A CRYPTIC MESSENGER
From the Home Restaurant, the sergeant went to the stables where
already he had made his horses comfortable. He secured a clothes
poke from the pack of his outfit. The Bonanza Hotel proved
advantageously informal in that he was asked "two dollars a night in
advance," instead of being confronted with a register for his name
and address. A key, attached to a tin disk too large for any normal
pocket, was tossed to him by the grouchy boniface, who informed him
he would find No. 12 at the head of the stairs.
Opening a canvas door supported on a pair of leather hinges, Seymour
entered a tiny room lighted by a single window. It was furnished to
the minimum with a blanketed cot, a chair and a table of the roughest
construction.
As he sat on the edge of the cot, he recalled the crowded events of
the life that had been his in the few months since the strangulation
of Oliver O'Malley. Up at Armistice post, by now, the first mail
must have arrived. Constable La Marr would know that a "court" was
about to start from Ottawa to give Olespe of the Lady Franklin band a
trial for his life. He'd know, too, that Avic would not be tried
just then because the case against him would be incomplete without
the testimony of Harry Karmack, the fugitive factor who undoubtedly
had robbed the Arctic Trading Company. And when would he find
Karmack--when and where? And Moira O'Malley, when would she arrive
in Gold to join her bereaved father until that capture time?
The events of the day, however, were too stressing for his practical
mind to long concern itself with anything but the matter immediately
at hand.
"Richer than gold!" The last words of the widow kept recurring to
his thoughts. What could this presumptuous crook of the wilds have
had in mind? The sergeant could think, of course, of commodities
that were more precious than the yellow metal, but of none that were
indigenous to that upper corner of British Columbia.
So he puzzled over the remark until he concluded that Bart must have
used a figure of speech. He would await the widow's interpretation.
Seymour was not surprised to find that he did not think of Mrs.
Caswell as a participant in Bart's outlawry. Without protestations
of innocence or any oral plea that she had tried in vain to reform
the daring rascal, she had acquitted herself of culpability. The
weary lines in the face that must have been beautiful not so long
ago, the haunted look in her dark eyes, even her superb first effort
at denial had won the Mountie's sympathy.
A knock on the canvas door of his room interrupted his study of the
local situation. Arising, he unhooked the latch, whereupon the
improvised door swung inward of its own weight and the accord of its
makeshift hinges.
Disclosed in the frame, filling it perpendicularly but sadly lacking
in horizontal proportions, stood a gaunt, miner-clad figure,
distinguished by a pair of deep-set eyes which burned like living
coals and a shock of white hair which waved its freedom when his
slouch hat was removed.
"Will you pardon me, stranger; no intrusion meant." The voice was
soft and a smile of utmost benignity came into play. "In the midst
of life, we are in death."
"The missionary--Moira O'Malley's father and the uncle of the
morning's colorful trailmate!" was Seymour's instant thought; but he
gave no sign of the presumed recognition.
"Safe enough statement in this camp to-day," he said to his visitor.
"I'm the sky-pilot of these diggings," the other announced in a
pulpit voice that rumbled through the hall.
"Won't you come in, sir?"
The missionary declined with a shake of his head. "I must hasten on
my weekly rounds, distributing lessons from the Word. Won't you
accept one of these and promise me to read it?" He held out a small
tract taken from a handful which he carried.
The sergeant glanced at the title: "What Shall It Profit a Man----"
He smiled tolerantly, thinking what a queer yet lovable character his
future life's companion had for a parent.
"It is not meet that we should be seen in conference," O'Malley's
voice had been lowered to a whisper; then suddenly it boomed so that
all beneath the roof might hear: "I trust you will read that tract,
brother--read and profit thereby." And with that, he stalked down
the hall as though in search of other needy souls.
Seymour watched him. On getting no answer from the next door, the
gaunt frame stooped to slip a tract under it. At another a woman
answered his knock and a "sister" was informed that in the midst of
life she was in death.
Back in his room, Seymour pondered the single whispered sentence with
which the sky pilot varied what evidently were his wonted words when
distributing tracts. Had Moira written that he had started for Gold
and that he knew more than anyone in the world about the family's
Arctic tragedy?
