"He was obviously hit in front. The bullet mark's near the middle of his body and indicates he was going for the man who shot him," the officer remarked.
"The wound at the back does not altogether support your argument," the doctor replied. "It is not at the middle, and the fellow is lucky because it is not. The mark's, so to speak, obliquely behind the other."
"The mark where a bullet leaves the body is generally larger?"
"To reckon on its being larger is a pretty safe rule," the doctor agreed.
Stannard's interest was keen, but the officer saw him and looked at the doctor, who signed to Stannard to advance.
"I imagine you have used some thought for the sick man," he said. "Sit down; I want to know—"
In a few minutes Stannard satisfied his curiosity, and the officer then took him to another room. He used reserve, but he was polite, and Stannard thought he had examined Simpson and the trooper's narrative had carried some weight.
"The doctor states Douglas must not be moved," the officer presently remarked. "In the morning, I must start for the railroad and you will go with me. I'll try to make things as easy as I can, but if you tried to get away, you would run some risk. The RoyalNorth-West have powers the Government does not give municipal police."
"Had I wanted to get away, I would have gone some time since," Stannard replied.
The other nodded. "Simpson admits your help was worth much. Well, you will certainly be made accountable for poaching, but this may satisfy my chiefs—I don't know yet. I expect there's no use in my trying to get some light about your friends' plans?"
"There is not much use," Stannard agreed. "For one thing, my friends did not altogether enlighten me."
"Very well," said the officer, smiling. "So long as you do not go off the ranch, you can go where you like. After breakfast in the morning we start for the railroad."
Mist floated about the rocks and the evening was dark. To push on was rash, but Jimmy hoped he might get down to the trees below the snow-line. Anyhow, he must if possible get off the broken crest of the range. Since noon until the sun went west and shadow crept across the mountain, he and the Indian had crouched behind a shelf and watched snow and stones plunge to the valley. Now all was quiet and the snow was firm, but the mist was puzzling and Jimmy could not see where he went. All he knew was, he followed the neck to lower ground.
Jimmy was tired. In the wilds, if one can shoot straight, fresh meat may sometimes be got, but one must carry a rifle, flour, and groceries. Moreover, he now felt the reaction after the strain, and the journey on which he had started daunted him. He must push across a wilderness of high rocks and snow. In the mountains one cannot travel fast, and when he reached the plains the distance to the American frontier was long. He dared not stop at the settlements and, until he crossed the boundary, must camp in the grass, although the days got short and the nights were cold.
The Indian, heavily loaded, went a few yards infront, but he came from the warm coast and his part was to supply them with game and fish. Jimmy got some comfort from reflecting that he himself knew the Swiss rocks, because he rather thought all mountains whose tops were above the snow-line, so to speak, approximated to a type.
Frost split their ragged pinnacles and great blocks plunged down. Avalanches ground their shoulders to precipitous slopes, from which battered crags stuck out. As a rule, the top of the long ridges was narrow, like a rough saw-edge, but sometimes a bulging snow-cornice followed the crest. Where the snow-fields dropped to a hollow, a glacier generally went down in flowing curves. One could follow a glacier, but at some places the surface wrinkled and broke in tremendous cracks.
By and by the Indian stopped and Jimmy looked about. The neck had got very steep and the mist was thick. The pitch at the top of the glacier is awkward and Jimmy knitted his brows. If he balanced properly, pushed off, and trailed his rifle butt, he would go down like a toboggan; the trouble was, he might go over a perpendicular fall and into thebergschrundcrack. To climb down and slip meant a furious plunge like the other, and if there was not abergschrund, he might hit a rock. Yet, if he meant to go east, he must get down, and for a few minutes he sat moodily in the snow.
The strange thing was, Stannard had told him to try the neck. Stannard knew much about rocks andglaciers, but perhaps he had not explored far. Then, to some extent, Jimmy had started because Stannard urged him. Now he thought about it, to run away was to admit his guilt. Stannard ought to have seen this, but obviously had not. All, however, had got a nasty jolt, and when one was jolted one was not logical. In the meantime, he must concentrate on getting down.
By and by he heard a shout and steps. Flat lumps of snow like plates rolled down and Jimmy thrilled. Somebody was coming and he thought he knew Deering's voice. Then an indistinct object pierced the mist, slid for some distance and stopped.
"Hello, Jimmy! You haven't got far ahead," Deering shouted, and his strong voice echoed in the rocks.
Jimmy was moved and comforted. Deering looked very big and his heartiness was bracing.
"I was forced to stop at the buttress in the afternoon."
"Sure," said Deering. "I reckoned on your getting held up. I was on the ridge and shoved right along, but I'm going to stop for a few minutes now. Get off the snow; we'll sit on my pack."
"What about the warden?" Jimmy asked.
"When I started he wasn't conscious. Shock collapse, I guess, but you could hear his breath and a little color was coming to his skin. On the whole, I think if they get a doctor quick he'll pull Douglas through. The trouble is, we won't know— But we'll talk about this again. The ground ahead is blamed steep. Looks as if we might hit an awkwardschrundat the top of the glacier. Anyhow, we'll wait a bit. I think the moon's coming out."
Jimmy agreed. He knew that where a snow-field comes down nearly perpendicularly to a glacier one generally finds a tremendous crack. By and by the mist rolled off and a small dim moon came out. Deering got up and when he strapped on his pack they started down the slope. They used caution and after a time Deering stopped.
The mist was thinner and one could see for a short distance. Black and white rock bordered the narrowing neck, and in front the snow fell away, plunging down rather like a frozen wave. Shreds of mist floated up from the cloud that filled the valley, and Jimmy, looking down on the vapor's level top, got a sense of profound depth. All the same, the mist did not interest him much. Fifty yards off, an uneven dark streak marked the bottom of the snowy wave. The streak was broad; its opposite edge sparkled in the moon and then melted into shadow that got deeper until it was black. Jimmy studied the yawning gap and shivered. Had Deering not arrived and the moon shone out, he thought he would have gone across the edge.
"I've no use for fooling around aschrundin the mist and we can't wait for daybreak," Deering remarked. "We must get back and make the timber line on the other side before we freeze."
Jimmy doubted if he could get back and shrank from the effort. He thought the buttress five or six hundred feet above him, and for a fresh, athletic man to get up in an hour was good climbing. But he was not fresh; his body was exhausted and he had borne a heavy nervous strain. All the same, to wait in the snow for daybreak was unthinkable.
They fronted the long climb and Jimmy, breathing hard and sometimes stumbling, made slow progress. He doubted if he could have got up the steepest pitch had not Deering helped him, and at another the Indian took his pack. They reached the top, and Deering studied the white slope that went down the other side. The moon had gone and thick cloud rolled about the heights.
