MACNAIR GOES TO JAIL
The silence in the little room became almost painful. MacNair uttered
no word as his glance strayed from the flushed, excited face of the
girl to the figure of Corporal Ripley, who stood hat in hand, gazing
from one to the other with eyes plainly troubled by doubt and
perplexity.
"Well, why don't you do something?" cried the girl, at length. "It
seems to me if I were a man I could think of something to do besides
stand and gape!"
Corporal Ripley cleared his throat. "Do I understand," he began
stiffly, "that you intend to prefer certain charges against
MacNair--that you demand his arrest?"
"I should _think_ you would understand it!" retorted the girl. "I have
told you three or four times."
The officer flushed slightly and shifted the hat from his right to his
left hand.
"Just step inside, MacNair," he said, and then to the girl: "I'll
listen to you now, if you please. You must make specific charges, you
know--not just hearsay. Arresting a man in this country is a serious
matter, Miss Elliston. We are seven hundred miles from a jail, and the
law expects us to use discretion in making an arrest. It don't do us
any good at headquarters to bring in a man unless we can back up our
charge with strong evidence, because the item of transportation of
witnesses and prisoner may easily run up into big money. On the other
hand it's just as bad if we fail or delay in bringing a guilty man to
book. What we want is specific evidence. I don't tell you this to
discourage any just complaint, but only to show you that we've got to
have direct and specific evidence. Now, Miss Elliston, I'll hear what
you've got to say."
Chloe sank into a chair and motioned the others to be seated. "We may
as well sit down while we talk. I will try to tell you only the facts
as I myself have seen them--only such as I could swear to on a witness
stand." The officer bowed, and Chloe plunged directly into the subject.
"In the first place," she began, "when I brought my outfit in I noticed
in the scows, certain pieces with the name of MacNair painted on the
burlap. The rest of the outfit, I think, consisted wholly of my own
freight. I wondered at the time who MacNair was, but didn't make any
inquiries until I happened to mention the matter to Mr. Lapierre. That
was on Slave River. Mr. Lapierre seemed very much surprised that any
of MacNair's goods should be in his scows. He examined the pieces and
then with an ax smashed them in. They contained whiskey."
"And he destroyed it? Can you swear it was whiskey?" asked the officer.
"Certainly, I can swear it was whiskey! I saw it and _smelled_ it."
"Can you explain why Lapierre did not know of these pieces, until you
called his attention to them?"
Chloe hesitated a moment and tapped nervously on the table with her
fingers. "Yes," she answered, "I can. Mr. Lapierre took charge of the
outfit only that morning."
"Who was the boss scowman? Who took the scows down the Athabasca?"
"A man named Vermilion. He was a half-breed, I think. Anyway, he was
a horrible creature."
"Where is Vermilion now?"
Again Chloe hesitated. "He is dead," she answered. "Mr. Lapierre shot
him. He shot him in self-defence, after Vermilion had shot another
man."
The officer nodded, and Chloe called upon Big Lena to corroborate the
statement that Lapierre had destroyed certain whiskey upon the bank of
Slave Lake. "Is that all?" asked the officer.
"No, indeed!" answered Chloe. "That isn't all! Only last week, I went
to visit MacNair's fort on Snare Lake in company with Mr. Lapierre and
Lena, and four canoemen. We got there shortly after dark. Fires had
been built on the beach--many of them almost against the walls of the
stockade. As we drew near, we heard loud yells and howlings that
sounded like the cries of animals, rather than of human beings. We
approached very close to the shore where the figures of the Indians
were distinctly visible by the light of the leaping names. It was then
we realized that a wild orgy of indescribable debauchery was in
progress. The Indians were raving drunk. Some lay upon the ground in
a stupor--others danced and howled and threw fire-brands about in
reckless abandon.
"We dared not land, but held the canoe off shore and watched the
horrible scene. We had not long to wait before the inevitable
happened. The whirling fire-brands falling among the cabins and
against the walls of the stockade started a conflagration, which soon
spread to the storehouse. And then MacNair appeared on the scene,
rushing madly among the Indians, striking, kicking, and hurling them
about. A few sought to save themselves by escaping to the timber.
