Grace Coulthurst had not long cleared the evening meal away, but she was already waiting Esmond's departure with an impatience which was somewhat difficult to hold in check. He had come across from the outpost while she was occupied with the task, and that in itself would have been sufficient to displease her, but there were also other causes for the strain upon her temper. Miss Coulthurst had not expected to fare luxuriously in the Green River country and had hitherto borne the necessary discomforts exceptionally well; but of late she had been actually hungry, which, in her case, was as unpleasant as it was unusual.
There was still a store of flour and salt-pork in the Gold Commissioner's house, but there was practically nothing else, and the pork was rancid, while Grace had a very rudimentary acquaintance with the art of cookery. As one result of this, she had risen unsatisfied from each untempting meal, and, brought up as she had been, the deprivation had its effect on her physical nature, though she felt the isolation which had succeeded the blockade even more. Of late the company of Ingleby or Sewell had become almost a necessity, while she had naturally not seen either of them since the miners made their protest. Coulthurst had also been a trifle difficult to get on with. He was not addicted to indulgence, but neither was he particularly abstemious, and tea brewed from leaves which had been infused once ortwice already was not a beverage he appreciated or one that tended to make him more companionable.
He lay somewhat wearily in a big deck-chair beside the stove with an unlighted cigar in his hand, while Esmond sat opposite him with an unpleasant look in his face.
"There is nothing to be gained by hiding the fact that I'm a little anxious about the state of affairs, sir," he said. "The scoundrelly miners are still apparently as far from giving in as ever, and, unpleasant as it is to admit, they have the upper hand."
"It looks like it," said the major drily. "I suppose you haven't thought of making a compromise? Nobody's hurt as yet, and I fancy they would be satisfied if you met them with regard to Tomlinson. You're not bound to send a man up for trial unless it's reasonably evident that he's guilty, and I don't believe Tomlinson did the thing, myself. Couldn't you hold a kind of informal inquiry, and give the boys an opportunity for proving him innocent?"
A vindictive sparkle crept into Esmond's eyes. "And permit a rabble of that kind to teach me my duty? I'm afraid not. Even if I wasn't sure the man was guilty, which I am, the thing would be out of the question."
"You feel warranted in calling all of them—rabble?" asked Grace.
"I do. Every one of them. Their leaders, in particular, belong to that most intolerable class to be found anywhere—the half-taught proletariat, with just enough education to increase their natural unpleasantness and inspire them with a hatred of their superiors. That, however, is not quite the point."
The blood rose to the girl's face, but remembering that the major occasionally displayed some little penetration she contrived to keep silent, though this was by no means easy. Coulthurst, however, nodded.
"I scarcely think it is," he said, with a trace of dryness. "As I pointed out once before, you do not seem to remember that I occasionally had Mr. Sewell and Ingleby here."
"I'm afraid I didn't—I'm sorry, sir," said Esmond. "Of course, I should have done so. One could almost have fancied that they were here frequently."
Again Grace said nothing, though it cost her a stronger effort, and the major did not appear to notice the younger man's sardonic smile.
"Since you don't seem to care for my suggestion, have you any notions of your own?"
"I haven't, which is partly why I came to you. If I could only find a way of getting word to Victoria and a few more troopers in, it would be easy to bring them to reason. As it is, I have sense enough to realize that nobody would thank me for forcing a contest that could only end in disaster and the subsequent sending up of a battalion of Canadian militia. The miners are twenty to one, you see."
Again Coulthurst nodded. "You are right in one respect," he said. "Personally, I shouldn't care to undertake the thing with less than three or four strong companies, and I'm not sure I could get in then. Well, since a compromise appears out of the question, you can only wait events."
"That is the difficulty. I can't wait too long. We're on full rations still, but stores are getting low and certainly won't last until the thaw sets in. Of course, if affairs had been different, I could have hired enough of the fellows to break out a trail."
Perhaps the major did not intend it, but he looked at Grace, and saw comprehension of his thoughts in her eyes. They were not on full rations, or anything approaching it, at the Gold Commissioner's house, and a few of the comforts Esmond could have spared would have been worth a good deal to them. He was in some respects not an ungenerous man, but though he must, Grace fancied, have seen how meagrely they fared, such a course had evidentlynever suggested itself to him, and in that fact lay the sting. He rose to go, in another minute or two, but just then there was a knocking at the door, which swung open a moment later, and Grace gasped as she saw Ingleby standing on the threshold with a heavy case in his hands.
His garments were ragged, and his gauntness showed through them. His face was worn, and darkened by exposure to the frost, but his eyes were steady, and he glanced at the girl with a smile. There was a curious silence for a moment or two until he turned to the major.
"May I come in, sir?" he asked.
Coulthurst regarded him sternly. "You could scarcely expect me to welcome a man in arms against his country."
"No," said Ingleby. "Not as a friend. That would be unreasonable. Still, I have a little explanation to make, and it is a bitter night to keep the door open. With your permission!"
He swung round and closed it, after which he laid down the case, and Grace felt a thrill of appreciation as she watched him. His self-possession appealed to her.
"You have come—alone?" asked the major.
"Of course!" said Ingleby.
Esmond smiled, though there was no good-humour in his eyes, and, as if inadvertently, dropped his hand on his hip. His uniform was raised a trifle there, in a fashion which suggested that a pistol lay beneath it.
"Wasn't that a little rash?" he asked. "Can you point out any reason why I shouldn't arrest you?"
"I fancy I can," and Ingleby made a gesture of impatience. "For one thing, if you attempted to lay hands on me or reached for your pistol I should fling you out into the snow. That, of course, isn't in good taste to say in another man's house; but it may save everybody unpleasantness, and, in any case, I'm one of the proletariat from whom too much is not expected."
There was a harshness in his voice and a glow in hiseyes which seemed to indicate that he was perfectly willing to make his promise good, while, though his attitude was certainly not all that conventionality demanded, it was, at least, natural in the circumstances, and Grace was not displeased by it. Esmond, perhaps because he recognized the necessity for displaying his superior training, kept his temper, and Coulthurst watched them both, with a little grim smile.
"I haven't the least intention of indulging in an exhibition of that kind, which would be quite unnecessary," said the police officer. "There is a trooper within call who has a carbine."
"I saw him, though, being a policeman on duty, he naturally did not see me. What would you gain by calling him?"
"I think he and I between us could take you to the outpost."
"You might. I haven't a weapon of any kind with me, but what then? Two of my comrades know where I am, and you would have thirty or forty armed miners inquiring for me before morning. It is, of course, quite plain that you can't afford to force an outbreak of that kind."
