MORNING'S MAZE
The awakening of Sergeant Seymour was painful; never before had he
known that a head could ache with the throbs that were racking his.
Presently his mind took hold of a fragmentary idea--horse-blanket.
Upon this, after a mental struggle, he was able to spread a picture
of his sorry going-out at the hands of some mining-camp thugs,
doubtless intent on robbing him.
His next wonder was what had awakened him and by way of answering
that, he opened his eyes for a look around, the greatest surprise of
which was broad daylight. The sun, then, must have served as his
alarm clock--called him out of that night which was darker than any
he had ever known before. Now its rays were streaming into a cabin
room in which he lay, fully clad, upon a straw-stuffed bunk.
He did not bother to get up just then; he merely lay back on the
inadequate pillow of his slouch hat and "listened" to the ache of his
head. The idea that he had been robbed persisted. To his surprise,
he found that the currency belt around his waist had not been
disturbed. Surely mining camp crooks would know where to look for
his valuables!
Then he slid his right hand over his chest to feel the holster that
hung beneath his left arm. Greater surprise! His gun lay ready in
its usual concealment.
The conclusions, painful in their process, were at once comforting
and disturbing. He had not been trimmed or even frisked. Robbery
could not have been the motive behind the attack outside the widow's
restaurant. Then--what?
Slowly he raised himself to a sitting position upon the bare bunk and
permitted his eyes to rove until they settled upon another shock to
his tortured comprehension. This was found in the narrow window
through which the sun was streaming. Iron bars crossed the opening.
He must be a prisoner in jail.
"Deputy Sheriff! Samuel Hardley, the strong arm of the law!"
He swung his feet to the floor and took a somewhat wabbly stand.
Further survey convinced him beyond doubt that he was in the
blundering deputy's one-cell bastile. This proved to be built of
logs with a door as thick as that of an ice box and studded with
nails. The two windows were near the log ceiling, narrow, oblong and
barred. There were three bunks along as many walls and a Yukon stove
in the cell's center--no other furnishings, but enough for a frontier
jail.
So, that was the lay of the cards, he mused darkly--the explanation
of the surprise attack. After their talk in Brewster's room at the
Bonanza, the fat deputy must have located Kaw--shod in front but
plain behind--and his 30-30 rifle which he had left in the stable.
Hardley had realized, then, that his ill-considered revelation of
clews would have put his man on guard. Learning that Seymour,
supposed murderer and robber of the stage, was in the restaurant he
had made ambush and effected his arrest along safety-first lines.
There the deputy's caution seemed to have stopped, thought the
sergeant, enjoying again the reinforcing feel of his gun. Neglect to
search his prisoner was quite in keeping with other official blunders
which the fat man had made. Seymour would have to give Hardley
credit, however, for effecting a silent, bloodless capture--with a
blanket, as he remembered it.
Full assurance on this point awaited his glance. Almost at his feet
lay the thing--a worn horse-blanket. Possibly the deputy had covered
him with it before locking him in and, in the restlessness of
thud-impelled slumber, Seymour had kicked it off.
A bottle that stood on the sheet iron stove invited inspection. Even
before he picked it up, the stars on its label prepared him for the
brandy smell which a sniff at its neck brought forth. If Hardley had
been fortifying his courage with that high-powered stuff, it was no
wonder he overlooked the gun. A drink of the liquor might have
strengthened Seymour; but he realized he would need all his wit in
the heated session which he meant should begin with the deputy's
arrival at the jail. Lifting the stove top, he permitted the pint
which remained in the bottle to gurgle into the ashes of some
long-ago fire.
Seated on the edge of one of the bunks, he took stock of the
situation. He had missed the late-night appointment at the O'Malley
cabin on Glacier Creek. The missionary folk would think, probably,
that they had left too much to his intuition in their excess of
caution. That, however, meant only delay and, while hours were
precious, he would make up for lost time once free of Hardley's
detecting.
It began to look as though he was not a huge success as a plain
clothes man. He had taken off his mask for Bart's widow. Ruth
Duperow evidently believed him to be a constable come to aid the
murdered "sergeant." Now it seemed likely that he would be forced to
make a confidant of the talkative Hardley in order to be able to
carry on at all. If Bart had not made the uniform a conspicuous
target for one bad outfit of that region, he'd be tempted to at once
climb into the scarlet which the bandit had left unworn. Never had
he liked under-cover patrols, but in this particular case, he felt
that "civies" were essential.
An hour had passed since his awakening and he was beginning to wonder
when the obese deputy fed his prisoners at his perforce boarding
house. If the surmise taken from the half-filled bottle of "Four
Star" had been freely partaken, Hardley might sleep late that morning
and awaken with a "head" that would make his visit to the guard house
a second thought.
