CHAPTER XXVIPRESCOTT MAKES INQUIRIES
Supper was over and Laxton, the land agent, sat in the rotunda of the leading hotel at Navarino. It was a handsome building, worthy of the new town which had sprung into existence on the discovery that a wide belt of somewhat arid country, hitherto passed over by settlers, was capable of growing excellent wheat. As soon as this was proved, rude shacks and mean frame houses had been torn down, and banks, stores, and hotels, of stone or steel and cement rose in their places. Great irrigation ditches were dug and a period of feverish prosperity began.
Though the frost was almost arctic outside, the rotunda was pleasantly warm and was dimmed, in spite of its glaring lamps, with a haze of cigar smoke. In front of the great plate-glass windows rows of men sat in tilted chairs, their feet on a brass rail, basking in the dry heat of the radiators. Drummers and land speculators were busy writing and consulting maps at the tables farther back among the ornate columns, and the place was filled with the hum of eager voices. The town was crowded with homestead-selectors, and many, braving the rigors of winter, were camping on their new possessions in frail tents and rude board shacks, ready to begin work in the spring. Indeed, determined men had slept in the snow on the sidewalks outside the landoffices to secure first attention in the morning when cheap locations were offered for settlement.
Laxton had had a tiring day, and he was leaning back lazily in his chair, watching the crowd, when a man entered the turnstile-door, which was fitted with glass valves to keep out the cold. He looked about the room as if in search of somebody; and then after speaking to the clerk came toward the land agent. Laxton glanced at him without much interest, having already as much business on his hands as he could manage. The stranger wore an old fur-coat and looked like a rancher.
“Mr. Laxton, I believe,” he said, taking the next chair.
The land agent nodded and the other continued:
“My name’s Prescott. I’ve come over from Sebastian to have a talk with you.”
“I suppose I’ll have to spare you a few minutes,” said Laxton with more resignation than curiosity.
“In the first place, I want to ask if you have ever seen me before?”
Laxton looked at him with greater interest. The man’s brown face was eager, his eyes were keen, with a sparkle in them that hinted at determination.
“Well,” he said, “I can’t recollect it.”
“Would you be willing to swear to that?”
“Don’t know that I’d go quite so far; I don’t see why I should.”
Prescott took out a sheet of paper with some writing on it.
“Do you recognize that hand?”
“No,” said the agent decidedly. “It’s a bold style that one ought to notice, but I don’t think I’ve seen it.” Then he looked up sharply. “What you getting after?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. Let me say that I’ve examined the land sale record here, and have found a deal registered that you were concerned in. It was made in the name of Cyril Jernyngham.”
Laxton started.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ve had a lot of trouble over this thing since I was fool enough to write to the police; in fact, I’ve had enough of the Jernyngham case.” He broke off for a moment as a light dawned on him and then went on: “It’s a sure thing I haven’t met you, but, when I think, there was a young lad something like you among others in blanket-coats in a photograph a sergeant brought me. Montreal snowshoe or toboggan club, I guess.”
“I don’t know how the police got it. But what did you tell the sergeant?”
“Said it was no use showing me a photograph like that, because I didn’t trade with kids.”
“Then, as I’m the man the police suspect of selling that land of Jernyngham’s, it would be a great favor if you’ll tell me candidly what you know about the matter.”
“Hang up your coat,” said Laxton; “I’ll do what I can. Anyway, you’re not the fellow I made the deal with.”
He drew out a cigar-case when Prescott came back.
“Take a smoke and go ahead. I’m willing to talk.”
“First of all, turn over the paper I gave you and look at the signature.”
“Cyril Jernyngham!” exclaimed Laxton, astonished. “I see your point—the hand ought to be the same as that on the sale registration form, and I might have been expected to recognize it, but I can’t remember all the writing I see. However, we’ll compare it with the other signature to-morrow.”
“When you do so, you’ll find a difference.”
“Ah!” said Laxton. “Then whose hand is this?”
“Cyril Jernyngham’s. It was written in my presence, and what’s more important, in the presence of another man. Now will you tell me what the fellow who made the deal with you was like?”