Esmond realized that this was true. Ingleby, it was evident, held the cards and was quite aware of it. He wisely said nothing, though his face grew hot, and there was a wicked look in his eyes. Then Ingleby turned to the major again.
"What I have to say is not in the least important, and will not keep you a minute, sir," he said. "Still, there are reasons why I would sooner Captain Esmond didn't hear it."
"I believe he was going when you came in," said Coulthurst reflectively.
The hint was plain enough, and Esmond moved towards the door, while Ingleby, who stood between him and his fur-coat, handed the coat to him. Then as the officer wentout he lifted a partly-filled flour-bag in from the veranda, and, when he had closed the door, laid it with the case on the table.
"Won't you sit down?" Grace said quietly.
Ingleby looked at Coulthurst. "I scarcely think Major Coulthurst would object to anything you suggest, but I am in his hands."
"Sit down—and be hanged to you!" said the major, whose face grew suddenly red. "Do you suppose I enjoy the position you have forced me into?"
Ingleby did as he was bidden. "I came across this case at the settlement, sir, and was told it was for you. From what the storekeeper said I fancied Miss Coulthurst would be pleased to have it, and that you wouldn't mind my bringing it up with me."
"You were at the settlement?" and Coulthurst glanced at him almost incredibly. "Perhaps you know Esmond sent down two or three troopers, and they couldn't face the snow?"
"Yes, sir. You will probably understand why I preferred not to mention it in Captain Esmond's presence."
"The box is proof that you were there—but how the devil you managed it is more than I know. The troopers certainly couldn't."
"They didn't go the right way," said Ingleby drily.
"Then there is another one?" and Coulthurst flashed a sharp glance at him.
"As a very little reflection would show you that there must be, there is no use in running away from the question. Besides, I feel I'm safe in your hands, and, while circumstances continue as they are, Captain Esmond couldn't profit by any conclusions you might come to. Shall I open the case for you, sir?"
The major made a little sign, and Ingleby, crossing to the hearth, picked up the rock-drill, which served as poker, and contrived to prize up the lid with it.
It was a trifling action, but it was characteristic; and Grace noticed that he made use of the thing that was nearest without troubling anybody to find him a more suitable implement. Then he laid out the contents of the box upon the table, and the girl's face softened as she watched him. The little comforts in themselves were worth a good deal to her just then, but the fact that he had thought of her was worth far more. The major, however, appeared a trifle disappointed, and she fancied she knew what he was looking for. Ingleby seemed to know it, too, for there was a suggestion of a smile in his eyes. Leaning one elbow on the table she looked at him with her rounded chin in the palm of one hand.
"Whichever way you went you must have crossed the range," she said. "That box was heavy. How did you carry it?"
"On my back," said Ingleby. "That is the usual way. We had sold all the horses off to the freighter for a few dollars quite a while ago. Of course, as I hadn't asked your permission, it was a liberty."
Grace made a little gesture. "What did you go down to the settlement for?"
"Provisions."
"But nobody could carry many of them over the mountains."
"I think I managed forty pounds," said Ingleby incautiously. "Most of the boys had considerably more."
The clear rose colour crept into Grace's cheeks, and she did not trouble to prevent his seeing it. She knew what the simple admission meant, and that it must have cost him toil incredible to make that journey with a double burden. It was for her he had borne it.
"And the box?" she asked.
Ingleby's embarrassment was evident, and she turned to the major with a curious little laugh and a faint ring in her voice.
"Do you understand what Mr. Ingleby has done?" she said. "He has carried that box besides his own load up from the settlement—over the mountains—so that we should not suffer for anything."
Coulthurst also appeared embarrassed. In fact, his face was distinctly red. "I'm very much obliged to him," he said. "It's devilishly unfortunate you got drawn into that outpost business, Ingleby. Excuse me, Grace, it is—unfortunate. Can't you see how you have placed me? As a man who has served his nation, even though he has been kicked for it, I can't very well——"
He stopped a moment, still a trifle flushed, and then broke into a little laugh. "Well," he said, "you're too strong for me—I'll capitulate. You know the ground I ought to take as well as I do; but it's more than could reasonably be expected of any man, under the circumstances. Still, that storekeeper fellow might have put in something a little more exhilarating than tea."
Ingleby opened the flour-bag with something as nearly approaching a grin on his gaunt face as was compatible with the deferential attitude he had assumed.
"I feel a little diffident about the next proceeding, sir," he said. "In fact, it is a piece of almost intolerable presumption on the part of a man setting constituted authority at defiance, as I'm afraid I am. Still, you see, people must eat and drink, in any case."
He took two carefully wrapped bottles out of the bag, and the major's eyes twinkled, while as he spread out the rest of its contents Grace felt her heart grow very soft towards him. He had, it seemed, thought of everything that could minister to her comfort. Then she saw that he had guessed what she was thinking, and his honesty became apparent.
"The storekeeper had his wife there," he said. "I had a little talk with her."
"It is to be hoped she didn't drink whisky of that kind,"said the major, with a chuckle. "You couldn't get anything better in a Montreal club."
Ingleby laughed. "I fancy some of my comrades have belonged to associations of the kind, and a good many of them have cultivated tastes," he said. "As a matter of fact, they can afford them."
"Will you be good enough to tell me how much those things cost?" asked the major.
"If you insist. In fact, there's an invoice here. Still, after the little kindnesses you have shown me I would much sooner not let you see it."
Coulthurst looked at him sharply, and then, reaching out, laid his hand upon the grocery bill. After that he rose and went into the adjoining room, and when he came back he handed Ingleby a cheque on a Vancouver bank. Grace watched the miner curiously as he did so.
"Now you have relieved your feelings, sir, I can make what use I like of what is my own," he said.
He crossed the room and flung the paper into the fire, then turned with a little smile to the major. It was a bold step, and the boldness of it appealed to the girl. She understood it as an assertion of equality, something he owed to himself, and withal it was done with deference and not aggressively. For a moment Coulthurst gazed at him in astonishment. Then he laughed, and made a little sign of comprehension.
"I'm not sure I've met many young men with nerve enough to do that, but I think you're right," he said. "I was pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ingleby—and it is, perhaps, not altogether your fault that the present unfortunate circumstances must necessarily lead to a temporary break in it."
Ingleby made him a little grave inclination. "I understand, sir, and there is only one thing I would like to ask," he said. "We may make some suggestions shortly for a compromise, and, in view of Captain Esmond's temperament—and our own—they might be considered more dispassionately if passed through a third party. Would you be willing to receive Sewell here?"
He was evidently about to go, and Coulthurst held out his hand. "Send him as soon as you can. If your ideas are reasonable, I'll do my utmost with Esmond. This state of affairs can't go on."
