THE LOADED WAGON
“Billy Ashe!” exclaimed Tom Clifton, in the greatest amazement, when
his breath and the excited state of his feelings permitted him to speak.
The trooper seemed to be fully as astonished as the Rambler.
“You--you!” he cried. “What in thunder are you doing out on the plains
at this time of night? And riding a horse without saddle or bridle?”
His voice became sharp and angry. “Confound it, fellow, you’ve spoilt
the whole business!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Tom.
“You’ve made us lose valuable time, besides yelling our heads off to
get you to stop. Don’t you know how far such sounds travel in the
night?”
“My horse was running away,” snapped Tom. “Didn’t you have sense enough
to know it?”
“Ah! That was the trouble, eh?” exclaimed the other policeman. “We’ve
been stalking big game, an’ took you to be one of ’em.”
“Smugglers?” queried Tom, excitedly.
“Where’s the rest of your crowd?” queried Ashe, abruptly. “Give an
account of yourself--fast, too. We haven’t an instant to spare.”
His peremptory tone jarred harshly on Tom Clifton’s sensibilities,
especially after all the excitement he had gone through. But, excusing
it on the ground of the urgency of the policeman’s business, the lad,
in brief sentences, told his story.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Billy Ashe, almost violently, as the last words
fell from his lips. “One of the nicest bits of police work that’s been
done for months all gone for nothing because a nervy kid just bobs up
in time to spoil it.”
“How have I done anything to hinder you?” demanded Tom, as angrily as
the trooper.
“But for you we could have tracked the slickest band of smugglers in
Canada to their destination. We’ve been on their trail for hours.”
“You haven’t lost much time on me.”
“That isn’t the point. That fellow back there who was watching you
didn’t intend to take any chances of your prying into their game. Now,
you may be sure, he’s put the others on their guard.”
“Aye, aye!” agreed the other trooper.
Billy Ashe, a very ambitious young officer, was becoming even more
angry and disgusted. After much patient work, he saw all his efforts
threatened with failure. Since entering the service he had always
kept in mind the idea of some day wearing a sergeant’s stripes on the
sleeves of his scarlet coat. And on this particular job the trooper had
visions of receiving warm commendations from his superior officers.
Tom Clifton had never impressed him favorably; and now, although the
tall lad could not be directly blamed, his presence at a critical time
irritated him, driving away for the moment the natural sympathy he
should have felt.
Tom, however, was not looking for any. But he didn’t propose to
shoulder undeserved blame.
“If you’ve made a fluke on the job,” he exclaimed, hotly, “it’s just
exactly as you said yourself: your own shouting must have done it.”
“I’ll put it all up to Sergeant Erskine,” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “And
when he gets my report I’d advise you to keep far away from the
barracks.”
“Aye, aye!” said the other trooper.
“Oh, that doesn’t scare me a little bit,” jeered Tom. “I’ll make a
report to Sergeant Erskine myself.”
With a sharp command to his horse, Ashe galloped off.
“Come on, Witmar!” he yelled. “We’ll get the wagon, anyway.”
“Aye, aye!” answered his companion.
“Guess I’ll follow this thing up myself,” muttered Tom. “Great Scott!
Just think--I’m going to take part in a chase after smugglers!”
This thought was enough to stifle his angry feelings, and make him
disregard the shooting pains which were now becoming stronger.
“Get up!” he yelled; “get up!”
Although being without saddle or bridle placed him at a great
disadvantage, his horse was a swift, fiery creature--a bundle of
high-strung nerves, ready to dash off at headlong pace upon the
slightest provocation.
“They won’t leave me very far behind,” muttered Tom, grimly. “I can
guide this nag by knee-pressure as well as any cowboy.”
The Northwest Mounted policemen, who seemed to have given up hope of
capturing the smugglers, rode furiously. At the pace they set there was
great danger of Tom’s horse running away again. The Rambler knew this,
and though in a reckless and determined spirit, kept all his faculties
alert. The wind was rushing by him once more. An occasional bush seemed
to spring up before his path and be sent flying behind. He saw his
shadow slipping over the ground, waving and wobbling curiously as it
passed over the inequalities.
And presently a tiny glow showed him his own camp-fire.
“Wish I had time to skip over for my saddle and bridle,” he thought;
“but business just now is too pressing.”
The light of his fire quickly faded from view; new scenes sprang up
before him. The hills approached a little nearer to the river. Steep
and precipitous they were at this point, and grimly dark, sending a
delicate shadow over the silvery gray of the prairie.