But that was impossible, for he had been able to spend but a moment
with the girl when orders came to him at Montreal to report at once
to the assistant commissioner in command of "E" Division at
Vancouver. Seymour himself had not known then that he would
eventually arrive in plain clothes at her father's mission station.
What, then, could the whisper mean unless there was a
message--temporal rather than spiritual--for him hidden somewhere in
the pamphlet?
But when he shook its leaves, no enclosure dropped out. He examined
the margins without raising a sign. The inside back cover was blank
but nothing had been written thereon. He remembered that the
missionary had picked the tract seemingly at random from a pack of
several dozen and he was discouraged.
Still, the whisper persisted. "It is not meet that we be seen in
conference"--he recalled every significant word of it. Surely such
words had not been spoken at random. Drawing the chair to the
window, he sat down and began a more intensive study of the printed
sheet. Soon, an ink dot beneath a letter rewarded him; then others.
Presently he picked out a sequence of dotted letters spelling
"P-a-r-d-o-n."
The process reminded him of reading sun-heliograph or taking a
blinker message at night. Undoubtedly the communication was of
importance that the girl should have gone to such trouble to assure
secrecy. The uncle, too, must have shared the secret or he could not
have been trusted to pick out the message-dotted tract. From his
clothes poke, the sergeant took out a writing pad and with his pencil
set the indicated letters into words, with this final result:
P-a-r-d-o-n m-y v-a-m-o-s-e a-n-d c-u-t B-o-t-h
f-o-r g-o-o-d o-u-r c-a-u-s-e B-a-r-t s-a-i-d y-o-u
c-o-m-i-n-g t-o h-e-l-p N-o-w m-u-s-t c-a-r-r-y o-n
a-l-o-n-e B-e c-a-r-e-f-u-l K-e-e-p s-i-l-e-n-t C-o-m-e
o-u-r c-a-b-i-n l-a-t-e t-o-n-i-g-h-t G-r-e-e-n
R-i-v-e-r a-t G-l-a-c-i-e-r R-u-t-h D-u-p-e-r-o-w.
The message amazed him on more than one count. She had "left him
cold" at the point of discovery and later on refused to recognize him
on the streets of Gold for the good of "our cause." What cause?
Unless that was her way of indicating law and order, he knew of no
cause they had in common. Again, he was to "carry on alone." What
did she expect him to carry on?
Of course, he meant to carry on until he had the man who would have
kidnapped Moira O'Malley, except for the enactments of the snows.
But why go back to Moira? This cousin was of a different type.
Beautiful, to be sure, but not his sort of beauty--not the sort that
thrilled and held him. He stopped ruminating with a jerk. Almost
had he forgot----
Most puzzling of all was that "Bart said _you_ were coming." Who did
she think he was, anyway? That she had made a faulty surmise of some
sort was evidenced by the fact that she still held the crook at his
assumed sergeancy value.
As for the rest of the message, nothing would please him better than
to accept the strangely sent invitation to call. It would mean
getting in touch with Moira quicker than he could hope to do if he
continued his incognito role in the camp.
Seymour turned his attention for some time, then, to an intensive
study of the blue print map of the district which he had purchased at
the surveyor's office on riding into Gold that morning. His hope was
to find a way toward the creeks after nightfall without asking
questions.
His morning course to the point where he had overtaken the
boyish-looking rider was easily traced, and thence into town.
Working back, he found the trail over which Ruth Duperow had come and
followed that to the mouth of Glacier Creek. Evidently the girl, for
some reason, had taken a roundabout course that morning, for he found
that a more direct trail to town followed the Cheena. His
acquaintance with the Indian tongue was sufficient to spare him the
map-maker's mistake of adding the word river to a name that really
included it in the "na" suffix.
From such detail as was drawn into the map, he judged that Glacier
was not much of a creek. It appeared to start in a nest of glaciers
and to flow through a cañon as from the neck of a bottle. Between
the Cheena and the cañon was drawn a square with a legend, "Indian
Mission." That no mining claims were marked off on this creek,
although those surrounding it were well staked, seemed remarkable;
but the stranger did not try to guess the answer.
For no other reason than that the name had lodged in his mind,
Seymour sought out Hoodoo Creek on the map and found the claim
accredited to Cato--Thirteen Above. If the long-armed ox-man cited
it in advancing his hopes with the widow, Seymour hoped that the
number would exert its supposedly baleful influence.