Laxton did so, and Prescott thought the description indicated Wandle, though he was not the only man in the neighborhood of Sebastian to whom it might apply.
“Did you notice how he was dressed?” he asked.
“He had on a suit of new brown clothes.”
Prescott sat still, his brows knitted, his right hand clenched. The reason why the clothes had been hidden near his house was obvious, but there was something else: a blurred memory that was growing into shape. Ever since he had heard about them from Muriel, he had been trying to think where he had seen the clothes, and at last he seemed to hold a clue. In another few moments it led him to the truth; everything was clear. He had once met Wandle driving toward the settlement wearing such a suit, and by good fortune he had shortly afterward been overtaken by a farmer who must have seen the man. In his excitement he struck the table.
“Now I know!” he cried. “The man who forged Jernyngham’s name hid his clothes near my house to fix the thing on me. I owe you a good deal for your help in a puzzling matter.”
The agent was sympathetic, and after Prescott had given him an outline of his connection with the case, they sat talking over its details. Laxton had a keen intelligence and his comments on several points were valuable. When Prescott went to sleep it was with a weight off hismind; but his mood changed the next day and he traveled back to Sebastian in a very grim humor.
Open and just as he was in all his dealings, Wandle’s treachery infuriated him. There would, he felt, have been more extenuation for the trick had the man killed Jernyngham, but that he should conspire to throw the blackest suspicion on a neighbor in order to enjoy the proceeds of a petty theft was abominable. He must be made to suffer for it. However, Prescott did not mean to trouble the police. He had had enough of their cautious methods. He determined to secure a proof of Wandle’s guilt, unassisted, without further loss of time, and to do this he must obtain a specimen of the man’s writing to compare with that on the land sale documents. There was, he thought, a way of getting it.
Reaching Sebastian in the evening, he was going to the livery-stable to hire a team when he met an acquaintance who offered to drive him home. As the man would pass within a mile or two of Wandle’s homestead and there was a farm in the neighborhood where he might borrow a horse, Prescott agreed. His companion found him preoccupied during the journey. He put him down at a fork of the trail, and Prescott, walking on quickly through the darkness, saw Wandle’s team standing harnessed when he reached the house. This was a sign that their owner had recently come home, and Prescott, opening the door without knocking, abruptly entered the kitchen. The lamp was lighted and Wandle, standing near it with his fur-coat still on, looked startled. Prescott was sensible of a burning desire to grapple with him and extort a confession by force, but there was a risk of the crude method defeating its object, and with strong self-denial he determined to set to work prudently.
“I see you have just come in, and I’m anxious to get home, so I won’t keep you more than a few minutes,” he said.
“How did you come?” Wandle asked. “I didn’t hear a team.”
“Harper drove me out. I walked up the cross trail; but that doesn’t matter. The last time we had a talk we fell out over the straightening up of Jernyngham’s affairs.”
“That’s so; you still owe me a hundred dollars.”
“I don’t admit it,” said Prescott, who had laid his plans on the expectation of this claim being made. “Anyhow, the dispute has been dragging on and it’s time we put an end to it. It was the small items you wanted to charge Jernyngham with that I objected to, and I may have cut some of them down too hard. Suppose you write me out a list.”
“I can tell you them right away.”
“Put them down on paper; then we can figure them out more easily.”
“Don’t know if I’ve any ink,” said Wandle. “Haven’t you a notebook in your wallet? You used to carry one.”
Prescott made a mistake in putting his hand into his pocket, which showed that he had the book, but he remembered that it would not suit his purpose to produce it.
“I’m not going to make out your bill,” he said. “That’s your business. Give me a proper list of the disputed expenses and we’ll see what can be done.”
He was a poor diplomatist and erred in showing too keen a desire to secure a specimen of the other’s handwriting, which is a delicate thing to press an unskilful forger for. Wandle was on his guard, though he carefully hid all sign of uneasiness.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll send you a list over in a day or two; after all, if I think them over, I may be able to knock something off one or two of the items. But now you’re here, I want to say that you were pretty mean about that cultivator. They’re not sold at the price you allowed me.”