The policemen had, naturally, increased their lead, although Tom strove
hard to close up the gap between them. From the shaggy sides of his
horse rose clouds of steam; the pony’s eyes were distended, his ears
thrown back. He seemed to be on the point of bolting again, when the
lad, eagerly gazing over the landscape, saw a dark spot coming into
view.
“The wagon!” he exclaimed.
Billy Ashe and his companions were thundering over the prairie as fast
as their horses could take them. And now, as the distance was being cut
down with remarkable rapidity, the canvas-covered wagon began to show
clearly in the moonlight. But there were no indications of horsemen
near.
Billy Ashe was evidently right. Tom’s appearance on the scene had
resulted in the men’s becoming alarmed and abandoning the vehicle. The
two policemen soon covered the last stretch, and jumped from the saddle.
Scarcely had their investigations been begun when Tom Clifton clattered
up, sawing away on the halter and yelling sharp commands to his horse.
“Well, if this chap hasn’t the biggest nerve I ever heard of!” cried
Ashe.
“They have flown, eh?” exclaimed Tom, when at length he managed to
conquer his fractious steed.
“I should think they have flown!” growled the trooper, his eyes
flashing angrily. “When a man wants a nice piece of beefsteak he isn’t
satisfied with gravy. We were after the men--not a wagon-load of
contraband stuff, eh, Witmar?”
“Aye, aye!” said his companion.
“You can’t put the blame on me,” cried Tom, hotly.
“I do--and so will the sergeant.”
“Get out! This is a free country, isn’t it?”
“It’s not free for any one to interfere with the business of the
Northwest Mounted.”
“What’s in that old chuck wagon?” demanded Tom, impatiently.
Witmar had pulled open the flap, and, by the aid of a pocket
search-light, was examining some of the contents.
“We are not supposed to answer questions put to us by strangers,”
interposed Ashe, who was in such a disappointed frame of mind that he
found it hard to speak with civility. “Come--get out. What do you want
to do--take charge of the wagon--and us besides?”
“Aye, aye! I reckon he’d like to,” said Witmar.
“Is this a private park?” demanded Tom. “Where are the ‘keep off the
grass’ signs? Have you any authority over me?”
“I have authority to arrest any one who interferes with us,” returned
Ashe, threateningly. “There’s many an old stager on the force who might
run you over to the barracks if you didn’t light out the moment he said
the word.”
“Aye, aye! I’ve seen it done,” said Witmar.
“Well, you won’t see it done in this case!” cried Tom, wrathfully.
“You’re supposed to protect people. How do I know that the fellow who
pitched into me isn’t lying around somewhere ready to tackle the job
again just as soon as I stray far enough away from the Mounted Police,
eh?”
“There’s reason in that,” said Witmar.
Billy Ashe did not reply. Although the smugglers had escaped there
was still much work to be done. The contraband goods would have to be
conveyed to the settlement, where a police post was located; and that
meant one of them would have to remain on guard while the other went in
search of a team.
“Where do you suppose this wagon was bound?” asked Tom.
“That’s what we should have found out but for you,” growled Ashe. “Once
these chaps know we’re hot on their trail they’ll keep under cover,
maybe for months.”
The two troopers climbed into the wagon, and from bits of conversation
which Tom now and then overheard he felt sure they had made a valuable
find of contraband goods.
The canvas-covered vehicle, resting motionless upon the prairie,
with its deep shadow cutting over the ground, produced a singularly
picturesque effect. The soft moonlight, too, added an impressive
appearance of size. To Tom Clifton’s mind it vaguely suggested some
huge monster brought to bay and rendered helpless.
He wondered in which direction the men and horses had gone. He
carefully studied the landscape, the hills, the obscure distance
touched with faint lights and delicate shades. Somewhere in that great
expanse were concealed the forms so eagerly sought.
Then, in another moment, the channel of his thoughts was rudely
changed. A horseman, galloping hard, suddenly appeared. He was headed
directly for the wagon.
At the same instant the troopers also discovered him.
“Well, did you ever!” cried Tom, excitedly. “What in thunder----”
Ashe and Witmar sprang to the ground.
“He’ll have to give a good account of himself!” cried the former.
“After him, Witmar!”
Their precaution, however, was unnecessary, for the oncoming rider made
no effort to change his course.
Not a sound came from the three as they watched him coming nearer and
nearer, until at length his figure was clearly in view. Then Tom
Clifton uttered a shout of surprise and exultation.
“By George--if this isn’t the greatest piece of luck I ever heard
of!” he yelled, almost wildly. “By all that’s wonderful, it’s Larry
Burnham!”