"This lot peters out in a gravel bank near the snow-line. I guess we'll slide it," he said and vanished in the mist.
Jimmy braced his legs, pushed off and let himself go. In Switzerland he had studied theglissade, but when one carries a heavy load to balance on a precipitous slope is difficult. It looked as if Deering could not balance, because after a few moments Jimmy shot past an object that rolled in the snow. Then he himself lost control, his pack pulled him over, and he went head-foremost down hill. When he stopped the pitch was easier, and looking back he saw a belt of cloud three or four hundred feet above. He had gone through the cloud and when he turned his head he saw dark forest roll up from the valley in front. For all that, the highest trees were some distance off.
By and by the Indian and Deering arrived and soonafterwards the snow got thin. Stones covered the mountain-side and now and then a bank their feet disturbed slipped away and carried them down. At length, Deering, smashing through some juniper scrub, seized a small dead pine, and when Jimmy, breathless and rather battered, arrived, declared they had gone far enough. They had got fuel and water ran in the stones.
Half an hour afterwards, Jimmy sat down on thin branches in a hollow behind a rock. In front a fire snapped and the rock kept off the wind. The smell of coffee floated about the camp and the Indian was occupied with a frying-pan.
When Jimmy had satisfied his appetite he lighted his pipe. He was warm and the daunting sense of loneliness had gone. By and by Deering began to talk.
"When Stannard stated you had pulled out for the foothills I thought I'd better come along. He talked about your shoving across for the boundary, but I doubted if you could make it. Perhaps an Alpine Club party, starting from a base camp, with packers to relay supplies, could cross the rocks, but when your outfit's a little flour and a slab of pork it sure can't be done. My notion is, we'll get back from the railroad, pitch camp in a snug valley and hunt."
"But you have no grounds to hide from the police."
"I'm pretty keen on hunting and I like it in the mountains," Deering replied with a laugh. "To start with horses and packers is expensive, but our hunting won't cost much. Then I'd a sort of notion I oughtto see you out. We'll let it go at that. For a time the police will watch the railroad, but they'll get tired."
"You're a very good sort," Jimmy declared and resumed: "The Royal North-West boast they have never let a man they really wanted get away."
"Police talk!" said Deering. "Reckon it up. They put two troopers to watch a hundred miles of wilderness. In broken, timbered country a horse can't go and a man can hardly shove along. I allow the boys are smart, but they can't do more than's possible for flesh and blood. When we've put them off our track we'll fix up a scheme."
"Now I think about it, I don't know if I ought to have run away. Stannard rather persuaded me to start."
"Perhaps he was justified. The forestry department bosses can't allow their wardens to be shot. Then you belong to a gang that had killed big-horn on a reserve and engaged a notorious poacher for guide. When Douglas was shot he was getting after your man. On the whole, I reckon I'd have pulled out. But I don't see why Stannard suggested your going for the plains. He ought to know you couldn't make it."
"He didn't know," Jimmy declared.
"Very well! I reckon he knew you could not get down the neck. Anyhow, he knew the ground; he was up on the range."
Jimmy was vaguely disturbed. Deering's remarks indicated that he was not satisfied and he thought the fellow studied him.
"Stannard reached the neck, but it's obvious he did not go far enough to see the ice-fall."
"I didn't see the ice-fall, but I expected to get up against something of the sort. Stannard's a famous climber."
"After all, we might have got down."
"It's possible," Deering agreed with some dryness. "If we'd had two good fresh men, a proper rope and ice-picks, I might have tried, after sun-up. But we hadn't got the proper truck, and I own I wasn't fresh."
"I was exhausted," said Jimmy. "Still an exploit we thought daunting might not daunt Stannard. I expect that accounts for it."
Deering gave him a keen glance and smiled.
"Oh, well; he's sure a good man on the rocks."
Jimmy knocked out his pipe. So long as he had persuaded Deering that Stannard had not carelessly allowed him to run a risk he was content. He did not want to dispute about it. He liked Deering and to see him across the fire was some comfort. Deering had not Stannard's qualities, but Jimmy began to see he himself was rather Deering's sort than the other's. Then in the mountains cultivation had not the importance it had, for example, at an English country house. Jimmy liked Deering's raw human force, his big muscular body, and his rather noisy laugh. Anyhow, Deering had joined him and meant to see him out. He put away his pipe, pulled up his thick blue blanket and went to sleep.
When Stannard reached the settlements he was again examined by the police. He knew where frankness paid and was frank, but he owed something to trooper Simpson's narrative and something to his personal charm. A magistrate ordered him to pay a rather heavy fine and give up the big-horn heads, and then let him go, but Stannard doubted if the police were altogether satisfied. The officer who examined him was remarkably keen.
On the evening Stannard returned to the hotel, Laura and Dillon occupied chairs at the table on the terrace. Electric lights burned on the veranda, for the days got short, but the sunset was not altogether gone. Dillon saw Laura's face in profile against the fading reflections. She looked away from him to the north, where pines and rocks and snow were all deep, soft blue. Her arm was on the table, her body was partly turned, and Dillon thought her strangely beautiful. All the same, he wanted her to look round.
"You are quiet," he remarked.
"I'm thinking about Jimmy in the wilds. Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Dillon declared. "When Jimmy wasaround the hotel, I had no use for the fellow; now he's in the mountains, I'm bothered about him. Somehow one likes Jimmy, and if I knew how I could help, I'd start."
Laura turned her head and gave him a curious glance.
"Why do you like Jimmy? He's English and you're frankly American."
"That is so. To begin with, I've no pick on Jimmy because he loved you; if he had not loved you, I'd have known his blood wasn't red. Then, although he's English, in a sense he's our type. He's sincere; we are sincere, you know, and perhaps, from your point of view, we don't use much reserve. You can move us and when we're moved we talk and get busy. Well, Jimmy's like that; he's marked by something generously human, but I doubt if he got it at London clubs. Maybe it's his inheritance from the folks who built the cotton mill."
Laura said nothing. She doubted if Frank's willingness to state his grounds for liking Jimmy altogether accounted for his rather unusual effort. Indeed, she imagined he labored to get a light on a subject that puzzled him.
"Well," he resumed, "to know Deering went after Jimmy is some comfort. If Jimmy gets up against it in the rocks, Deering will see him through."
"Your trust in Deering is remarkable!"
"He's a white man," said Dillon with a smile. "To be his friend cost me high, but now I've cut out betsand cards, I'd sooner he'd got my money than another. You see, I got something back. The fellow's big."
Laura was annoyed. She wanted to feel Deering was her antagonist and had exploited Frank's trust. The trouble was, she could not altogether do so, but she dared not admit that Stannard shared his guilt and perhaps his reward. To chastise Deering, so to speak, exculpated her father.