And, jerking a rifle from the hand of an Indian, MacNair fired twice at
the fleeing men. Two of them fell and the others escaped into the
timber."
"You did not see any whiskey in the possession of these Indians?" asked
Corporal Ripley. "You merely surmised they were drunk by their
actions?"
Chloe nodded. "Yes," she admitted, "but certainly there can be no
doubt that they were drunk. Men who are not drunk do not----"
MacNair interrupted her. "They were drunk," he said quietly, "very
drunk."
"You admit that?" asked the officer in surprise. "I must warn you,
MacNair, that anything you say may be used against you." MacNair
nodded.
"And, as to the killing of the men," continued Chloe, "I charge MacNair
with their murder."
"Murder is a very serious charge, Miss Elliston. Let's go over the
facts again. You say you were in a canoe near the shore--you saw a man
you say was MacNair grab a rifle from an Indian and kill two men. Stop
and think, now--it was night and you saw all this by firelight--are you
sure the man who fired the shots was MacNair?"
"Absolutely!" cried the girl, with a trace of irritation.
"It was I who shot," interrupted MacNair.
The officer regarded him curiously and again addressed the girl. "Once
more, Miss Elliston, do you know that the men you saw fall are dead?
Mere shooting won't sustain a charge of murder."
Chloe hesitated. "No," she admitted reluctantly. "I did not examine
their dead bodies, if that is what you mean. But MacNair afterward
told me that he killed them, and I can swear to having seen them fall."
"The men are dead," said MacNair.
The officer stared in astonishment. Chloe also was puzzled by the
frank admission of the man, and she gazed into his face as though
striving to pierce its mask and discover an ulterior motive. MacNair
returned her gaze unflinchingly and again the girl felt an
indescribable sense of smallness--of helplessness before this man of
the North, whose very presence breathed strength and indomitable
man-power.
"Was it possible," she wondered, "that he would dare to flaunt this
strength in the very face of the law?" She turned to Corporal Ripley,
who was making notes with a pencil in a little note-book. "Well," she
asked, "is my evidence _specific_ enough to warrant this man's arrest?"
The officer nodded slowly. "Yes," he answered gravely. "The evidence
warrants an arrest. Very probably several arrests."
"You mean," asked the girl, "that you think he may have--an accomplice?"
"No, Miss Elliston, I don't mean that. In spite of your evidence and
his own words, I don't think MacNair is guilty. There is something
queer here. I guess there is no doubt that whiskey has been run into
the territory, and that it has been supplied to the Indians. You
charge MacNair with these crimes, and I've got to arrest him."
Chloe was about to retort, when the officer interrupted her with a
gesture.
"Just a moment, please," he said quietly; "I'm not sure I can make
myself plain to you, but you see in the North we know something of
MacNair's work. Of what he has done in spite of the odds. We know the
North needs men like MacNair. You claim to be a friend of the Indians.
Do you realize that up on Snare Lake, right now, are a bunch of Indians
who depend on MacNair for their existence? MacNair's absence will
cause suffering among them and even death. If his storehouse has been
burned, what are they going to eat? On your statements I've got to
enter charges against MacNair. First and foremost the charge of
murder. He will also be charged with importing liquor, having liquor
in prohibited territory, smuggling whiskey, and supplying liquor to the
Indians.
"Now, Miss Elliston, for the good of those Indians on Snare Lake I want
you to withdraw the charge of murder. The other offences are bailable
ones, and in my judgment he should be allowed to return to his Indians.
Then, when his trial comes up at the spring assizes, the charge of
murder can be placed against him. I'll bet a year's pay, MacNair isn't
to blame. In the meantime we will get busy and comb the barrens for
the real criminals. I've got a hunch. And you can take my word that
justice shall be done, no matter where the blow falls."