This was intended to lead Prescott away from the main point and it succeeded, because, being at a loss for an excuse for demanding the list immediately, he was willing to speak of something else while he thought of one.
“You’re wrong,” he said curtly. “You can get them at any big dealer’s. I looked in at a western store where they stock those machines, yesterday, and the fellow gave me his schedule.”
He had taken off his mittens, but his hands were stiff with cold, and when he felt in his pocket he dropped several of the papers he brought out. The back of a catalogue fell uppermost, and it bore the words, “Hasty’s high-grade implements, Navarino.” Near this lay an envelope printed with the name of a Navarino hotel.
There was nothing to show that Wandle had noticed them—he stood some distance off on the opposite side of the table—but Prescott was too eager in gathering them up. Opening the catalogue, he read out a description of the cultivator and the price.
“Taking the cash discount, it comes to a dollar less than what I was ready to pay you,” he said. “Now make out the list and we’ll try to get the thing fixed up before I go.”
Wandle sat down for a few moments, for he had received a shock. His suspicions had already been aroused, and Prescott’s motive in going to Navarino was obvious; besides, he thought he had read Laxton’s nameon the envelope. He could expect no mercy—Prescott’s face was ominously grim—and there was no doubt that, having seen Laxton, he knew who had hidden the brown clothes. The game was up, but, shaken by fear and rage as he was, he rose calmly from his seat.
“Well, since you insist on it, I guess I’ll have to write the thing; but I can’t leave my team standing in the frost. Sit down and take a smoke while I put them in.”
Prescott could not object to this. He lighted his pipe when Wandle left him. He heard the door shut and the horses being led away, for the stable stood at some little distance from the house, and after that no further sound reached him. Mastering his impatience, he began to consider what he would best do when Wandle had given him the list. He supposed he ought to hand it over to Curtis, but he was more inclined to go back to Navarino and compare the writing with the signature on the documents relating to the sale. Then, having proof of the forgery, he would communicate with the police. He was sensible of a curious thrill at the thought that the suspicion which had tainted him would shortly be dispelled.
After a while it occurred to him that Wandle should have returned, but he reflected that the man might be detained by some small task. After waiting some minutes longer, he walked to the door, but finding that he could not see the entrance to the stable, he stood still, irresolute. He thought he had been firm enough, and to betray any further eagerness would be injudicious. The matter must be handled delicately, lest Wandle take alarm.
When he had smoked out his pipe, Prescott could no longer restrain his impatience. He hurried toward thestable. The moonlight fell on the front of the building and the door was open; but Prescott stopped with a start, for all was dark inside and there was no sign of the vehicle in which the rancher had driven home. A worse surprise awaited him, for when he ran inside and struck a match it was clear that Wandle and his team had gone.
Prescott dropped the match and stood still a few moments, in savage fury. There was no doubt that he had been cleverly tricked; Wandle, guessing his object, had quietly driven away as soon as he had led the team clear of the house. Moreover, Prescott had good cause for believing that he would not come back. With an effort, he pulled himself together. To give rein to his anger and disappointment would serve no purpose; but he had no horse with which to begin the pursuit. He remembered having told Wandle so when he first entered the house. Striking another match, he lighted a lantern he found and eagerly looked about. A plow team occupied two of the stalls, and though they were heavy Clydesdales with no speed in them, they would be capable of traveling faster than a man on foot. As he could not find a saddle, he ran back to the house and returned with a blanket. A bit and bridle hung on a nail, he found a girth, but his hands were cold and he spent some time adjusting straps and fastening on the blanket before he led one of the horses out and mounted.
The moonlight was clear enough to show him that there were no fresh wheelmarks in the snow. Wandle had kept to the trail, and Prescott surmised that he would travel south toward the American boundary. Although he feared he would lose ground steadily, he meant to follow, since there was a chance of the fugitive’s being delayedby some accident, which would enable him to come up. It was extremely cold, Prescott was not dressed for riding, and the folded blanket made a very bad saddle. At times pale moonlight shone down, but more often it died away, obscured by thin cloud. The trail, however, was plain and the big Clydesdale was covering the ground. Prescott’s hands and feet grew numbed, and there was a risk in this, but he trotted steadily on.
