THE "WIDDY" IN GRAY
In the slipshod procedure of Deputy Sam Hardley the professional
policeman had an illustration of why the force of which he was a
member was needed to supplement some county peace officers of the
Dominion. Although the fat official undoubtedly believed a
commissioned officer of the mounted police had been murdered in cold
blood while in the pursuit of duty, his handling of the ease proved
most perfunctory. There was no close study of the immediate
surroundings; not even a beating of the bush to determine the point
from which the fatal shot was fired.
The fact that the victim's revolver had been fired once was noted,
not by Hardley, but by the citizen addressed as Phil Brewster who, it
developed, operated a freight packing business between Gold and the
creeks. Doubtless, the tragedy of the express driver had been
handled with similar carelessness, and this unlucky Bart Caswell
given every opportunity to launch his daring impersonation.
About all that Hardley did was go through the pockets of the uniform
while one of the crowd made a list of contents as they were produced
and placed in a large handkerchief. There was a wallet meagerly
supplied with small bills, a pocket knife, a ring of keys and a briar
pipe--not any of which were familiar to Seymour. But there was in
addition a certified copy of his own commission as staff-sergeant of
the R.C.M.P., which had been in the war bag, and a sheaf of official
blanks. These proceeds of the search were knotted within the
handkerchief and deposited in Hardley's pocket, presumably to be
handed over to the Mounted.
Soon, the waiting freight wagon was impressed into service as a rude
catafalque. With the horsemen in procession formed behind, the
cortege headed for the near-by camp. Its pace, at least, was
funereal, thanks to oxen deliberation.
Once into the main street, Seymour found a semblance of permanency in
the town. The establishments of two rival trading companies were
built of logs and surprisingly fronted by show windows. The one
hotel, in distinction from several bunk houses, had two stories, with
a false front atop the second. Seymour noted also a restaurant, a
chop house, a pool hall, several "soft" drink emporiums--all of rough
board construction.
A shack of slabs, roofed with cedar shakes, crouched beside the hotel
and supported the sign:
OFFICE OF SHERIFF
GOLD BRANCH
OFFICE OF CORONER
Evidently it was from the door of this that Deputy Coroner Hardley
had seen the imposter set out on his fatal ride.
Near this shack stood the temporary post office which divided a store
room with the records of the mining recorder. The First Bank of Gold
occupied a tent with a wooden floor. For the reassurance of
customers and for the information of all, this tent wore a banner on
which was painted: "Our palatial permanent home is under construction
across the street." Glancing in that direction, the stranger saw a
structure of corrugated iron, awaiting a roof.
Gold, at this season of the year, was a night town, so the streets
had been practically deserted as the small procession entered. Even
though most of the population was at work up the creeks, there was
something of an outpouring into King Street as the news of the
shooting spread.
Some fifty men and a scattering of women gathered to mill about the
freight wagon soon after the oxen were halted before Hardley's shack.
From the vantage of his saddle seat, Seymour studied their faces as
they received the news, but caught no trace of any emotion that
interested him. All seemed genuinely shocked; none, too deeply
moved. He heard many express regret over such a drastic blow at the
law. If any rejoiced, they did so secretly.
Deputy Hardley consulted with important citizens, identified for
Seymour by the one nearest his stirrup as the bank manager, the camp
doctor, and the principal realtor. Presently the deputy shrilled an
announcement that in his capacity of coroner he would swear a jury
and hold an inquest at one o'clock in the uncompleted bank building.
The freight wagon, its somber burden covered with tarpaulin, was
drawn to a position at the rear of the unfinished structure, which
was open where workmen were laying a heavy flooring for a vault. The
townsmen, their curiosity satisfied, began to disperse about their
mundane affairs.
In turning Kaw to be about his own, Seymour came face to face with
Ruth Duperow, who evidently had just reached town and at speed, for
her mount was puffing. The color of excitement was high in the
girl's cheeks. But no hint that she ever had seen him before came
from the young woman who, within the hour, had been so solicitous of
his welfare as to try to keep him from entering the brush in search
of the murderer. Her eyes did not avoid his; they simply did not
know him.
Having administered this puzzling cut direct, she focused on the
gallant figure of Brewster who rode alongside her, his handsome face
alight with undoubted admiration.
"What has happened?" Seymour heard her ask.
"Your dashing sergeant-of-staff has been murdered." Brewster's reply
was fittingly low.
The girl's eyes flashed angrily. "Terrible! I must say you don't
seem greatly distressed, Mr. Brewster, and I'll thank you not to
connect me with the poor brave man by saying _my_ sergeant."
"You've been seeing so much of this Bart person, Ruth, you hadn't had
any time for your old friends. Of course, I'm sorry for the way he's
been put out of the running, but----"
"That 'but' does you small credit. Who do you suppose----"
"Hardley hasn't decided yet." Seymour caught the flicker of contempt
in the freighter's eyes. "Better come and have dinner with me at the
hotel; this isn't our tragedy."
Her displeasure seemed increased, and she gathered her reins. "I
wouldn't think of it," she said with decision. "I must carry the
dreadful news to uncle."
Whirling her horse, she dashed away up the road over which she had so
lately come.
"Some actress, but why?" murmured Seymour.
There were several why's that the sergeant found it necessary to
consider. Why had she cut him at their second meeting? Why had she
feigned entire ignorance of what had happened? He could only hope
that the same answer would serve for all--that she had acted so in
the hope of being more free to work out a solution of the mystery as
to who had killed Bart.
It was evident from Brewster's complaining attitude that the imposter
had paid Miss Duperow enough attention to arouse the handsome
freighter's jealousy. And Brewster had misplayed his hand by
allowing his feeling to crop out at such a moment when he should have
shown the murderer's detection and punishment to be his chief
interest. He now stood staring up the street after her, looking
utterly discomfited.