Ingleby turned towards the door, but Grace, who was waiting, opened it for him, and let her hand rest in his a moment.
"Walter," she said very softly, "it was exactly what I would have expected from you."
Ingleby did not think it advisable to turn round, but he gripped the little fingers hard as he passed out into the darkness.
Sewell went to Major Coulthurst's the following night, and remained some time in conference with him. He also went there a day or two later to hear Esmond's answer to the suggestions he had conveyed, and when it was delivered he found himself no nearer a compromise. There was not a man in the valley who would agree to what the police officer demanded; and though Sewell went back with somewhat modified proposals from time to time, affairs dragged on at a deadlock, while each party hoped to starve the other into surrender.
The miners could with difficulty have obtained a temporary and insufficient supply of provisions, but fearing that Esmond would be driven to action, their leaders were dubious about sending any number of their men away again. It was a game of bluff they were playing, and it had dragged out much longer than any of them had anticipated, while all could recognize that it was only by holding command of such a force as would render hopeless any attempt to drive them from their barricade that they could avoid an actual recourse to arms, which must eventually prove disastrous to them.
Finally, after a meeting of all concerned, Sewell was dispatched again with what practically amounted to an ultimatum, and on the evening on which he was to deliver it he and Ingleby and Leger discussed the affair at the bakery. Hetty was not present, for though they were on shortrations, she had gone up the valley with one or two little dainties she had contrived to make for Tomlinson. He had been a strong and healthy man, but wounds, complicated by comminuted bones, give trouble in the cold of that country, and the very indifferent food had further militated against his recovery. Sewell stood ready to set out, Ingleby and Leger sat by the hearth, and there was anxiety in the faces of all of them.
"I'm afraid it's a fool's errand I'm going on," said Sewell. "It is, of course, useless to threaten to seize the outpost when Esmond must realize that we have no intention of doing it. The thing's out of the question. It was all very well to block the troopers out, but if we shot one of them it would bring every policeman in the country, and, if necessary, the whole Canadian militia, down upon our heads."
"It's almost a pity you didn't realize that before," said Leger.
Sewell made a little gesture which might have expressed anything. "Mutual recriminations seldom do much good, and I scarcely think any one would have expected Esmond to hold out as he has done. I met one of the troopers the last time I went to Coulthurst's, and he admitted that they were practically starving. It was a bluff we put up, but we made the mistake of assuming that the opposition had less nerve than we had. After all, it's not a very uncommon one."
"Are you quite sure it was only bluff when you began?" asked Leger quietly.
Sewell started, almost imperceptibly, but Leger saw it, and even Ingleby, who would have believed in him in spite of everything, fancied that there was embarrassment in his face.
"Circumstances alter cases, and I've learnt a little about British official inertia since I've been up here," he said. "It's rather a big contract to dictate terms to the Dominionof Canada when we have failed to make any great impression on one police officer. Anyway, I may as well get on to the commissioner's. Neither of us is, I fancy, in the most amiable temper."
He went out, and Ingleby looked at Leger, who shook his head.
"He's quite right, Walter. It's too big a thing for us, and we have failed," he said. "If it comes to the worst and Esmond goes down, he'll beat us still."
Ingleby said nothing, though his face grew grim, and Leger continued with a little dry smile, "Sewell will do no good. It's almost a pity we hadn't chosen another man. His heart isn't in the thing."
"You can say that—when you know his record?" and there was a flash of anger in Ingleby's eyes.
"Don't misunderstand me. Sewell will not actually play us false. He is, of course, a much more brilliant man than either of us, and he'll handle our case with his usual ability. Still, that is scarcely enough, and one has to admit that it's a poor one intrinsically. We started with the mistake of taking it for granted that Esmond could be bluffed."
"I'm not sure that we did. To be correct, I started the thing without thinking of anything. Anyway, you believed as firmly as the rest of us in Sewell and that the men here and at Westerhouse could make a stand that would result in their getting what they wanted."
Leger sat silent a moment or two. "Perhaps I did, though I think I saw the weak points of the scheme clearly. They, however, didn't count for so much then. Nobody, you see, can put a big thing through by working it all out logically beforehand. It appears all difficulties if you look at it that way. One has to take his chances with the faith that attempts the impossible and the fire that carries him through an obstacle before he realizes that it is one. Sewell had the faith and the fire, and the trouble is that he hasn'tnow. There has been a big change in the man since he came into the Green River country."
Ingleby could not controvert this, but it was evident to Leger, who watched him closely, that he had still full confidence in Sewell, and was as far as ever from guessing at any reason that might account for the change in him.
"Well," he said slowly, "we can't back down now. What are we to do?"
"Go on. Play the game out to the bitter end. I think you know that as well as I do."
The little sign Ingleby made seemed to imply that there was nothing more to be said.
"Isn't it time Hetty was back?" he asked.
He opened the door, and the cold struck through him like a knife. There was not a breath of wind astir, and the pines cut sharp and black against the luminous blueness of the night without the faintest quiver of a spray, for that afternoon an Arctic frost had descended upon the valley.
"I'll go along and meet her," he said.
It was ten minutes later when he did so. She was plodding somewhat wearily up the climbing trail, a shapeless figure in a big blanket-coat, and she took his arm and leaned upon it. It occurred to him that Hetty had lost some of her brightness, and had been looking a little worn of late; but that was not astonishing, since the scanty food and strain of anxiety were telling upon everybody in the Green River valley. It was also a long way from the bakery to the hut where Tomlinson still lay helpless, and Ingleby felt very compassionate as the girl, who said very little, walked by his side. When at last he opened the door for her she sank into the nearest chair and turned to him with a curiously listless gesture.
"Keep it open—wide," she said.
Ingleby understood her, for the little room was very hot, and the sudden change of temperature from the frostof the Northwest had once or twice painfully affected him. Then as he turned again he heard a faint cry and saw Hetty clutch at the table. In another moment her chair went over with a crash, and he caught her as she fell.
"No!" said Leger sharply. "Don't try to lift her. Lay her flat."
Ingleby stupidly did as he was bidden, and when Hetty lay at his feet, a pitiful, huddled object with blanched hands and face, beneath the snow-sprinkled coat, he felt an unnerving thrill of apprehension run through him as he looked down at her. Leger, however, kept his head.
"I don't think there's anything to be afraid of, but we must get these things loose about her neck," he said. "Undo that hook while I lift her head a little. It's pressed right into her throat."
Ingleby dropped on one knee, and with clumsy fingers loosed the blanket-cloak. Then he stopped a moment, and glanced at Leger, who had slipped one arm under Hetty. As she lay, her garments were drawn tight about her neck and shoulders.