After a while he heard two horsemen following him. He did not pull up; time was precious, and if the others wished to overtake him, he had no doubt that they could do so. During the next few minutes it became evident that they were gaining, and he heard a cry which he answered without stopping. Then, as the moon came through, another shout reached him, sharp and commanding:
“Stop, before we drop you!”
This was not to be disregarded. Pulling up, he turned his horse. Two mounted men rode furiously down on him, loose snow flying about their horses, and one poised a carbine across his saddle. Struggling to check his horse, he swept past, shouting to his comrade:
“Hold on! It’s Prescott!”
They were a little distance ahead when they stopped and trotted back, and Prescott waited until Curtis pulled up at his side.
“Where were you going?” cried the corporal.
“After Wandle.”
“I might have guessed!” said Curtis savagely, and turned to Stanton. “This explains the thing.”
“How far is he ahead of you?” Stanton asked.
“He got off half an hour before I did, as near as I can guess.”
They sat silent for a moment or two, breathless and crestfallen, their horses distressed.
“Let’s get into the lee of the bluff yonder; this wind’s keen,” Curtis said.
“You’re losing time,” Prescott objected.
“We’ve lost it,” Curtis told him grimly. “My mount has been out since noon, and it’s near midnight now. Stanton’s isn’t much fresher.”
Prescott rode with them to the bluff, where they got down.
“That’s a relief; it’s quite a while since I could feel the bridle,” said Curtis, turning to Prescott. “How did you scare Wandle off? Be as quick as you can!”
Prescott briefly related what led to his call at the farm and the corporal’s face was filled with scornful anger.
“This is what comes of you blamed amateurs butting in!” he remarked. “Jernyngham was bad enough, but he can’t come near you at mussing up our plans. Guess you don’t know that we’ve been watching Wandle for some weeks, ready to corral him, and you start him off like this, without warning.”
“I’d reason to believe you were watching me,” Prescott dryly rejoined.
“Oh, well,” said Curtis, “that’s another matter. Anyhow, I had trailed Wandle to Kelly’s place since dark, and I’d trotted round to see if he’d got back to his homestead when I found that he had gone. Stanton and I were prospecting out this way when we struck your trail.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We’ll make the next farm and try to borrow horses. Then I’ll ride to the railroad and get the wires to work. Stanton will keep the trail by Long Lake.”
“Then I’ll push right on by the Traverse. There’s a ranch I should make by daylight where I might get a mount. I’m going to see the thing through.”
Curtis considered this.
“Well,” he said, “I guess you can’t do much harm, and Wandle may not have gone by the lake after all. You can pick up Stanton if you find out anything, and I’ll try to join you from one of the stations along the line.”
They mounted, and on reaching the trail forks where they must separate, Prescott turned to Curtis.
“Aren’t you afraid of letting me out of your sight?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Curtis answered with a smile. “You’re not quite so important to us now; and I’m not running much risk, anyway, considering the horse you’ve got.”
CHAPTER XXVIISTARTLING NEWS
It was noon on the day after Wandle’s flight, and Jernyngham was sitting with his friends in a room of the Leslie homestead when Muriel, looking out of the window, saw Prescott’s hired man ride up at a gallop. His haste and his anxious expression when he dismounted alarmed her, but her companions had not noticed him, and she waited, listening to the murmur of voices that presently reached her from an adjoining room. They ceased in a few minutes, she saw the man ride away as fast as he had come, and soon afterward Leslie opened the door. He was a talkative person and looked as if he had something of importance to relate.
“Svendsen has been over to ask if I saw Prescott when I was in at the settlement yesterday,” he said. “When I told him that I hadn’t, he seemed mighty disturbed.”
Muriel’s heart throbbed painfully, but she waited for one of the others to speak, and Jernyngham, laying down his paper, glanced up sharply.
“Why?” he asked.
This was all the encouragement Leslie needed.