Seymour thought of firing his pistol through the window in a hope of
attracting attention to his plight; he even went so far as to
unlimber the weapon. But he recalled that he had not the slightest
idea of where the calaboose was situated, for it had not come to his
notice in the course of his one crowded day in Gold. That it did not
stand immediately back of the sheriff's office he was certain, and it
might be on the camp's outskirts for all he knew to the contrary. It
seemed the part of wisdom to reserve his ammunition; at least to give
the deputy another half-hour of grace.
In his impatience to be out and going, the sergeant began to pace the
floor. Already, his physical fitness was asserting itself, returning
him rapidly to normal. There was a pair of bumps on the back of his
head where the two put-out blows had landed, but there was no sign of
a scalp wound, thanks to the protection the thick blanket had
afforded. Except for the confining bars and that ice-box door, he
was entirely able to be out, carrying the law where it sadly was
needed.
On his fourth or fifth round of the small room, he paused before the
door, seized with a commanding impulse to expend his surplus energy
in beating upon it. He had seen prisoners behave in that same futile
fashion in his own guard rooms and, for the sake of quiet, had put
irons on them when they persisted. But there was no one in this
inhospitable place to put irons on him, so he yielded to the extent
of beating a tattoo on the stout planking.
To his amazement, the door gave slightly under his touch, which was
no way at all for a self-respecting jail door to behave. This
"giving" suggested the application of more force. Crouching, he put
his shoulder to it and the heavy portal swung open. He had been
"jugged" in an uncorked "jug," and there was nothing now to keep him
from going where and when he listed.
He delayed just long enough to examine the fastenings which had not
fastened. A heavy padlock hung securely locked in its deep-set
staple, but the hasp had been left outside, folded back against the
door. For the first time that morning, Sergeant Scarlet smiled; more
than that, he grinned. For once he was indebted to too much brandy.
Outside, under the blue sky, he took several deep breaths of
vitalizing air. He had seen his own prisoners do that upon being
released from confinement, but never understood the impulse as he did
now. A moment was necessary to get his bearings; the jail stood on a
knoll a hundred yards back from King Street.
To make tracks out of camp was his first inclination. But at once he
rejected any attempt at escape. That would only start Hardley in
pursuit, probably with that posse the coroner's jury had authorized
so superfluously. Rather, he must quiet the deputy's suspicions,
even to disclosing his official identity, if necessary. Picking his
path, he strode down the incline to King Street.
As he neared the Bonanza, he saw Hardley come off the porch and
waddle in his direction. But at first sight of him, the deputy
merely added another to the morning's list of surprises. This one
took the form of a cheerfully waved greeting, as from friend to
friend. By no stretch of the imagination could it have been expected
from an officer sighting a prisoner who had just broken out of jail.
Seymour advanced, puzzled and on guard.
"You're out early this morning, stranger," Hardley shrilled when the
paces that separated them were few. "Just been up to your room
looking for you but heard no 'Come in.'"
The sergeant studied the man a moment, then replied: "Sorry I was
out. What can I do for you, now that you've found me?"
"I noticed yesterday that you have a come-hither eye," went on the
deputy in a lower voice. "I've got a hunch them murdering stage
robbers are camped in a cañon south of town a-ways. Thought you
might like a little frolic as one of my official posse. No danger to
speak of, for I'll be leading you and we'll all be armed to the
shoulder-blades. Better come if you've got the time to spare."
That Hardley did not know Seymour had spent the night in jail seemed
indubitable. The Mounted officer could not explain it. Too much to
blame upon the brandy this seemed, for the deputy had been absolutely
sober in Brewster's room. But explanations could wait. Here was a
chance to be about his police business without disclosing that he had
any.
At once Seymour expressed his regret. He honestly had no time to
spare. Hardley could understand how anxious he was to get to the
creeks and locate something for himself. The deputy should have no
trouble recruiting enough men, citizens who knew the country better
than any stranger could and who already had staked their claims. He
was for the law every time--Seymour was, but he'd appreciate being
excused from service this once.
"Sure, I understand, friend," agreed the deputy. "Be on your way and
the best of luck to you. My down-river hunch may be all wrong, so
keep your eyes peeled for a horse that's shod in front and plain
behind. The rider of him is the killer of Sergeant Seymour, or I'm a
liar and as a deputy sheriff, not worth the powder to blow me to
blazes!"
Half an hour later, a horse that was shod before and plain behind
traveled north out of Gold. His rider was Sergeant Seymour himself,
not his killer.