"He is certainly muscular, and rather gross," she remarked.
"He's flesh and blood. I doubt if you quite get us yet. In the West, we haven't cultivated out rude emotions; we like a fellow who plunges at an obstacle, sweats and laughs, and sometimes gets mad. We're up against savage Nature and our job is a man's first job, to satisfy human needs. Well, you know my father; he's a pretty good Western type. When he started in, his food was frugal and his clothes were overalls. Now he's moving forests, and architects come to study the office block he built; but if things go wrong in the woods, his superintendents know he can use their talk and handle a cant-pole. His power springs from the primitive streak."
"We'll let it go," said Laura, and indicated the long rows of pines melting into the gloom. "Dark now comes soon."
"Before long the frost will come and in the mountains the cold is pretty fierce. On Puget Sound the soft Chinook blows and the white Olympians standbetween you and the winds from the Rockies. The old man's keen for me to bring you back. What about our starting?"
Laura blushed, for she had agreed to marry Dillon soon, but she said, "My father cannot go yet. So long as Jimmy is in the mountains and the warden cannot tell his story, I think he will remain in Canada. Perhaps he ought to remain."
"Oh, well; you can reckon on Mr. Stannard's taking the proper line," Dillon agreed rather moodily. "You feel the thing's mechanical. Mr. Stannard is like that."
"Mechanical?" said Laura, lifting her brows.
"His taking the proper line's mechanical. He doesn't bother about it. In the West, his correctness is somehow exotic."
"If my father is exotic, I expect I am exotic."
"Sure! You are like a bird of paradise or a flower from the tropics. We are a rude lot of hustlers and your grace and beauty carry us away."
"You're romantic, but sometimes you're rather nice," Laura remarked with a smile. "All the same, if my father resolves to remain in Canada, it is not a mechanical resolve but because he feels he ought."
"I expect that is so," Dillon agreed, and lighted a cigarette.
He thought Stannard ought to stay, and since he meant to do so, to doubt him was not logical; yet Dillon did doubt. For one thing, the fellow was Jimmy's friend, but when Jimmy started for the rocksDeering, not the other, went after him. Then Stannard's narrative was puzzling. Jimmy had run away and his going indicated that he was accountable for the warden's getting shot. If Jimmy imagined he had shot at a deer, he ought to have stayed. Moreover, Bob had run away, and if he had hit the warden, it was obvious that Jimmy had not. Stannard's tale was not plausible, and since Stannard was clever Dillon imagined he had not told all he knew.
But Dillon began to see his vague antagonism had another foundation. He was frankly Western and Stannard's type was new, although some people in down-East cities cultivated his qualities. On the Pacific slope, men were highly-strung, optimistic, and rather boyishly keen. They plunged into big risky undertakings, sweated, and fought. In fact, where Nature was not yet conquered, their part was protagonist. Dillon owned that he himself was loafing, but he had not loafed long and would soon return to his proper occupation.
Stannard had not an occupation and Dillon thought the grounds for his distrust were there. Moreover, he had not a bank-roll, although he lived extravagantly and indulged his fastidiousness. His habit was to strike exactly the proper note, but sometimes its monotonous accuracy jarred. Fastidious cultivation was for women. Yet Stannard was not at all womanly; Dillon began to sense in him a hard, calculating vein. For all that, he must not exaggerate, and Laura was not like her father.
"You could of course join my folk, although Mr. Stannard would sooner wait," he said.
"I think not. My father planned the excursion to the mountains and led the party. Until people are satisfied about the shooting accident, I must not go to your house."
"Now you are ridiculous!" Dillon declared.
"All the same, I will not go," said Laura firmly.
"Then, I'm going to stay with you. I'd like to stay, but if Jimmy wants me, I'm his man."
"I don't expect Jimmy will need you. Father imagines he's a long way off and will soon reach the plains," said Laura and began to talk about something else.
Jimmy was not steering for the plains; he had, in fact, known for some time that he could not get there. The morning after Deering joined him was calm and cold. The sun touched the high rocks and in places a pine branch sparkled with dew, but a thousand feet below the camp the mist was like a level floor. One could not see the valley, and the turmoil of a river came up with a faint hoarse throb as if from a long way off. Jimmy's fatigue and gloom were gone; he felt fresh and to see Deering fry pork was comforting. He got a rather frugal breakfast and lighted his pipe.
"What are our plans for to-day?" he asked.
"We must try to get a deer. Fresh venison's most as tough as rawhide, but, if you put the roasted meat in a bag with salt, after a week or two you can eat the stuff. How many cartridges have you got?"
"Six," said Jimmy and Deering smiled.
"You started for the plains with six shells! Well, I've got a box of twenty-five, but somebody has taken out ten or twelve. Looks as if we want to shoot straight. The pork won't hold up long."
"Where do we go when we have got a deer?"
"I reckon we'll go north," said Deering thoughtfully. "They talk about new railroads, but so far the only line of communication between the Rockies and the sea is the C. P. R. track. The settlements follow the line, and when you pull out of the narrow belt you're in the wilderness. The police will, no doubt, reckon on your trying to make Vancouver. We'll stop in the wilds and let them watch the railroad until they get tired."
"But if they find I haven't gone to Vancouver, won't they try the bush?"
"Look at Stannard's map," said Deering, with a smile. "Note the row of ranges and valleys running north and south. But the big ridges and furrows are not even; they're broken by high bench country and cut up by cross-spurs. Pretty awkward ground to search for two fellows' tracks! Our trouble's not to hide, but to get supplies. All the food they use in British Columbia comes in by the C. P. R."
Jimmy studied the map and agreed. Moreover, he was young and the wilds called. To plunge into the great desolation was something of an adventure and Deering claimed to know the bush.
"What about your hired man? Did you trust the fellow?" Deering resumed.
"I had no grounds to doubt him," Jimmy replied in a thoughtful voice. "Bob was rather inscrutable and didn't attract me, but he could chop and this was all I wanted."
"So far as you can calculate, he hadn't a pick on you?"
"Not at all. I think he was satisfied with his pay, and since I generally let him plan the work we did not dispute. All the same, sometimes I imagined he gave me a queer moody look."
"Do you think he was, in any sense, Stannard's man?"
"Certainly not," said Jimmy, with some surprise. "Anyhow, I don't see—"
"I don't see," Deering admitted. "I'm looking for a light, but don't get much yet. Well, when you have smoked your pipe we'll hit the trail."
They got off a few minutes afterwards, and at noon reached the bottom of the hill. A high spur blocked the valley behind them, and the echoes of small avalanches rolled across the rocks. Deering declared the sliding snow would cover their tracks at the neck, but their line was to some extent obvious, and until they could break it, they must push on as fast as possible.