"Go on!" said Leger sharply. "Get that collar undone. Be quick. The thing is choking her."
Ingleby loosed the collar, though the blood crept to his face as the bodice fell apart from Hetty's white neck. Leger was, however, not contented yet.
"Pull those hooks out, or cut the stuff," he said. "What—are—you stopping for?"
Ingleby got the hooks out, that is, one or two of them, and then he stopped again, while Leger saw the narrow black ribbon pressed into the white flesh upon which his eyes were fixed.
"I don't know what that is, but pull it out," he said. "If you can't get it loose, cut the thing."
Ingleby did as he was bidden, but there was no need to use the knife, for, as Leger moved his arm a little, the ribbon slackened, and a little trumpery locket which, asIngleby knew, was not even of high-carat gold, slid out and lay on Hetty's breast. As he saw it all the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. Leger, however, apparently did not notice that.
"Get me the old jacket yonder. I want it under her shoulders," he said.
Ingleby got it and then stood leaning on the table, while Leger still knelt by his sister's side. His face was set and anxious, but it was evident that he was equal to the occasion, and had not let his apprehensions master him. It was, however, different with Ingleby, for now there was no longer anything to do he felt that he was quivering.
"I'll run for the American who's looking after Tomlinson," he said.
Leger made a little sign. "No. Don't go. I may want you. She'll come round in a minute or two. This room must have been seventy, and outside it's forty below. Where has your nerve gone?"
Ingleby did not know. It had, however, certainly deserted him, and he felt for once scarcely capable of doing anything as he leaned upon the table. Then Leger, who slipped the locket back beneath the dress, looked up at him.
"She mightn't like to think we had seen it, and, of course, I didn't know what the thing was," he said, and then added, without moving his eyes from Ingleby, "I wonder where she got it?"
Ingleby said nothing, though he knew. He had bought her the little trinket in England long ago, but it seemed to him that Hetty might not like her brother to know it. Apart from that, he was scarcely sensible of anything clearly, for he was overwhelmed by a horrible confusion, and he looked down at Leger vacantly until a little shiver seemed to run through the girl.
"Now see if you can find the coffee," said his comrade sharply. "There is a little somewhere. We have nothing else to give her."
Ingleby waited another moment until he saw a faint tinge of colour creep into Hetty's face, and then he moved towards the box of stores, dazed from relief. He was busy for a moment or two, and when he turned again Hetty was lying in the low hide-chair with her brother's arm about her and the blanket-coat clutched closely to her neck. Leger flashed a swift glance at him and pointed towards the door.
"I think it would be better if you got out of this," he said.
Ingleby also thought so and went forthwith. He felt that he could not meet Hetty's eyes just then, and he wanted to be alone and get rid of the almost insufferable confusion that afflicted him. He had never made love to Hetty. They had been comrades, almost as brother and sister to each other; but she had worn his locket hidden on her breast, which was, he surmised, considerably more than a sister would have done. Brotherly tenderness could also, he realized, scarcely account for the uneasiness he had felt and the relief that had replaced it; but it appeared quite out of the question—in fact, a thought to shrink from—that he could be in love with two women. It was as unpleasant to contemplate the probability of two women being in love with him. He could find no solution of the problem as he swung along beneath the solemn pines, and when he reached his black and silent shanty his brain was still in a whirl. One thing alone was clear to him, and that was that Hetty was alive and apparently recovering.
In the meanwhile Sewell found that Coulthurst, who, it seemed, had gone across to the outpost, had not yet come home. Grace told him so standing in the doorway, with the sweeping lines of her figure cut in black against the light, and though she could see the admiration in his face he could not see her curious little smile. Miss Coulthurst had decided that the struggle between the miners and their rulers had continued long enough, and it was time she made some attempt to put an end to it.
"Still, I really think you might come in," she said. "He will be back before very long."
Sewell came in, and sat down opposite her across the hearth, and Grace glanced covertly at her little watch which hung upon the wall. Major Coulthurst was punctuality in itself, and she realized that she had about twenty minutes in which to do a good deal. Ingleby's devotion to her—and it was, perhaps, significant that she felt that was the best description of it—was evident; but there were points on which he was as unyielding and impervious to suggestion as a rock; while Sewell, with his more delicately balanced nature and wider grasp of comprehension, was, in her hands, at least, as malleable clay.
"How long is this very unpleasant state of affairs to continue, Mr. Sewell?" she asked. "You promised me we should have quietness this winter."
Sewell made a little deprecatory gesture. "Circumstances were too strong for me, but I have done what I could. Unpleasant as things are, they might be worse—considerably."
"It is a little difficult to see how they could be."
She had straightened herself a little, and sat looking at him with a certain quiet and half-scornful imperiousness which she knew became her, and yet was not altogether affected. Sewell, the democrat, understood exactly what she meant, and knew that it was not the loneliness or physical discomfort the blockade entailed that she was thinking of. It was the humbling of the pride of the ruling caste to which she belonged, and the bold denial of its prerogative of authority, that she felt the most. It was curious that he could understand this and sympathize with her as Ingleby, who only saw and did the obvious thing, could not have done.
"Well," he said, "I think this winter might have seen an undreamt-of overturning of constituted authority and the setting up of what you were once pleased to call avisionary Utopia. My comrades were almost ready to undertake it a little while ago. In fact, they only wanted somebody to show them how."
Grace laughed a careless, silvery laugh, which would have been wasted on Ingleby. There was no scorn in it now, only amusement, but Sewell nodded comprehendingly as he looked up at her.
"Your friends would naturally never believe it, but I almost think the inauguration of the Utopia would have been possible," he said. "At least, we could have cleared the ground for it."
"There are," said Grace suggestively, "men enough in this valley to make about one company."
"And between here and the Arctic sea enough to make such a small army-corps of marchers and marksmen as no country has ever enrolled beneath its banner. A very little spark in the right place will kindle a great blaze, you know; but I only want to show you that the thing might have happened. I scarcely think you need expect it now."
Grace looked at him with a curious intensity. "Then," she said, "you were afraid?"
"No," answered Sewell slowly. "I was not sure I was strong enough to control the forces I could set in motion, or that the result of unloosing them would be—Utopia. It seemed too big a risk. That was one reason—you can, perhaps, guess the other. After all, one has to admit that there are certain advantages attached to the direction of affairs by the more highly trained divisions of society."
"To which," said Grace, with a soft laugh, "you, of course, belong. What made—you—a democrat?"
Sewell made a little gesture. "Ah," he said, "that is a different story, and one I hardly care to go into, but perhaps the instincts one is born with can't be entirely rooted out. I am, at least, not the iconoclast I was when I came into the valley. That, however, really isn't very astonishing. I now have a good deal to lose."