Suddenly, through Chloe's mind flashed the memory of what Lapierre had
told her of the Mounted. She arose to her feet and, drawing herself up
haughtily, glared into the face of the officer. When she spoke, her
voice rang hard with scorn.
"It is very evident that you don't want to arrest MacNair. I have
heard that he is a law unto himself--that he would defy arrest--that he
has the Mounted subsidized. I did not believe it at the time. I
regarded it merely as the exaggerated statement of a man who justly
hates him. But it seems this man was right. You need not trouble
yourself about MacNair's Indians. I will stand sponsor for their
welfare. They are my Indians now. I warn you that the day of MacNair
is past. I refuse to withdraw a single word of my charges against him,
and you will either arrest him, or I shall go straight to Ottawa. And
I shall never rest until I have blazoned before the world the whole
truth about your rotten system! What will Canada say, when she learns
that the Mounted--the men who have been held up before all the world as
models of bravery, efficiency, and honour--are as crooked and grafting
as--as the police of New York?"
Corporal Ripley's face showed red through the tan, and he started to
his feet with an exclamation of anger. "Hold on, Corporal." The voice
of MacNair was the quiet voice with which one sooths a petulant child.
He remained seated and pushed the Stetson toward the back of his head.
"She really believes it. Don't hold it against her. It is not her
fault. When the smoke has cleared away and she gets her bearings,
we're all going to like her. In fact, I'm thinking that the time is
coming when the only one who will hate her will be herself. I like her
now; though she is not what you'd call my friend. I mean--not yet."
Corporal Ripley gazed in astonishment at MacNair and then very frigidly
he turned to Chloe. "Then the charge of murder stands?"
"Yes, it does," answered the girl. "If he were allowed to go free now
there would be three murders instead of two by the time of the spring
assizes or whatever you call them, for he is even now upon the trail of
a man he has threatened to kill. I can give you his exact words. He
said: 'I have taken the man-trail . . . and at the end of that trail
will lie a dead man--myself or Pierre Lapierre!'"
"Lapierre!" exclaimed the officer. "What has he got to do with it?"
He turned to MacNair as if expecting an answer. But MacNair remained
silent. "Why don't you charge Lapierre with the crimes you told me he
was guilty of?" taunted the girl. Again she saw that baffling twinkle
in the grey eyes of the man. Then the eyes hardened.
"The last thing I desire is the arrest of Lapierre," he answered.
"Lapierre must answer to me." The words, pronounced slowly and
distinctly, rasped hard. In spite of herself, Chloe shuddered.
Corporal Ripley shifted uneasily. "We'd better be going, MacNair," he
said. "There's something queer about this whole business--something I
don't quite understand. It's up to me to take you up the river; but,
believe me, I'm coming back! I'll get at the bottom of this thing if
it takes me five years. Are you ready?"
MacNair nodded.
"I can let you have some Indians," suggested the girl.
"What for?"
"Why, for a guard, of course; to help you with your prisoner."
Ripley drew himself up and answered abruptly: "The Mounted is quite
capable of managing its own affairs, Miss Elliston. I don't need your
Indians, thank you."
Chloe glanced wrathfully into the boyish face of the officer. "Suit
yourself," she answered sweetly. "But if I were you, I'd want a whole
regiment of Indians. Because if MacNair wants to, he'll eat you up."
"He won't want to," snapped Ripley. "I don't taste good."
As they passed out of the door, MacNair turned. "Good-by, Miss
Elliston," he said gravely. "Beware of Pierre Lapierre." Chloe made
no reply and as MacNair turned to go, he chanced to glance into the
wide, expressionless face of Big Lena, who had stood throughout the
interview leaning heavily against the jamb of the kitchen door.
Something inscrutable in the stare of the fishlike, china-blue eyes
clung in his memory, and try as he would in the days that followed,
MacNair could not fathom the meaning of that stare, if indeed it had
any meaning. MacNair did not know why, but in some inexplainable
manner the memory of that look eased many a weary mile.