To push on fast was hard. Fallen trees and tangled brush blocked the gaps in the rows of trunks, but by and by Jimmy, looking through an opening, saw thewoods shine with reflected light. The trees were like silver trees; they sparkled as if touched by frost, and for a few moments Jimmy was puzzled. Then he said, "Rampikes?"
Deering nodded. "A big burn! I expect it has cleared some ground for us."
A short distance farther on, the brushwood vanished. Underfoot was a soft carpet of ashes from which the trunks rose like columns. Their branches were gone and the smooth, round logs reflected the light. For a time to get free from entangling vines and thorns was a relief, but the ash was soft and when one disturbed it, went up in clouds. The black dust stuck to Jimmy's hot skin and he labored across the clogging stuff. Then the desolation began to react on him. The birds were gone and the feathery ash was not broken by the tracks of animals. It was obvious they would not find a deer. All was dead, and but for the noise of falling water the silence was daunting. At length Jimmy stopped and leaned against a trunk.
"Come off!" said Deering. "Sit down, if you like, although I'd sooner keep on my feet. You don't want to lean against a rampike."
Jimmy was tired and sat in the ashes.
"How do the fires start?" he asked.
"It's puzzling. The forestry people claim they're not spontaneous," Deering replied. "Around the settlements, a fire sometimes starts from a burned slashing and the police get after the homesteader. All the same, you hitbrûlésin country the Indians and prospectors leave alone. Anyhow, I guess we're lucky because there's not much wind, and while our luck is good we'll push along."
They set off and some time afterwards the roar of an avalanche broke the brooding calm. The noise swelled and rolled about the valley, as if great rocks were coming down, and then Jimmy heard a near, sharp crash. He jumped mechanically, and looking back, saw a pillar of dust float up like smoke from a blasting shot. In the dust, a big rampike slanted, broke, and plunged. Another went and Deering pushed Jimmy.
"We'll pull out!" he shouted and they began to run.
When Jimmy stopped to get his breath the echoes had died away and all was quiet, but he felt he had had enough of the burned forest. After studying the rocks and gravel on the hillside he turned to Deering.
"You talked about breaking our line, and I expect we could get over the spur in front," he said. "Let's try."
Jimmy's clothes were torn and he was bothered about his boots. He rather thought clothes and boots that would long bear the strain of a journey across the rocks were not made. At all events, one could not buy them at a Canadian settlement store. Then the things were wet and the morning was cold.
For all that, he must not grumble. The deer did not like the heavy dew and their habit was to come out on the rocks and get the sun. The Indian thought he had found a spot they haunted, and after breakfast led the others across a small tableland. By and by he stopped and Jimmy got down in the fern. In front, the timber was thin and a short distance off was a smooth rock. Jimmy saw the rock and the trees on the other side, but for a few moments this was all. A deer's soft color harmonizes with stones and trunks, and, when its outline is broken, to distinguish the animal is hard.
The Indian frowned and signed, and Jimmy imagined the small patch of light color cutting a pine trunk was a head. For one thing, it moved, and the crooked line below it looked like a leg. Jimmy did not see the deer's back, but the top of the leg indicated where its shoulder was, and he rested his rifle on a branch.He got the sights where he wanted, braced his muscles, held his breath, and steadily pulled the trigger.
The deer jumped and a thin streak of smoke floated in front of Jimmy's eyes. The animal was not on the rock, but after a moment or two he saw it rise from a thicket and go over some tangled branches a man's height from the ground. Yet he thought the leap awkward and the deer came down in the fern before it ought. His heart beat and he waited for another shot, until he saw Deering a few yards off and remembered that their cartridges were not numerous. Deering's body was firmly poised, his head was bent forward and he balanced his rifle half-way to his shoulder as if it were a gun. Jimmy knew he could use it like a gun.
When the deer broke from the fern at the edge of the tableland Jimmy did not shoot. The animal's leap carried it across a clump of tall raspberries, but it would vanish in a moment and the brush in front was thick. Deering's rifle jerked, and the graceful body, carried by its speed, plunged into the brush. Jimmy heard a crash and the deer was gone. He thought it had gone over a rock and putting down his rifle he ran.
A minute or two afterwards he stopped at the top of a precipitous slope. A stream, however, cut the mountain-side, and in places small trees were rooted in the stones. A hundred feet below, the deer lay on a shelf by a waterfall.
"I think I can reach it," said Jimmy, and went cautiously down.
They needed the venison, but when he had got downa short distance he knew he was rash, for it looked as if the rocks on the other side of the waterfall were perpendicular. Then, although he might perhaps reach the shelf, to carry the deer back was another thing.
Using the small trees for support, he got to a slab above the shelf. The slab was wet and dotted by greasy moss, but a few cracks and small stones broke its surface and Jimmy trusted his luck. When he came down the ground shook and he saw the shelf was not, as he imagined, a solid block but two or three large stones embedded in boggy soil. At one end the cascade had scooped out a small basin and the deer's hind quarters were in the pool. Jimmy seized its fore legs, and bracing his feet against a stone, began to pull. He pulled hard, but although he felt he moved, the deer did not. Then his foot went down, and letting go the animal, he threw himself back.
The deer rolled over and vanished. Water splashed, and Jimmy saw the stones plunge down the face of the cliff. For a moment or two he was rather angry than alarmed. They wanted the meat but the deer was gone. Then he saw he ran some risk of going down the cliff and he began to study the ground. Scratches on the stone indicated how he had reached the spot, but he had let himself go because the shelf was in front. The pitch was very steep and the rock was mossy. Not far off a small tree grew in a crack, but he could not reach the trunk and rather thought to try would send him over the precipice.
He heard a shout and nailed boots rattled. Deeringwas coming down, although he was not yet in Jimmy's line of view. After a time, Jimmy, lying against the rock, turned his head and saw Deering had got hold of the tree.
"I'm anchored," said Deering. "Can you reach my hand?"
The effort was risky, but Jimmy tried and Deering seized his wrist. Deering pulled him up for a foot or two, and then stopped and gasped.
"Jamb yourself against the slab; I've got to let go."
Jimmy's boots slipped on the smooth stone and his hands were wet; he could not get a proper hold and the moss was slimy under his knees. Spreading out his arms, he let himself go slack and trusted his limp body would not slip back. He could not now see Deering and did not know what he did. After a moment or two he felt him seize his cartridge belt.
"Use your knees. When I lift grab the tree."
The cartridge belt got tight and Jimmy, using its support, reached the trunk. His jacket felt slack, as if something were gone, but this was not important and he heard Deering's labored breath.
"Thanks!" he said, rather dully. "We have lost the deer."
"We have used two shells," said Deering. "Let's get up."
They got up, and at the top Jimmy put his hand to his waist.