From the blue-print, he turned to writing a report to his chief in
Vancouver to whom word of the murder of his "Staff-Sergeant Russell
Seymour" had undoubtedly been sent without delay. He took a grim
sort of enjoyment in an opening after Mark Twain:
"I have the honor to state my safe arrival in Gold, B.C. Any reports
of my violent death that may reach you are _slightly exaggerated_."
In the terse English that has made mounted police reports models of
modesty, he told how he had "run into" two murder mysteries in
addition to the embezzlement case which had brought him from the Far
North. One of these, with its accompanying stage robbery, he
believed he had solved except for stray angles that did not affect
the capital crime. He was at work on the second murder case, with
fair progress.
Over his final paragraph, which was headed "Suggestions," according
to the form followed by the Force in official communications, he
pondered deeply. Whatever he wrote there, he had reason to believe,
would be incorporated into an order soon after passing under
Assistant Commissioner Baxter's eyes. On this particular independent
command, he was anxious not to make mistakes. Finally he wrote:
"Am not prepared to pass judgment, at this time, on the
permanency of Gold. From what I have seen, however, the district
sadly needs Dominion policing. Would suggest that you send at
your earliest convenience one (1) sergeant and two (2)
constables, mounted and with suitable camp equipment. As I may
be working under cover on this second, unsolved murder, please
instruct the sergeant to make camp on his own responsibility and
act accordingly until he hears from me. Tell him to disregard
reports of my demise as unfounded and----"
A strident "Come in!" evidently in answer to a knock he had not
heard, sounded in the adjoining room and caused him to raise his pen
from the paper with the sentence incomplete.
"Hello Brewster, glad I found you in."
The shrilled greeting was in an unmistakable voice. Its wording
informed Seymour that the agreeable freighter of his morning's
acquaintance was his immediate hotel neighbor.
"What can I do for you, Hardley, you honorable strong arm of the law?"
The voice was Brewster's--the same that had remarked the thinness of
the tar-paper partitions. They were veritable sounding boards.
Seymour could hear every word.
"Wanted to ask your advice, Phil, about some points in this Mountie's
murder."
The genuine sergeant winced involuntarily. It was a very bad joke.
He doubted that he ever would become accustomed to Sergeant Seymour
spoken of as murdered--done for.
"Shoot," he heard Brewster invite.
"It's this way, Phil. Seymour must have been quite a responsible
member of the Force. As you said this a.m., his snuffing is going to
make a noisy roar-back. I got to report it to somebody in the
Mounted--but who and whereat?"
Seymour fidgeted uneasily in the silence that followed, evidently due
to Brewster's considering his answer. He detested eavesdropping;
never had resorted to it on any of his cases. By way of letting the
two in the adjoining room know of his presence, he scraped his chair
noisily over the bare floor. This warning, however, failed to check
Brewster, or even to lower his voice.
"I remember reading that Vancouver is the nearest staff-office of
this new Canadian Mounted Police, but I've just been thinking---- If
they send a lot of Mounties into Gold and run down these
stage-robbing murderers, you're not going to get any credit. I'm
strong for home industry, even in justice. Why don't you delay
reporting the sergeant's death until you land your man?"
"Say you're a real friend, Phil, even if you do try to ride me
sometimes. I need the credit for turning a trick like that. It
might make me sheriff when the old man gets through. But--but would
I dare?"
Seymour started for the hall but on the way, heard Brewster's reply:
"Write your report, Sam, but don't post it until after tomorrow's
mail has gone. That'll give you a week. Then address the letter to
Ottawa, which will give you a few days more. In that time, you ought
to have the murderers rounded up. You can forget what I told you
about there being any Vancouver headquarters."
Surprise at such advice from a seemingly public-spirited citizen
delayed Seymour's knock until he had heard it through. Of course,
all this might be merely a sign of real, though mistaken, friendship
for Hardley. On the other hand, was it possible that Brewster had
personal reasons for wishing to delay the coming of the Mounted?
With this question to the fore of his mind, Seymour knocked on the
adjoining door and was invited in. His entry seemed not to disturb
either of the two.