“I’ll tell you, so far as I’ve got the hang of the thing; I thought you’d like to know. It seems Prescott has been away somewhere for a few days and should have got home last night. He came in on the train in the evening, and Harper drove him out and dropped himat Wandle’s trail; Prescott said he wanted to see the man. Well, he didn’t get home, and Svendsen, who’d been to Harper’s this morning, found Wandle gone and three of his horses missing. Then he found out from Watson, who stayed at the hotel last night, that Curtis rode in on a played-out horse before it was light, and kept the night operator busy for a while with the wires. Seems to me the thing has a curious look.”
For a moment or two nobody spoke. Muriel felt dismayed by the news, and she glanced at the others, trying to read their thoughts. Colston looked troubled, Gertrude’s face was hard and stamped with a kind of cruel satisfaction, Jernyngham was very grim.
“Is that all you know about the matter?” Jernyngham asked.
“I guess so,” Leslie answered. “Still, Svendsen did allow he thought he’d seen Stanton hanging about the homestead yesterday evening.”
“Thank you,” said Jernyngham with cold politeness. “I’ll want the team after dinner.”
Seeing no excuse for remaining, the rancher went out, and Jernyngham turned to the others. His brows were knitted and his eyes gleamed ominously.
“There’s no mystery about the matter; the man has gone for good,” he said. “In spite of the assurances they gave me, these fools of police have let him slip through their fingers. That he saw Wandle before he bolted proves collusion between them. It was a thing I half suspected, but Curtis, of course, did not agree with me.”
Muriel was recovering from the shock. Though things looked very bad, she could not believe that Prescott had run away. He had promised to call on Curtis and her confidence in him was unshaken.
“He went away by train a day or two ago, and if he had had anything to fear, he would have made his escape then,” she said.
Mrs. Colston cast a warning glance at her, as if begging her to say nothing more, but Jernyngham curtly answered her remark.
“The man probably wanted to sell his property where it would excite less notice than at Sebastian. Then I suppose he found it needful to see his confederate.”
“They could have gone off together in the first instance,” Colston objected.
Jernyngham made an impatient gesture.
“I was merely suggesting an explanation; the point is not important. The fellow has bolted; but I’ve reason for believing he won’t get across the boundary!”
He broke off, tearing the newspaper as he opened it, and there was an awkward silence until Mrs. Leslie brought in dinner. Jernyngham ate very little, and after spending a few minutes in his room, he drove off in the sleigh. Somewhat later, Colston met Gertrude in a passage and stopped her. He thought she looked anxious.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t calm your father, but I was afraid that anything I might say would only make him more excited,” he told her. “I meant to go with him, but he wouldn’t permit it.”
“No,” she said, “there was nothing that you could do; but I’m badly disturbed.” She paused irresolutely, and then resumed: “He has taken a magazine pistol, though I believe it’s the first time he has carried it.”
Colston looked grave. He determined, if possible, to abstract the pistol and hide it on Jernyngham’s return.
“I’m very sorry. It must be trying for you. Indeed, I wonder anxiously where all this is leading us.”
“The horrible mystery will be cleared up on Prescott’s arrest,” Gertrude said in a harsh voice. “I think that can’t be long deferred.”
She left him troubled by her expression, and he and the others spent a dreary afternoon and evening. It was late when Jernyngham returned, looking worn but very stern.
“From what I’ve learned, word has been sent to every police trooper between here and the frontier,” he said, and broke into a grim smile. “Prescott’s chance of escape is a very poor one.”
He made a scanty meal, without seeming to notice what he ate, and afterward sat silent. The others seldom spoke and when a word was exchanged there was strain in their voices. The snapping of the poplar billets in the stove seemed to emphasize the quiet and jarred on their nerves, while Muriel, tormented by fears on Prescott’s account, found the suspense and constraint almost intolerable. She was thankful when bedtime came, though she could not sleep. Her troubled thoughts were with her lover, and she wondered what perils he was exposed to on the snowy wilds.
As it happened, Prescott was riding steadily through the stinging frost. He had been unable to obtain a fresh horse, but he had borrowed a saddle, and the Clydesdale, though far from fast, possessed good staying powers. For all that, he had been forced to rest part of the day at an outlying farm, and while there a man brought him word from Stanton, whose line of travel ran roughly parallel with his, three or four leagues to the west. The trooper’s horse had gone badly lame, and Prescott was instructed to push on while Stanton sought another mount.