"Hello! Where's my belt?"
"Now I think about it, when I held you up I feltsomething give. I guess the buckle was pulling out. Well, we ought to see the brown leather."
They did not see it and Jimmy said, "All the cartridges I had are gone. How many have you got?"
"Twelve," said Deering, rather grimly. "Anyhow, I'm not going down again."
Jimmy nodded. He thought the belt had gone over the cliff.
"I brought about six pounds of pork from the camp."
"My load's flour, desiccated fruit, and a few cans of meat. Looks as if we had got to eat salmon."
"In the Old Country, one doesn't grumble about eating salmon," Jimmy remarked.
"Oh, well," said Deering, "I was raised in the bush and am not fastidious, but if we can't get salmon, I'll be resigned. The trouble is, since food's short we can't push back too far from the settlements. Well, we must try to hit a creek."
In the evening they came down to a small river and pitched camp on the bank. The Indian cut and trimmed a straight fir branch, but left a fork at the thinner end. Then he pulled out two cleverly-carved bone barbs, which he fitted on the forks and fastened by sinews to the staff.
"You could carry the business part of his outfit in your pocket," Deering remarked. "I expect his folks have used barbs like that for a thousand years. An Indian's tools are standardized, but when he thinks them good enough he stops. All the same, I reckonhe gets most as far as a man can get alone. He's an artist, but we beat him by cooperating to make machines. Anyhow, the fellow doesn't want you. Take a smoke and let him spear a fish."
Jimmy lighted his pipe and looked about. A few yards off, the current splashed against the stones. The water was green, and the line of driftwood and dead leaves on the bank indicated that the frost was stopping the muddy streams from the glaciers. Some distance down the river, the Indian balanced on a rock in a pool at the tail of a rapid. For a time he did not move and Jimmy thought his quietness statuesque. The fellow was like the herons he had studied with his glasses by a pool on the Scottish border. Then his body bent and the spear went down. The thrust and recovery were strangely quick and Jimmy rather doubted if the man had moved.
"It looks as if he missed his stroke," he said.
"He's using a fir branch. An Indian spear is beautifully modeled," Deering replied.
A few minutes afterwards, the Indian bent backwards and a shining object struck the bank. Coming to the fire, he put down the fish and Jimmy's appetite was blunted. The salmon was lean and battered. Its color was dull and its tail was broken. Rows of scales were rubbed off; the fins were worn from the supporting ribs.
"I'm not as hungry as I was. Are all like that?" he said.
"It depends on when you get them," Deering replied. "A June steelhead, fresh from the sea, is pretty good, but a salmon that has pushed through to head waters in the fall is another thing. When you think about it, the salmons' journey inland is remarkable. They bore against the autumn floods when the melted snow comes down; they force tremendous rapids, whirlpools, and roaring falls. Where the water's calm in the valleys, eagles and fish-hawks harry them, and the mink hunts them in the shallows. But they can't be stopped; they follow Nature's urge and shove on across all obstacles for the distant gravel banks. Then they spawn, where they were hatched, and the bears eat their spent carcasses. The trouble is, I'm not a bear, but I've got to eat salmon."
When the Indian had fried two or three thick steaks, Jimmy sympathized with Deering. The flesh was soft and its taste was rank. For all that, he thought if he had not seen the salmon he might have had a better appetite. At the hotel he had eaten because his food tempted him; now he ate because he must. By and by he threw down his tin plate.
"I've had enough. If we can find a deer, we must risk another cartridge. We have got twelve."
"You can't reckon on getting a deer for every shot, and although, as a rule, the deer are pretty numerous about the small clearings, in some belts of back country you can't find one. I expect they're attracted by the crops. In fact, the wild animals and large birdsaren't much afraid of the ranchers; they quit when the automobiles and city sports arrive."
"But if we stop in the neighborhood of a settlement, the police may get on our trail," Jimmy rejoined.
"The police are smart and I allow they're obstinate. All the same, to search the rocks from Banff to Revelstoke is a big job. You can give yourself away by two things, shooting and smoke, but we can fix the smoke and we're not going to shoot much. As soon as we hit a proper spot, we'll build a shack."
"By and by our supplies will run out."
"That is so," Deering agreed. "In the meantime, we're baffling the police. Just now I expect they're busy looking for our tracks, but they have got other jobs and can't keep it up. Well, when we think they're forced to quit, we'll find a plan——"
He stopped and the Indian turned his head. A faint, hoarse bark came from the distance and echoed across the valley. Jimmy jumped up and looked about. The light was going and the pines were blurred.
"A dog?" he said.
"A timber wolf," said Deering. "He's not alone. I hear another."
A howl, pitched on a high mournful note, pierced the gloom and Jimmy shivered. The noise was strangely dreary.
"Will the wolves bother us?"
"I think not," said Deering and talked in Chinook to the Indian, who nodded. "The fellow agrees," heresumed. "In North Ontario we watch out for wolves when the snow is on the ground, but as a rule in British Columbia they leave the ranchers alone. Sometimes they take a sheep; I reckon that's all. The trouble is, they kill deer, and when the wolves start hunting the deer pull out."
Jimmy got down on his blanket by the fire. He felt the wilds were daunting and to see the flame leap about the branches was some comfort. Now and then a wolf howled in the distance, but by and by all was quiet and he went to sleep.
Breakfast was over and, although Jimmy would have liked another bannock, he got up and strapped on his pack. Deering needed the bannock, for flour was running out. A fire burned on the stone hearth and the little shack in a corner of the rocks was warm. Jimmy did not want to leave it, but he knew he must, and the Indian waited for him to start.
They had not killed a deer and although they had shot two or three blue grouse a blue grouse is not large. Sometimes one can knock down a little willow grouse with a stick, but the willow grouse had recently vanished and the Indian had caught nothing in his snares. In fact, it looked as if all the birds and animals had gone south. Jimmy had eaten salmon until he loathed the battered fish, but the salmon had begun to die.
"Your load's not big," said Deering, "Have you put up all the food you need?"
"I've got all the food I'm going to take," Jimmy rejoined. "I can load up at Kelshope, but you must wait until I get back."
"Oh, well; but since I know the bush and might make better time, you ought to let me go."
"You're obstinate," said Jimmy. "I know Jardine and we want his help."
"That is so," said Deering and gave him his hand. "Anyhow, you have got the Indian and I expect he'll hit the shortest line. I wish you luck."
Jimmy pulled up his pack and set off. Speed was important, for he imagined he had left Deering a larger supply of food than the other knew. Since he was going to Kelshope, he could get fresh supplies, but Deering could not. Yet if he was longer than he calculated, it would be awkward. Jimmy felt lonely and rather daunted. The shack was small and rude, but the bark walls kept out the wind and in the cold evenings he had liked to sit by the snapping fire.