"Just wanted to tell you that the next room is occupied and that the
partition between is more or less of a megaphone," he said in a light
tone. "If you've any secrets----"
Brewster's laugh was natural enough to be reassuring. "If we were
talking secrets, stranger, we'd take to the brush. I've lived in the
Bonanza since the day it was opened, and I don't even think secrets
behind these make-believe walls."
The sergeant dismissed his unintentional eavesdropping with a shrug
and turned to the deputy.
"Out on the trail this morning you seemed to think you might want me
later. You'll know now where to find me--Room number twelve."
"Forget this a.m., old topper. I was maybe a little mite excited out
there at the scene of the crime. There ain't sech a lot of
difference between deputy sheriffs and mounted sergeants. It might-a
been me lying there deader than dead. Your happening along looked
sort of queer. I'm seeing straighter now. You're welcome to Gold
and I hope you get what you come for."
"You'll find me strong for law and order," Seymour replied.
This seemed to invite Hardley to real confidences. Beckoning Seymour
from the doorway, he edged his chair closer to the cot on which
Brewster reclined in his stockinged feet.
"Don't mind telling you two in confidence," he leaned forward and
whispered, "that I'm in a fair way to nabbing the two who robbed the
stage and killed Tabor and Seymour. Maybe I ain't seemed to be doing
much, but I've got clews to burn already."
"You have?" cried Brewster, hunching himself into a sitting position
on the cot.
Hardley nodded assuredly. "There were two of them in the bush lying
for the sergeant this morning. One had a Winchester 30-30 and used
it to kill Seymour. One rode a horse that was shod in front but
plain behind." He paused, evidently, from his expression, to collect
the encomiums he considered his due.
"Important if true, Sam," Brewster observed.
"Quick work," admitted the Mountie, honestly surprised; his hand was
in the trousers pocket that held the cartridge case picked up that
morning. "How in the world did you learn all that?"
Hardley seemed to relish supplying the details, even though he had to
whisper them. Apparently he had forgotten that one of his confidants
was an utter stranger both to him and to the camp, one whose name
even he did not know. His was country-official vanity advanced to
the _n_th degree.
"Dr. Pratt dug out the bullet, which fixed the brand of the gun with
which the deed was done. Then I've got a half-breed boy on my staff
who's keen as a Gordon setter in the bush. He found the horse track
of the two from the scene of the crime. Now I'm looking for a man
with a 30-30 repeater and a horse that's shy on shoes."
Surprised that Hardley should have shown so much initiative, and
apprehensive that he was getting too near "home" for comfort, Seymour
framed a diverting question.
"What do you know about the chap who was killed?"
"You mean this last one--Staff-Sergeant Seymour?" asked the deputy in
turn, but merely as a preface, not waiting for an answer. "Kirby of
the First Bank has heard of him. Says he was nicknamed 'Sergeant
Scarlet' up in the Northwest territories, and is guilty of some of
the hardest patrols ever made. He must have been a regular fighting
machine. Autopsy proved that."
Sergeant Scarlet! That was the nickname Moira had given him! But
others, to be sure, had used it before his beautiful Irisher.
Perhaps his reputation as a man-getter had spread further than he
knew.
Anyway, his chance to check up on Widow Caswell had arrived sooner
than he expected. He showed casual but sufficient interest in the
disclosures mentioned.
"The sergeant had been under fire before, and more than once,"
declared Hardley. "The doctor found a silver plate bracing his spine
high up between the shoulders. And, would you believe it, there was
a dent in that plate which looked as if he'd been hit in the
identical repair spot by some later bullet!"
"Checked to a T," thought Seymour of the widow's tale.
He became more than ever anxious to be clear of the talkative deputy.
With all his false surmises, the natural-born bungler had corralled
some accurate information and might make a deal of trouble for him.
At first chance he got back to his room.
With a few swift strokes, he completed and signed his report. His
O.C. must be prepared for that murder report, whether Hardley finally
acted on Brewster's advice or not.
Hurrying from the hotel into King Street, Seymour found the post
office and mailed his letter. Then, although the hour was only
seven, he advanced casually upon the Home Restaurant. He was eager
to be on his way to the creeks before Hardley stumbled, as possibly
he might, upon the fact that Seymour's rifle, stored with his outfit,
was a 30-30 and that Kaw was "shod in front and plain behind."