It was a very bitter night, but the young rancher was used to cold, and, riding alone in the moonlight, he madethe best pace he could across the white desolation. There was no sign of life on it. Nothing moved in the reeds beside the frozen ponds and the shadowy bluffs he passed; no sound but the thud of heavy hoofs broke the overwhelming silence. By and by he left the trees behind, and pressed on into a vast glittering plain which ran back to the horizon, unbroken by a bush, and inexpressibly lonely.
In the early morning he reached a homestead where he rested until the afternoon. He chafed at the delay, but as the Clydesdale was badly jaded, it could not be avoided, and Wandle would have to stop now and then, unless he could hire fresh horses, which might be difficult. Starting again, he came to a small wooden settlement in the evening and rode first to the livery-stable. The telephone wires, which were being stretched across the prairie, had not reached the place, and he surmised that the police had been unable to communicate with it. The liveryman was busy in one of the stalls, but he came out and answered Prescott’s question.
“Yes,” he said, “a fellow like the one you speak of came in here about an hour ago. His team looked pretty used up and he wanted to hire another, but I couldn’t deal. Keep my horses hauling cordwood through the winter, and the only team I have in the stable is ordered by a drummer for to-morrow.”
“Can’t you find me a mount? I’ll pay you what you like.”
“No, sir,” said the other. “When I engage to drive a man round, I’ve got to make good. If I didn’t, it would soon ruin my trade.”
Seeing he was not to be moved, Prescott asked:
“How do you strike the south trail?”
“Go straight through the town. It forks in about three miles, and you can take either branch. They’re both pretty bad, but the west one’s the shorter and the worse.”
“What’s between the forks?”
“A big patch of broken country—sandhills and bluffs. About eight miles on, the other trail runs in again.”
“Are there any homesteads on the way?”
“Nothing near the trail. There’s a shack where two fellows cutting cordwood camp.”
Prescott considered when he had thanked the man. He was tired and his horse was far from fresh, but he understood that Wandle’s team was in a worse condition. There was a possibility of his overtaking him, if he pushed on at once. Leaving the stable, he meant to walk a short distance to ease his aching limbs, but he saw a mounted man trotting up the street and called out as he recognized Stanton.
“I thought I might get news of you here,” said the trooper, pulling up. “Have you found out anything?”
Prescott told him what he had heard, and Stanton nodded.
“Then we had better get on. The horse I’ve got is pretty fresh.”
In another minute or two they had left the lights of the settlement behind and Prescott prepared for a third night on the trail. His eyes were heavy, long exposure to extreme cold had had its effect on him, and the warmth seemed to be dying out of his exhausted body. After a while they came to a straggling clump of birches with blurred masses of taller trees behind, where the trail broke in two. Stanton dismounted and struck a few matches, examining the snow carefully.
“Nothing to show which way Wandle’s gone,” he reported. “Somebody’s been along with a bob-sled not long ago and rubbed out his tracks. Anyhow, I’ll take the shorter fork.”
They separated; the trooper riding on in the moonlight and Prescott entering the gloom of the trees. He soon found the trial remarkably uneven. So far as he could make out, it skirted a number of low, thickly timbered ridges, swinging sharply up and down. In places it slanted awkwardly toward one edge; in others it was covered with stiff, dwarf scrub. One or two of the descents to frozen creeks were alarmingly steep and the Clydesdale stumbled now and then, but it kept its feet and Prescott felt that, everything considered, he was making a satisfactory pace. Stanton, he supposed, was two or three miles to the west of him, following the opposite edge of the high ground, but there was nothing to indicate which of them was the nearer to Wandle.
He rode on, wishing the light were better, for the faint gleam of the moon among the trees confused his sight and made it difficult to distinguish the trail, while to leave it might lead to his plunging down some precipitous gully. At length he saw a yellow glow ahead, and soon afterward came upon a shack in an opening. Small logs were strewn about it and among them stood tall piles of cordwood. The door opened as he rode up and a man’s dark figure appeared in the entrance.
“Have you seen a rig going south?” Prescott asked.