He looked at her steadily with grave deference, but as like to like, and the girl recognized this and what his words implied. She was, however, playing a game then, and another swift glance at her watch showed her that she had little time in which to finish it.
"And so, for fear you should lose it, you did not strike the spark? Well, I think that was wise. It would certainly have cost you one thing which you seem to value," she said.
This was vague, but it seemed to Sewell that there could be only one meaning to it. What he had feared to lose was not yet beyond his reach. He did not know that there were in the girl qualities which would have made her a successful Pompadour. Just then her craving for influence was irresistible; but she swept away from the topic with a swift smile expressive only of the indifference which of all the feelings that she could show he most shrank from.
"Still, to be practical, how could the blaze have spread?" she said. "It would have smouldered out in one snow-bound valley, and in the spring there would have been a very inglorious downfall to the strictly limited Utopia."
Sewell was nettled. There was, though it was seldom apparent, vanity in him, as both Hetty and Grace had guessed. Her blame he could have borne, but there was a sting in her smile. That she should think him a visionary schemer led away by his imagination, and without the faculty of execution, hurt him.
"The blaze would have leapt the snowy barriers," he said. "In fact, that was all arranged. Then it would have flashed from range to range across to the Yukon. One tolerably big bonfire has been waiting some time ready for lighting. I had only to send the message. I think you know why I didn't."
Grace saw his eyes, and understood the look in them. It was suggestive of passionate admiration. She also knew that a word would dispel it, perhaps forever, but she waslost in the game now, and what the man might think of her afterwards did not matter.
"Then there is a road out—beside the one you made to the settlement? It must be to Westerhouse?" she said.
"Yes," answered Sewell simply. "I have been there."
Grace had just five minutes left, and a task before her which, under ordinary circumstances, she could scarcely have expected to accomplish; but she had to deal with a man who was, after all, of her own caste, a man with a deep vein of vanity in him, who was also in love with her. The latter fact had been apparent for some little while, and she let him see now that she recognized it, while during the next few minutes she used every attribute with which Nature had endowed her, as well as art of a very delicate description. In fact, Grace had never until then exactly realized her own capabilities.
Neither Sewell nor she could afterwards remember all that she said, and in fact she said very little, though that little was suggestive; there was no great need for a girl with her patrician beauty to waste words unduly when she had her eyes. In any case, Sewell was as wax beneath her hands, and when she had finished with him she knew that the mountain barrier between the Green River country and Westerhouse was not impassable, and how the one gorge ran that traversed it. If Sewell fancied she appreciated the passion which had led him to do so much for her, that was his affair. There was, however, a curious glow in his eyes when he rose as the major came in.
Coulthurst sat with a big hand clenched on the table and a grim look in his face when Sewell left him, nor did he turn his head until Grace, who came softly out of the inner room, sat down close by him.
"You can't come to terms, father?" she said.
"We can't," and there was an ominous sparkle in Coulthurst's eyes. "I'm not sure that I wish to now. In fact, I've borne quite as much as I'm willing to put up with from both of them, and there's some reason, after all, in Esmond's plan. He'll give them another week, and then we'll cut our way in."
"It's not your affair," and Grace started visibly. "You are the Gold Commissioner."
Coulthurst smiled. "I am also entitled to the rank of major, and that, after all, means a good deal."
Grace mastered her apprehension, for she realized the major's point of view and indeed concurred with it.
"There is no other way than the one you are thinking of?" she asked.
"There are two," said Coulthurst drily. "We can sit still and starve, or march out and leave the valley in the possession of the miners while we try to break through the snow. Neither of them, however, commends itself to Esmond or me."
"Of course!" said Grace, with a little flush in her face, which, however, faded suddenly. "But suppose one or twoof the troopers were killed while you forced the barricade?"
"Then," said Coulthurst, "our friends Ingleby and Sewell would certainly be hung."
The major's terseness was more convincing than a great deal of argument, and Grace saw what she must do. The pride of station was strong in her, so strong, in fact, that she would never have come down to Ingleby's level. It was only because he had shown that he could force his way to hers—at least, as it was likely to be regarded in that country—that she had listened to him. When the grapple became imminent that pride alone would have driven her to take part with constituted authority instead of what she considered the democratic rabble. Then there was the peril to her father and to Ingleby. He must be saved—against himself, if it should be necessary.
"There are troopers at Westerhouse across the mountains?" she asked.
"I believe there is a strong detachment and a very capable officer."
Grace sat silent a moment before she spoke again. "Father," she said, "I want you to make a bargain with Reggie Esmond for me. On two conditions I am willing to tell you how he can bring those troopers in. You are to be the Gold Commissioner and peacemaker, but nothing else. As there will be two police officers, they will not want you as major. Then there must be an indemnity for Mr. Sewell and Ingleby."
Coulthurst gazed at her in blank astonishment. "You are quite serious? You mean what you say?"
"Of course! I can tell you—on those two conditions—how to bring the Westerhouse troopers in."
Coulthurst banged his hand down on the table. "Then I think there will be an end of the trouble—and the affair could be arranged to meet your views. But however did you find the way into the Westerhouse country?"
Grace looked at him steadily, though there was a little more colour than usual in her face. "That does not concern Reggie Esmond or you. Hadn't you better go over and see him?"
It was getting late, but Coulthurst went straightway; and as the result of it Esmond and two troopers set out with a hand-sled early next morning for a certain peak that overhung a gorge through the barrier-range that cut off the Westerhouse country. He could not pass up the valley, but that was no great matter since the peak could be seen leagues away. It was a long journey, and he had intended going no farther than the gorge with the troopers, but he was not destined to get even there.
On the second day they came on a tree lying across their path with its branches interlocked among the shattered limbs of a neighbor so that the great trunk was sharply tilted, an obstacle which is frequently to be met with in that country. As the undergrowth all round was tall and thick, Esmond and one trooper swung themselves upon the log to see if they could find an opening, and made their way along it until they came to a branch where the trunk was high above the ground. The trooper crept round it, and then, as Esmond came after him, there was a crash and a shout, and the trooper who had stayed below saw his officer vanish amidst the rattling twigs. It was several minutes before they could reach him, and then he was lying, with a grey face, and with one leg changed in its usual contour and significantly limp. He looked up with a grin of pain when the first trooper bent over him.
"Gone at the thigh-bone. I felt it snap," he said. "Simpkin will get me home on the sled, but you'll go on, Grieve, and tell Captain Slavin how we are fixed. He will come in with every man available."
"I guess I'd better see you safe back, sir," said the trooper.