Now the trackless wilderness was in front, and he must get across before his food was gone. He did get across, but he imagined the Indian's inherited talents accounted for his doing so. Jimmy himself did not know much about the journey. When he thought about it afterwards, he dully pictured the fatigue and strain, the sharpening pinch of hunger and the stern effort to push on.
At length they came down the rocks one morning and saw his clearing in the distance. Jimmy gave the Indian all the food he had, and telling him to camp at the ranch, started for Jardine's. He was hungry and for a day or two his side had hurt. Sometimes he was faint, and when he crossed a stony belt he stumbled awkwardly. For all that, in the evening he reached the split-rail fence at Kelshope.
Jimmy knew how one pulled out the bars, but they baffled him and he knocked down the crossed supports. In front of the house he stopped, for a flickering light shone from the window and he saw Margaret sewing by the fire. His broken boots and torn clothes embarrassed him, but he braced up and went to the door.
Margaret put down her sewing and her look was rather strained. Jimmy leaned against the table and gave her an apologetic smile. His hair was long, his beard had begun to grow and his face was pinched. His ragged clothes looked slack and although he had given the Indian his blanket, his shoulders were bent from weariness.
"Oh, Mr. Leyland!" Margaret exclaimed in a pitiful voice.
"To my friends, I'm Jimmy," he rejoined. "To know you and your father are my friends is some comfort, because I'm going to use your friendship. Besides, I rather think I don't look like Mr. Leyland."
Margaret's voice was gentle and she said, "Very well, Jimmy! But where have you come from?"
"I started, about a week since, from our bark shack across the range, but I don't know much about it. The Indian's at my ranch and can hold out until the morning. I want to borrow some cartridges and food."
"Why of course!" said Margaret and indicated a chair. "I'll get supper ready. Father's at the depot, but we won't wait for him."
Jimmy got into the chair; for he imagined he did not sit down gracefully. The deerskin was soft andhis head went back against the rail. Now he was not forced to keep going, he knew he was very tired. Margaret began to move about and by and by he asked: "Can't I help?"
Margaret looked up with a smile. "No, Jimmy. I have not much use for the help you could give."
Jimmy was satisfied to rest. He was dull, but he liked to see Margaret break up the fire and carry about the plates. She was very graceful and he knew her sympathetic, but this was not all. After the lonely bush, the ranch kitchen, lighted by the snapping flames, was like home. When supper was ready it cost him something of an effort to pull around his chair, and then for a time he tried to conquer his savage appetite. When one was opposite an attractive girl one did not eat like a wolf. Margaret knew the bush and smiled.
"Isn't the food good? I really think I can cook."
"My notion is, the best hotel cook in Canada could not serve a supper like yours."
"Very well," said Margaret "If you are polite, you will annoy me. What did you eat in the bush?"
"Salmon! When I see a river, I want to go the other way."
"Oh!" said Margaret "You ate salmon now?"
"When they began to float up on the stones, we stopped," Jimmy replied.
Margaret was moved. She knew the trackless bush sometimes was cruel and all who felt its lure did not return. Sometimes one, crossing a creek, lost a load of food, and sometimes one's rifle jambed. Then, ifthe march to the settlements were long, one starved. Jimmy had not starved, but he was worn and thin.
"The coffee's very good; may I have some more?" he resumed. "We used green tea, because it's light and goes far; but I mustn't bother you about our housekeeping. Do you know if the police have brought back the game warden?"
"They arrived some time since and put Douglas on the cars. A doctor went with him——"
"Then he's alive?" said Jimmy, with keen relief.
"He was badly hurt, but that is all I know," Margaret replied. "Nobody was allowed to see him——" She stopped and resumed with some hesitation: "Mr. Stannard's packers stated——"
Jimmy gave her a steady glance. "It looks as if I shot Douglas; in the dark, I thought him a deer. You did not imagine I meant to hurt the man?"
"I know you did not," said Margaret in a quiet voice.
"Very well. I must tell you all I know, but I'll wait until your father arrives. Perhaps he'll see a fresh light. Sometimes I'm puzzled——"
"You mustn't bother to talk," said Margaret. "Turn your chair to the fire and take a smoke."
Jimmy pulled out his tobacco pouch and frowned. Margaret saw the pouch was flat and took a plug of tobacco from a shelf.
"Wait a moment; don't get up," she said and began to cut the plug.
For a few moments Jimmy watched her with dullsatisfaction. She cut the tobacco in thin, even slices; Jimmy had remarked before that all Margaret did was properly done. Although it was nearly dark, she had not got a light, and red and yellow reflections from the logs played about the room. Sometimes her eyes and hair shone and her face stood out against a background of shadow. Jimmy thought the picture charming and when it melted he waited for the flames to leap again, but by and by it got indistinct.
"Give me your pouch," said Margaret and he tried to push it across.
The pouch fell from the table and his pipe went down. His head leaned to one side and found the chair rail, and he knew nothing more.
Margaret heard his sigh and was quiet. Now sleep smoothed out the marks of strain and fatigue, Jimmy's look was boyishly calm. He moved her to pity, but he moved her to trust. Margaret was not a raw, romantic girl; she knew the Canadian cities and she had studied men. If Jimmy had, indeed, shot the agent, a strange blunder accounted for his doing so, but Margaret doubted. She had some grounds to think the shot another's. Then she got up quietly and carried off the plates.
Some time afterwards Jardine came in and, seeing Jimmy, stopped and turned to Margaret. It was typical that he said nothing, but his glance was keen. Margaret smiled and in a low voice narrated all she knew. Jardine nodded, and sitting down, waited until Jimmy's head slipped from the chair rail and the jerk woke himup. He looked about as if he were puzzled, and then said, "Hello, Mr. Jardine! I didn't understand your sitting opposite me. I expect I was asleep."
"Sure thing," Jardine agreed with a twinkle. "We have sortit the bit back room for ye and ye had better go to bed."
"I'm not going yet," said Jimmy. "I want a smoke, but my tobacco's run out."
Margaret gave him his pouch and he smiled, "The tobacco's yours, sir. Miss Jardine is very kind. Well, I reckoned on her kindness, because I want to borrow a quantity of truck, but we'll talk about this again. Do you know where Stannard is?"
"Stannard and his daughter are at the hotel," Jardine replied and looked at Jimmy rather hard. "Maybe he feels he ought to stay until the police have settled who shot warden Douglas."
"But Stannard had nothing to do with it," Jimmy replied.
"He was leader o' your party and, in a way, accountable. Maybe ye ken Okanagan started for the bush soon after ye went?"
"I didn't know," said Jimmy with some surprise. "Bob claimed he hadn't a gun and I think he had not. Sometimes I'm puzzled, but I really think the unlucky shot was mine."