Dismounting, Seymour led Kaw across the street and joined Brewster,
who snapped out of his mood upon being addressed. The information
the sergeant sought was pleasantly given.
The stranger undoubtedly could get a room, such as it was, at the
Bonanza Hotel. Brewster himself lived there. The "eats" weren't
much, but he could take pot-luck at the restaurant. If his room
wasn't airy enough, he could get ample ventilation by poking his
finger through the partitions. He'd find the stables "around back."
There was no telegraph office--yet, and no radio. Yes, the camp was
a little slow in catching up with the times. The next mail would go
out in the morning.
"Guess I'd better tell that suspicious deputy where I'm stopping,"
Seymour remarked when duly posted.
Brewster laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't mind Sam
Hardley, stranger. By now his mind is loping along some other line
of suspicion. Better come to the inquest, though. With Hardley in
the coroner's seat it will be better than vaudeville."
The sergeant did attend the inquest in the unroofed bank building,
where the workmen had "laid off" for the "event." That he did not
find it as amusing as Brewster had promised was not entirely due to
the queer feeling that came with every mention of his name as that of
the central figure. He writhed at the official flounderings of
Hardley, who made an exhibition of a jury which, under sensible
direction, would have proved competent.
Seymour had heard strange coroners' verdicts before, but that which
this fat deputy sponsored was a prize-winning oddity. Hardley read
it aloud:
"We, the jury in this murder case duly impaneled, do and now
hereby report that Staff-Sergeant Russell Seymour of the Royal
Mounted Canadian Police, in the pursuit of duty in the proximity
of Gold, B.C., did come to an untimely death to the regret of
this afflicted law-abiding community.
"We, the jury, etc., do find and hereby report further that the
aforesaid lamented Seymour was murdered by a rifle bullet fired
by the man who held up the B.C.X. stage and killed Ben Tabor,
driver thereof and subject of the last preceding inquest of this
court, both being foul and fatal murders.
"We, the jury, etc., do find and hereby report still further,
that Deputy Coroner Samuel Hardley, Esq., reached the scene of
the tragedy with commendable promptitude. We direct him to draw
such posse as he finds necessary from amongst the citizens of
Gold and run to earth the perpetrator of these dastardly crimes;
and, furthermore, we express our confidence that he will leave no
stone unturned to justify his reputation as a fearless officer
with the encomiums of a successful capture dead or alive."
Hardley's shrill voice was softened by the huskiness of proudful
emotion as he finished the reading. From his seat on an empty
packing box in the front row of spectators, Phil Brewster uttered a
fervent "A-men!" then, catching the eye of Seymour who stood along
the wall, he winked sardonically.
"Needless to say, fellow citizens of Gold," Hardley shrilled on after
having cleared his throat, "your officer appreciates the confidence
of which this jury of his peers has so fitly delivered itself. He
will leave no stone unturned to bring to a rope's end the foul fiend
guilty of sending to perdition these two men, one a brave officer of
the law and the other a worthy driver of the B.C.X. mules. He would
respectfully suggest that before you leave this temporary temple of
justice, so kindly loaned for the occasion by the public-spirited
manager of the First Bank of Gold, each and every one of you look for
the last time on one who gave his life that this should be a more
decent and law-loving mining camp."
For this last suggestion, Seymour could forgive Hardley's astonishing
lack of modesty, even his consigning to "perdition" the two
casualties. Although the fat deputy could not have imagined it, he
had done the sergeant a pronounced favor.
Seymour lost no time in gaining a position from which he could watch
the reaction on every face that looked upon Bart. His attention was
caught by a little woman of pleasing countenance, in a drab dress and
the beflowered hat of an outsider, whom he had noticed casually
during the hearing. Now that the line had thinned to nothing and
even the deputy had left his guard-of-honor post, the little woman
came forward haltingly and bent over the rude catafalque. Seymour
could not see her face for the moment as it was shadowed by her hat
brim, but he heard a stifled sob. For an instant, she tottered and
seemed so likely to fall that he took a quick step toward her. His
aid, however, proved unnecessary. With a shudder, she recovered
herself and hurried away, dabbing at her eyes with a bit of cambric.
As the only individual who had shown the least personal emotion, the
policeman's interest followed her. So did his steps. Outside, he
felt fortunate when he fell in with an acquaintance of the morning,
Cato, the driver of oxen.
"Who is the little woman in gray?" he asked casually.
"She's a widdy, but not looking for a second," Cato's face was more
twisted than usual by its sarcastic grin.
"And I'm not seeking a first," Seymour set him straight. "I asked
because she seemed more affected than the other women by Hardley's
tribute line."
The old ox driver seemed reassured. "She's just a big-hearted Jane,
owner and cook of the Home Restaurant down the street yonder. The
sergeant boarded with her before he bloomed out in the royal uniform.
I boarded there too, until she turned me down. I'm just
wondering--was it him in the offing that made her cold towards me?
Course, he wouldn't look at her, not serious; him being a
staff-sergeant in secret. But women nurse wild hopes--'specially
widdies. Maybe I'd have a chance now he's been plugged into the
discard."
Seymour glanced at him in amazement; that he, with his caricature of
a face, could speak of women nursing wild hopes.
Evidently Cato read his thoughts. "You needn't look so doubtful,
stranger." He flared with resentment. "Ox driving brings mighty
smart wages up here, and I got a claim on Hoodoo Creek that may make
me one of them mill'onaires when I get round to working of it next
winter. Women can read behind the mask--'specially widdies."
Anxious to be off on the trail of his hunch, the sergeant was not
sorry when they came to the Brewster warehouse and Cato left to
inquire about his next load of freight for the creeks. Russell
Seymour felt suddenly hungry--for home cooking.