Esmond stared at him fiercely, though his face was awry with pain.
"You'll go on," he said.
Then he winced, and, moving a little, fell over with his face in the snow, and, because the boughs he had fallen among were thick, it was two hours before the troopers got him out and on the sled. It was not altogether astonishing that they managed to compound the fracture during the operation. After that Grieve pushed on alone, and he was, as it happened, from the wild bush of Northern Ontario, which, though the trees and rocks are smaller, is a very similar country. In the meanwhile Simpkin headed back for the valley with the sled, and it was not his fault that three nights of bitter frost overtook him on the way. Indeed, if he had not been an exceptionally resolute man, inured to fatigue, it is very probable that Esmond would have frozen before they reached the outpost. On the morning after they got there a trooper appeared before the miners' barricade without his carbine and hailed the men on guard.
"Have you brought along the American who fixed up Jackson's foot when he smashed his toes, boys?" he asked.
The man who had nursed Tomlinson climbed up on the log. "I'm here," he said. "Is anybody wanting me?"
"I guess Captain Esmond does," said the trooper. "He fell off a log two or three days ago, and his leg-bone has come right through. The corporal can't get it back inside him. If you can see your way to do anything, we'd be much obliged to you."
"Did Captain Esmond send you?"
"No, sir," said the trooper, "he didn't. He's way too sick to worry about anything."
The American smiled at Ingleby, who stood beneath him. "It's very probable! A compound fracture of the femur is apt to prove rather serious at this temperature, especially if our friend the corporal has been trying to reduce it. Wedon't owe the man anything, but I guess I'd better go along."
"Of course!" said Ingleby simply, and in another minute the doctor was on his way to the outpost with the trooper.
It was evening when he came back with news of Esmond's condition, which, it appeared, was serious, and Sewell forthwith set out for the Gold Commissioner's dwelling. He did not see Grace at all, and Coulthurst granted him only a two minutes' interview.
"It is quite out of the question that I should worry Captain Esmond now," he said. "Unless you are prepared to make an unconditional surrender, which I should strongly recommend, there is nothing I can do for you."
"That," replied Sewell, "is about the last thing we should think of doing."
He came back, and related what had passed to Leger and Ingleby. The latter looked thoughtful when he heard him.
"One could almost fancy by the change in his attitude that the major had something up his sleeve," he said.
"The game thing occurred to me, though I don't see what it could be. The accident to Esmond has probably upset him. Anyway, we have our own course to consider now."
"Since Esmond's not likely to worry us for awhile, we had better send all the men we can spare down for provisions, for one thing," said Leger.
It was decided on, and still Ingleby looked grave.
"That's all right as far as it goes, but it's only a side issue, after all," he said. "This state of things can't continue indefinitely, and Tomlinson doesn't seem to be getting much better, or we could have simplified the affair by getting him out of the valley. The winter's wearing through, and if nothing is done before the thaw comes we'll be in the troopers' hands. In the meanwhile there's an unpleasant probability of the freighter or somebody else finding his way in now we've broken out a trail. Haveyou thought about asking the boys at Westerhouse to join us?"
"No," said Sewell, with a momentary trace of embarrassment. "There are a good many reasons why it wouldn't be convenient."
"I should like to hear one or two of them," said Leger bluntly.
Sewell managed to think of several reasons, but none of them appeared altogether satisfactory when his comrades considered them. It was, however, evident that he was determined on not sending to Westerhouse, and they had to be content, though Leger looked very grave when the conference broke up.
"One could almost have fancied that Sewell had lost his nerve, and if I could send Hetty out of the valley it would be a big weight off my mind," he said.
The same thought had occurred to Ingleby, and it troubled him again that night as he kept his watch behind the tree, for he could not altogether understand the tense anxiety he felt about Hetty. She had scarcely been out of his thoughts since the night she fainted at the bakery, which, considering that he was in love with Grace Coulthurst, appeared an almost unnatural thing. There was no doubt that he was in love with the commissioner's daughter, he assured himself. All his hopes and projects for the future were built upon the fact; but he was commencing to realize vaguely that she appealed, for the most part, to his intellect, while he felt for Hetty a curious, unreasoning tenderness which was quite apart from admiration of her or her qualities. He puzzled over it that night, sitting still while the men slept about him under the stars, and then gave it up as beyond solution when one of them relieved him.
In the meanwhile Trooper Grieve had found the gorge through the barrier-range, and was pushing on through dim fir forests and over snowy hillsides for Westerhouse.Esmond lay half-insensible in the outpost, for fever and dangerous inflammation had supervened; but nobody told the American where the lieutenant was going when he fell from the tree or anything about Trooper Grieve. There was thus no apparent change in the state of affairs until one night, when every man who could be spared was away at the settlement, a stranger worn with travel was brought in by two miners. Sewell was standing with the others about the fire behind the tree, and Ingleby saw the colour sink from his face when it was told them that the stranger was from Westerhouse.
"You have got to do something right away," said the visitor. "Slavin's coming in with every trooper he can raise. He went round the way the trooper came, and I pushed on by the trail Sewell told us of to get in ahead of him. A few of the boys are coming along behind me."
There was a murmur of astonishment and consternation, and then a somewhat impressive silence, which Leger broke.
"You mean that one of the Green River troopers reached Westerhouse?" he said.
"That's just what I do mean. Your man sent him."
Leger looked hard at Sewell, who stood back a little in the shadow now.
"It isn't quite clear how he found the way, but, after all, we needn't worry about that in the meanwhile," he said. "You are still our acknowledged leader, Mr. Sewell. Hadn't you better ask him a question or two? We want to understand the thing."
Sewell stood still for almost a minute, and the men, who were tensely impatient, wondered at it and the hardness of Leger's voice. Then he sat down on a branch where the wood-smoke drifted between them and him.
"Try to tell us as clearly as you can what happened," he said.
"Well," said the stranger, "one of the Green River troopers came in badly played out, and when he asked us wherethe outpost was we took him along. After what you'd told us we guessed it meant trouble for you. It was dark then, and one of us crawled round to the little back window; but a trooper came round the house, and we lit out kind of quietly for the bush. Then a trooper started out on the trail as hard as he could hit it, and 'bout half an hour later Slavin came out in front of the outpost. 'I'm going away by and by—for my health—but I've sent to Clatterton Creek for two or three more policemen, and if you start any blame circus while I'm away, I'll see the boys who made it are sorry for themselves,' he said."
"The boys took it quietly?" asked Ingleby.
"Yes," said the stranger. "That's what they did. You see, the folks in Victoria had moved on Eshelby, and the new man was doing what he could for us within reason. Anyway, we hadn't heard from you, and the boys weren't going to make trouble for nothing when Slavin was there."