"The packers allood it was yours, although they werena sure how many shots they heard. Can ye locate the others' stands?"
"I tried, afterwards. In the evenings when wecamped in the woods I speculated about the accident," said Jimmy, and pulling out a few small objects arranged them to indicate the spots the sportsmen had occupied. "If you will imagine the table's the clearing, Bob posted us something like this. Well, I expect the warden was going straight for my stand behind the stump."
"Ye're thinking aboot the bullet mark in front," said Jardine. "The packers telt me aboot it. Did ye see the other mark?"
"I did not," said Jimmy with a shiver. "When we carried Douglas to the house I'd had enough. But I don't see where you lead."
"If the mark at the back was at the middle, he was going straight for you. Weel, I'll take a smoke——"
He knitted his brows and for some minutes quietly studied Jimmy's plan of the clearing. Then he said, "It's no' as plain as it looks, but the packers reckoned two o' the police who went in with the doctor were pretty good bushmen. We dinna ken what they think. Anyhow, ye're going to sleep and ought to go to bed."
Jimmy went and Jardine resumed his study. Margaret left him alone. In Scotland her father was a poacher; in the Canadian woods his rifle supplied the ranch with meat. One could trust his judgment about shooting. By and by he looked up.
"If Jimmy has fixed their stands right, it's possible he shot Douglas and he reckons he did so. That's something; but he has a kind o' notion he heard another shot. Weel, the lad's a tenderfoot. Maybe he was excited and did not hold straight."
"Bobwould not get excited and he can hit a jumping deer," said Margaret.
Jardine nodded meaningly. "I've thought aboot Bob! The warden was after him and he lit oot. There's the puzzle for the police; three o' the party quit!"
"Mr. Deering went because he is Jimmy's friend," said Margaret.
"Just that! Ye can trust the big fellow," Jardine agreed. "Then, if he was where Jimmy puts him, he didna shoot. Stannard stopped and it looks as if he had nothing to do wi' it; but I dinna ken. Stannard's no' a man ye can reckon up, and a line from his stand would cut the warden's track."
"But the bullet mark——"
Jardine smiled. "Jimmy, and maybe the trooper lad, would think that fixed it, but he didna look where the bulletcam' oot. I wonder if Stannard looked."
"Bob is accountable," said Margaret obstinately.
"Verra weel. Bob's in the rocks. Are ye for tracking the man?"
"By and by he must come down for food. When he does come down we'll try to find him."
"Bob's a good bushman," Jardine remarked. "I alloo the police will not hit his trail, but maybe he will not bother to watch out for us——" He stopped and gave Margaret a thoughtful look when he resumed:"Bob would reckon to find out who shot Douglas is no' our job."
"The job is ours," said Margaret quietly, but Jardine thought the blood came to her skin. She, however, got up and when she had put out the plates for breakfast went to bed.
In the morning Jardine gave Jimmy boots and clothes, and two days afterwards loaded him with all the supplies he would carry. After breakfast Jimmy strapped on his pack, but when he was ready to go he hesitated. The loghouse was warm and home-like, and for two days he had rested and enjoyed Margaret's society. Now he must plunge into the wilds, he frowned. The snow was creeping down the rocks and a cold wind wailed in the dark pine-tops. Then Jimmy turned to his hosts and forced a smile.
"You have given me all I needed; I knew you would see me out."
"Sure thing," said Jardine. "In the bush, your friends' job is to see ye oot."
"You are useful friends," Jimmy replied with a touch of emotion. "All the same, I feel I ought not to bother you; I ought to start for the railroad and give myself up to the police. If Douglas was hurt by my carelessness, I ought to pay."
"You mustn't go yet," said Margaret firmly. "You don't altogether know the carelessness was yours, and perhaps it was not. Somehow I think we will find out."
"Ah," said Jimmy, "if you do find out the shotwasn't mine—— But I doubt and the doubt weighs on me."
Margaret smiled and gave him her hand. "Brace up and trust your luck! Stop in the mountains until we send for you. Perhaps we will send for you sooner than you think."
Jimmy went down the path and joined the waiting Indian. He was comforted, and when he plunged into the woods his moodiness was gone. Margaret went back into the house and Jardine said in a thoughtful voice, "Ye kind o' engaged ye'd send for the lad; but until ye satisfy the police he's no' their man, he canna come back."
"That is so. The thing is rather obvious," Margaret agreed and smiled. "However, since I did engage to send for Jimmy, I must try to make good."
Not long after Jimmy's visit to Kelshope, Margaret one evening rode up the trail from the station. Her cayuse carried a load of groceries, but when she set off her object was not altogether to bring home supplies. Wakening before daybreak, she imagined she heard the fence-rails rattle at the corner farthest from the house. Sometimes a deer jumped the fence, and when Margaret got up she went to the spot. She saw no tracks, but some time afterwards found a footmark where the trail left the clearing. The mark was fresh and she thought it was not made by her father's boot.
Margaret said nothing to Jardine. Had a stranger come down the valley, he would have kept the smooth path, because in the dark the belt of slashing that generally surrounds a forest ranch is an awkward obstacle. Moreover, to account for a stranger's coming from the mountains was hard. Had Jimmy returned, he would have stopped at the house; but Bob would not and Margaret had undertaken to find Bob.
When the Vancouver train rolled into the station nobody got on board, but a police trooper came from the agent's office, and going along the line, looked into the cars. Margaret had not remarked him beforethe train stopped and thought his curiosity ominous. If Bob had stolen past the ranch, he, however, had not tried to get on board and was hiding somewhere about. Margaret was puzzled and resolved to stop at the hotel and see Stannard. She admitted that her resolve was perhaps not logical, because if Stannard knew more about the shooting than others, he would not enlighten her. All the same, she meant to see him.
Getting down where the wagon road went round to the front of the hotel, she tied her horse to a tree and took a path across the hill. The trees were thick, but the moon was bright and in places its beams pierced the wood. In front and some distance above her, she saw illuminated windows at the top of the hotel; then the terrace wall cut the reflection from the drawing-room and rotunda. The high wall was in the gloom, but at the bottom pools of silver light broke the dark shadow of the trees. Margaret knew the steps to the terrace. Had she gone to the front door, she must have waited at the office until a page brought Stannard, and she thought she would sooner find him in the rotunda before he knew she was about.
She heard music in the drawing-room and somebody on the terrace talking, but the wall was high and when the music stopped all was quiet. In the woods one lifts one's feet with mechanical caution and Margaret was a rancher's daughter. Her advance was noiseless, but at a bend of the path she stopped.
