'll call you if she's in bad pain."
"All right--all right!" answered Musgrave gently and, gripping the
Sergeant's shoulder with a sympathetic pressure, "we won't fight over
it, old man. I understand. Call me if I'm needed. I don't think your
'guard' will be very long now, though."