Again Leger glanced at Sewell, who said nothing, and then made a little sign to the speaker. "Nobody would expect it of them," he said. "Get on."
"Well," said the stranger, "when Slavin and his troopers lit out quietly 'bout an hour after, we got our packs made and came on after them. That is, a few of us who hadn't struck any dirt that was worth the washing. We were willing to take a hand in if we were wanted, because we heard of Hall Sewell before he came to Westerhouse. If he was in a tight place, we figured we'd stand behind him. He'd often done what he could for men like us."
Sewell made no sign, but leaned back, a shadowy figure, against the tree, and there was something in his silence that set Ingleby's nerves on edge.
"We kept 'most a league behind Slavin, and we had to get a move on at that," continued the speaker. "He wasn't wasting time. Then when we'd got through the range he broke off to the north, and we figured that was the waythe trooper came. We let him go, and came right on by the trail Sewell told us of."
"How many are there of you?" asked Leger.
"Eight. They're 'most as cleaned out of grub and money as I am. We'd have sent you a hundred if you'd wanted them soon after Sewell came."
Ingleby laughed harshly, a jarring, hopeless laugh, and there was a murmur from the men.
"Our hand's played out. The contract was too big for us," said one of them. "What d'you figure on doing—now—Mr. Sewell?"
Sewell rose slowly, as though it cost him an effort, and, face to face with them, stood where the firelight fell upon him. The bronze had faded from his cheeks, and his glance was vacillating.
"Nothing in the meanwhile, boys," he said. "In fact, there is nothing we can do but try to extort some trifling concession from Slavin before we surrender to-morrow."
He stopped a moment, and looked at them with steadying eyes. "If we had Westerhouse behind us I would have asked you to make a fight for it. It would at least have been an easy way out of the tangle for one of us—but it would only mean useless bloodshed as it is. I can't get you into further trouble, boys."
His voice had been growing hoarser, and there was an uncomfortable silence when he stopped. This was not what the men had expected, and everybody seemed to feel that there was something wrong. Then Ingleby looked at Leger with a little bitter smile.
"Well," he said, "we have made our protest, and, as any one else would have foreseen, have found it useless. Established order is too strong for us. I never felt of quite so little account as I do to-night."
Leger nodded sympathetically. "That," he said, "isn't, after all, of any particular consequence—and I scarcelythink it was quite our fault. Why didn't Sewell send over to Westerhouse?"
"I don't know," said Ingleby. "It doesn't matter now."
"Have you asked yourself how the trooper found his way across the range?"
Ingleby turned round on him suddenly. "What do you mean by that?"
"If you can't find an answer, I think you should ask Sewell. It seems to me you are entitled to know."
Ingleby met his eyes for a moment, and then the blood rushed to his face as he rose. He said nothing, but he saw Sewell leave the fire, and, turning abruptly, he moved on behind him up the little trail to the bakery, though he made no effort to overtake him. It was very dark beneath the pines, and he felt that he must see the man he had believed in. It seemed a very long while before he reached the bakery and, going in quietly, saw Hetty regarding Sewell with a flash of scornful anger in her eyes.
"Oh," she said, "it's perfectly plain to me! The girl tricked you. I knew she would."
Then she started as she saw Ingleby in the doorway, though the flush in her cheeks grew deeper and the little vindictive glow in her eyes plainer still.
"You heard me, Walter? Well, he knows she did. Look at him," she said.
"If you will go away for about five minutes, Hetty, I shall be much obliged to you," said Ingleby quietly. "Mr. Sewell has something to say to me."
Hetty swung round and swept out of the room, and, when the door closed behind her, Sewell sat down at the table, and Ingleby stood in front of him. His face was grim, and his lips were tightly set.
"Well?" he said at length.
Sewell made a little gesture. "I can't admit that Hetty was quite correct in one respect," he said. "It was my mad impulsiveness misled me."
"I want to be quite clear," said Ingleby in a low, even voice. "You told Miss Coulthurst the way to the Westerhouse Gully?"
"I did. If I were not sure that you knew it already, I would never have admitted it to you."
A little grey patch showed in Ingleby's cheek, and the pain in his face was unmistakable, while Sewell clenched one hand on the table as he looked at him.
"Walter," he said, "what is Miss Coulthurst to you?"
"I don't know," said Ingleby, with a very bitter laugh. "I am not sure that she is anything whatever to me. I, however, asked her to marry me not so very long ago, and she led me to believe that when circumstances were more propitious she might do so."
Sewell seemed to gasp, and his hand closed more tightly on the table; but he said nothing, and Ingleby spoke again.
"I would," he said, "have believed in you, in spite of everything—but there is nothing to be gained by reproaching you. Hetty was right, as usual, and you never belonged to us, you know. There is, however, something to be done, since it seems to me that it would be better to keep out of the affair the girl who was apparently willing to look with favour on both of us. You must be out of the valley before daylight to-morrow."
Sewell stood up slowly and took a carefully folded packet from his pocket. "I will be gone in half an hour," he said. "Take care of these. They are the leaves that were under the bandage on Probyn's body, and may go a little way towards clearing Tomlinson. I will not offer to shake hands with you, Walter; but I would like you to believe that I was sincere enough when I came into the valley. If it is any consolation to you, my punishment will be heavy. My name will be a byword after what I have done, and the work I once believed in must be left to clean-handed men."
Ingleby took the packet. "I could have forgiven you for stealing Miss Coulthurst's favour from me—since Iscarcely think it was ever mine—but, just now, at least, I can't forgive the rest," he said.
Sewell made no answer, and when he went out Ingleby sat down limply at the table and, with his chin in his hand, gazed at the fire. For the time even his physical strength seemed to have gone out of him. All his faith had been given one man and one woman, and now it was clear that both had betrayed him, and through him the miners who had placed their confidence in him. He did not know how long he sat there, but he started suddenly as he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and saw Hetty standing beside him.
"I am so sorry, Walter. Is it very hard?" she said.
Ingleby took her hand and held it.
"I believe you are sorry," he said. "After all, old friends are best. I have been a colossal idiot, Hetty, and it does hurt a little to have the recognition of a fact of that kind suddenly forced on one. Still, I must go back to the boys now. There are several little points that must be decided before to-morrow."
A faint light was creeping across the snow when Ingleby rose from his bed of cedar twigs, behind the log, and stood up shivering. It was very cold, and most of his companions were still sleeping, though there were more of them than there had been the night before. During the darkness a handful of strangers had come limping in, and one of them had told him a somewhat astonishing story about Trooper Probyn. He could grasp the significance of it, but that was all, for though the rapid was partly ice-bound now, one white sluice of water still frothed about the tree, and the sound it made seemed to keep his thoughts from crystallizing. He was, however, glad of the distraction.