A few yards off, a man stood under a tree. His back was to Margaret, but the dark object across hisshoulder was a slung rifle and she thought she knew him. Stannard leaned against a trunk opposite. He wore dinner dress and a loose light coat. He was in the moonlight, and when he shook his head Margaret thought his smile ironical. The other's pose was stiff and his fist was clenched. Margaret put her hand in the pocket of her deerskin coat and then moved a branch. The man turned and his hand went to his rifle. Margaret heard the sling rattle.
"You don't want your gun, Bob; I know you. Besides, I've got a pistol," she said.
Bob swore softly and Stannard lifted his hat.
"Aren't you rather theatrical, Miss Jardine? I imagined gun pulling was out of date."
"Bob's theatrical; but he'sslow," Margaret rejoined, and although her heart beat her voice was steady. "I haven't yet pulled my gun."
"It looks as if you had better leave yours alone," Stannard remarked to Bob.
Bob's face got very dark, but Stannard smiled.
"Did you want to see me or the other, Miss Jardine?"
"I want to see Bob first, but you may remain," said Margaret and gave Bob a searching glance. "Who shot warden Douglas?"
"I did not, anyhow," Bob replied fiercely. "I hadn't a gun and when I'd fixed the others I put out my lamp. I'd no use for using the pit-light. The fool plan was Deering's."
"All the same, you quit!"
"I sure quit. Somebody shot Douglas and the police knew he'd got a pick on me. They'd got to put the shooting on one of the gang."
"Perhaps it's important the police knew you had a pick on Douglas," Stannard remarked.
"For all that, I didn't use my gun," Bob rejoined.
Margaret pondered. As a rule, Bob was marked by a rather sinister quietness, but now he talked with something like passion. He had stepped forward and a moonbeam touched his face. Margaret thought he knew, but he did not move out of the light. Somehow she felt she must believe his statement. Then Stannard turned to her.
"Perhaps it's strange, but I rather think he speaks the truth."
"If you did not use your gun, who did shoot Douglas?" Margaret resumed, looking at Bob. "I want to know. A trooper's watching the station, and if I shout, the hotel clerk will call him on the 'phone."
Bob's passion vanished and Margaret thought his calm ominous.
"That's another thing! Looks as if Jimmy plugged the fellow. He sort of allowed he done it and he started for the rocks."
"I imagine Bob doesn't know," said Stannard. "Before you arrived he implied that I was accountable and demanded a hundred dollars. In fact, when he didn't get the sum he was much annoyed."
"I was mad all right," Bob agreed. "My flour and tea's gone, and I can't hire up about the settlements,but if I'd a hundred dollars, I'd try to make the coast." He looked hard at Stannard and resumed: "Are you going to help me get off?"
"Certainly not," said Stannard in a careless voice. "I am not as rich as you think, and to give you money would be rash, particularly when Miss Jardine is about."
Margaret pulled out her wallet. "I can give you ten dollars, Bob; but I can shout to the people at the hotel. You know Mr. Leyland did not shoot Douglas."
"I sure don't know," said Bob and gave Margaret a haughty glance. "Put up your wad; I've no use for your money. If you like, shout for them to 'phone the police."
For a moment or two Margaret hesitated. She was persuaded Bob himself was not accountable, but she thought this was all she would know. She was hurt and humiliated, for now she had found Bob she had not helped Jimmy much.
"Shall I shout?" she asked Stannard.
"To choose is your part. I rather think Dillon is on the terrace and two or three athletic young sportsmen are at the hotel, but unless you are willing to use your gun, I doubt if Bob would wait until the others arrive. Then, although I don't know where Jimmy is, perhaps for the police to search the neighborhood would have some drawbacks."
Margaret turned to Bob. "Get off! If you come back, I'll send the troopers after you."
Bob went, and when he vanished in the gloom Stannard laughed. "I expect your arrival disturbed the fellow. At the beginning, he tried to force me to give him my wallet; then he took another line and hinted that Leyland was the guilty man. Well, he has gone. Will you come back with me and talk to Laura?"
Margaret noted that he was not curious about her object for stopping at the hotel, but she said, "I wanted to see you. What do you know about the accident?"
"I really don't know much, although I am persuaded accident is the proper word. Jimmy thought the unlucky shot was his and when he resolved to go off I agreed."
"But you knew what the police would think about his running away!"
"That is so," said Stannard coolly. "All the same, Jimmy was with me when I killed the big-horn, and when Douglas found us at the old ranch we were using pit-lights. One of our party shot him, and since we were again poaching, it hardly looked as if the shot were accidental. Jimmy is young and when he saw the risk he ran he was afraid. I thought he did run some risk, but, if he could cheat the police for a time, we might find a clue to the puzzle."
Margaret remarked his frankness. Although she thought he did not know Jimmy had stopped at the ranch, his arguments were the arguments Jimmy stated he had used. Moreover, she admitted the arguments carried some weight.
"We have not yet found a clue," she said drearily."Still, if the warden gets better—— Do you know where he is?"
For a moment or two Stannard was quiet. Then he said, "We can get no news about Douglas, and perhaps we ought not to expect much from his narrative. When you use a pit-lamp your hat-brim shades your face, and I imagine all Douglas saw was the light. Yet the police's reserve is strange."
"Perhaps they know something we do not," said Margaret. "Well, my father is waiting and I must not stop."
She went off and Stannard went up the steps to the hotel. In a corner of the veranda Dillon talked to Laura, and Stannard remarked the smile she gave the young man. Stannard knitted his brows and did not stop. In some respects, the marriage would be good, but it was not the marriage he had wanted Laura to make. All the same, Jimmy was obviously satisfied with the bush girl and Stannard thought she loved him. Well, he had done with Jimmy.
When Margaret got down at the ranch she went to the kitchen and sat by the fire. For a time she said nothing and Jardine quietly smoked his pipe. Then she looked up with a frown.
"I found Bob," she said. "He was talking to Mr. Stannard outside the hotel."
"In the trees, I'm thinking! Did he tell ye much?"
"He declared when they used the pit-lights he had not a gun and somehow I think he hadn't."
"Maybe!" said Jardine, with some dryness. "Was it all ye got?"
"That was all. I'm not as clever as I thought. Bob wanted Mr. Stannard to give him a hundred dollars."
"Ah!" said Jardine. "Weel, I expect ye see——"
"Stannardlaughed. It was plain he was not at all afraid of Bob."
"Stannard's no' a fool," Jardine remarked.
"I thought his carelessness sincere. Besides, Bob soon afterwards implied that Jimmy hit Douglas. I imagine Bob really doesn't know who did use his gun."
"It's possible," Jardine agreed. "My notion is, Jimmy had better keep the woods. In the meantime, I've no use for Bob's hanging round the ranch."
"Bob will not bother us; I don't think he'll bother Mr. Stannard again," said Margaret and got some sewing.