A man who flung down an armful of fuel stopped and shook two or three of his comrades, who got up and stretched themselves before they set about preparing their morning meal. The pines had grown sharper in outline by the time it was finished, and the snow beneath them had changed in hue and was now a flat, lifeless white; and, though most of the men had risen, the stillness was more impressive than ever. Ingleby had grown accustomed to the roar of the river and could have heard the slightest sound through its pulsations; but there was nothing for him to hear beyond the sharp crackle of the fire and the restless movements of one or two of his companions. The rest were expectantly watching the man upon the log; but he stood motionless, with his face turned steadfastly down the valley.Ingleby, however, felt the tension less than he might have done under different circumstances. The game was up, and he had no doubt that the law he had defied would crush him for his contumacy; but that, after all, seemed of no great moment then. His faith was shattered, his hopes were gone, and it only remained for him to exculpate his comrades as far as he could and face his downfall befittingly. He took out his pipe and lighted it, but the tobacco seemed tasteless, and he let it go out again, and sat listening until the man upon the log raised a warning hand, and a faint tramp of feet came out of the silence. There was a rhythm in it, and he knew that Slavin had come in with the troopers from Westerhouse. The men also heard it, and Ingleby stood up as they glanced at him.
"I'm afraid you have gained very little by listening to Sewell or me, boys, but it might save confusion if you still leave me to do what I can for you," he said. "The police will be here in two or three minutes, and somebody must speak to them."
There was a little murmur from the men, which suggested sympathy with and confidence in him. Then one of them, who was an American, waved his hand.
"Mr. Ingleby will go right ahead, and he'll find us behind him whatever he does," he said. "It isn't his fault this thing didn't quite pan out as we had figured. He's here just where he's wanted, to see it out with us, and, anyway, it's a big, cold bluff he and the rest of us—a handful of placer miners of no account—have put up on the British Empire. We're beat, but the man who wants anything has got to show he means to have it, and they'll listen to the others because we shut our fist."
Again there was a murmur, harsh but expressive, and the man upon the log looked down.
"They're taking front among the firs," he said. "There's a stranger, who must be Slavin, with them. I guess they'll be wanting you."
He sprang down, and Ingleby climbed up on the log. There was a suggestive jingle and clatter among the trees, where dusty shapes flitted in the shadows; but two men were moving forward across the open strip of snow where the light was clearer, and Ingleby recognized one of them as Coulthurst. The other was a stranger who wore a somewhat ragged fur-coat over his uniform. They stopped near the barricade, and Coulthurst looked at Ingleby. The latter stood erect and very still, with the smoke of the fire rising in a pale blue column behind him.
"I presume you are there to speak for your comrades?" said the major.
"Your surmise is quite correct," said Ingleby.
Coulthurst turned towards his companion. "This is Captain Slavin, in charge of the police detachment at Westerhouse. He has come in with enough of his men to make any attempt to oppose him likely to result in disaster to yourselves. Captain Esmond being quite incapable of duty, this affair is in his hands."
Ingleby raised his shapeless hat, and wondered if this had been intended as a hint that he had no longer Esmond's rancour to fear; but the police officer, who looked at him sharply, made no sign of noticing the salute.
"Well," he said, "what does Captain Slavin want?"
"In the first place, the unconditional surrender of Sewell, Leger, and yourself."
"That can be counted on, so far as Leger and I are concerned. Sewell is no longer in the valley. What comes next?"
"The dispersing of the men you have with you."
"Which implies the arrest of Tomlinson?" asked Ingleby.
"It does, naturally."
"Well," said Ingleby, "we have heard your demands, and now we would like to know what you have to offer."
"That," said Coulthurst, "is simply answered. Nothing whatever. I may, however, say that, as usual in an affairof the kind, proceedings will only be taken against the recognized leaders—yourself, Sewell, and Leger—and that Captain Slavin intends to hold an inquiry on the spot into the death of Trooper Probyn."
Slavin, at whom he glanced, made a little gesture of concurrence.
"Major Coulthurst is correct," he said. "You have, however, to understand that the inquiry is in no way a concession. I have, as it happens, some information bearing on the case which has not come into Captain Esmond's possession. That is all. Now, what are you going to do?"
Ingleby spent little time in consideration. The attitude of the two officers was just what he had expected it would be. They could make no concession; but Coulthurst had nevertheless conveyed the impression that they would by no means proceed to extremities.
"In ten minutes Leger and I will give ourselves up, and you will not find a man behind the tree," he said. "That is, on condition that you wait with your men among the firs yonder until the time is up."
Slavin made a sign of comprehension, and when he moved back with Coulthurst, Ingleby turned to the miners.
"It's all fixed now, boys," he said. "Leger and I decided last night to give ourselves up. You couldn't have prevented us, and all we wanted for Tomlinson was a straight inquiry on the spot. Now, I want you to slip away quietly, and hang your rifles up where you keep them. You have to remember that the police don't know who held up the outpost, and have nothing definite against anybody but myself and Leger."
The men went reluctantly, and when the ten minutes had expired Ingleby and Leger climbed down from the log. Two troopers accompanied them to the outpost, where, when Ingleby had spoken a few words to Slavin, they were left to their reflections for several hours. Then there was a tramp of feet outside, and a trooper led them into theadjoining room where Coulthurst and Slavin sat. The door was open, and the corporal and a cluster of miners stood just outside. A carbine lay upon the table in front of Slavin, who turned to the miners as Ingleby came in.
"I want you to understand that this is not a trial, boys," he said. "It's an inquiry into the death of Trooper Probyn, and I expect the truth from you. I have seen Prospector Tomlinson, and I'll now ask the corporal to give us his account of what happened the night Probyn disappeared."
There was a little movement among the miners, and one or two of them glanced significantly at Ingleby. Slavin, it seemed, had already gained their confidence, and they felt that if Tomlinson was sent down for trial it would be because he was guilty. Then the corporal told his story briefly, and admitted that Ingleby had differed from him concerning the locality in which one of the shots had apparently been fired. After that several of the miners narrated how they had assisted to draw Probyn from the river, and the discovery of the bullet-wound in him.
Slavin, who listened to them quietly, nodded and signed to Ingleby. "You didn't agree with the corporal that the shots were fired in the same place?"
"No, sir," said Ingleby. "One of them, I feel certain, came from quite an opposite direction. The corporal was busy at the time, or he would have recognized it."
"The men who have just spoken were correct in their account of what Sewell did when Trooper Probyn had been taken out of the water?"