“I heard one, about seven or eight minutes ago. The fellow didn’t seem to be driving quick.”
“Thanks,” responded Prescott, and rode off with a feeling of satisfaction.
He had gained on Wandle, who had probably beendelayed by some mischance on the trail. If the Clydesdale could be urged to a faster pace, he might overtake him, but this must be done before the fugitive could hire a fresh team. Next, he began to wonder what progress Stanton had made, for the relative positions of Wandle and the constable were now important. If Stanton were far enough ahead, he would reach the spot where the trails united before the absconder, in which case they would have him between them and it would be better for Prescott to save his horse’s strength, because speed might be required. On the contrary, if Stanton were not yet abreast of him, he ought to push on as fast as possible. Wandle, he was glad to remember, could not know how closely he was being followed.
Turning the matter over in his mind, he rode at a moderate pace while the rough track wound deeper into the bluff. The partial obscurity was now extremely puzzling. Here and there a slender trunk glimmered in the faint moonlight that streamed down between the branches, and patches of brightness lay across the path, but this intensified the darkness of the background. It was hard to tell which of the dim avenues that kept opening up was the trail; the state of the short scrub could no longer be used as a guide, for the cordwood cutters had not penetrated so far with their sled.
Prescott knew that he must go forward, however; and he was gazing anxiously ahead with eyes that ached from long exposure to the reflection from the snow when the Clydesdale stumbled violently. He had scarcely time to clear his feet of the stirrups before the beast went down and he was flung into a clump of brush with a force that nearly drove the breath out of him. For a few moments he lay still, dimly conscious that the horse was strugglingin the snow; and then, rousing himself with an effort, he got up unsteadily. He felt badly shaken, but he saw the horse scramble to its feet without assistance and stand trembling, looking about for him.
Neither he nor the animal seemed to be seriously injured, but he felt incapable of mounting and waited a while, wondering what he should do. He was tired out and was sensible of a depressing lassitude, the result of nervous strain. Then, as the bitter cold nipped him, a reaction set in. Wandle, he remembered, had with detestable cunning plotted to ruin him; it might be difficult to clear himself unless the man were arrested. For the sake of the girl who had maintained his innocence with steadfast faith, the suspicion under which he labored must be dispelled. Prescott was seized by a fit of fury against his betrayer. Nerved by it, he got into the saddle and rode on, urging the Clydesdale savagely through the wood.
Half an hour later he heard a measured drumming sound and Stanton’s voice answered his hail. Then a horseman rode out of a gap in the trees and pulled up near him.
“I suppose you have seen nothing of Wandle?” Prescott asked.
“Not a sign,” said Stanton shortly. “Have you?”
Prescott raised his hand and sat listening while he struggled with his rage and disappointment. The night was still; he thought he would hear any sound there might be a long distance off, but nothing broke the silence.
“I learned from a chopper that I wasn’t far behind him, and I half expected you would have headed him off. I can’t think he has passed this spot.”
“We’ll try to fix that.”
Stanton dismounted and struck several matches. The flame burned steadily, but it showed none of the marks for which he searched the beaten snow with practised eyes.
“No,” he said, “I’d stake a month’s pay that the fellow’s not ahead.”
They looked at each other, frankly puzzled; and then Prescott broke out angrily:
“Where can the blasted rustler be?”
“Couldn’t have left the bluffs on my side without my seeing him, and if he’d doubled back on his tracks, you’d have met him,” Curtis remarked.
“He’s not likely to be hiding in the woods. He’d freeze without a proper outfit, which he can’t have got.”
They grappled with the problem in silence for a minute or two.
“We’ll take the back trail,” Stanton decided. “The fellow must have broken out for open country on your side. I guess he knows where there’s a homestead where he might find a team.”
Prescott agreed, and they rode off wearily the way he had come, shivering with the cold that had seized them while they waited. The expectant excitement which had animated them for the past hour had gone and was followed by a reaction. Their bodies were half frozen, their minds worked heavily, but both were conscious of a grim resolve. It was the trooper’s duty to bear crushing fatigue and stinging frost, one that was sternly demanded of him; and the rancher had a stronger motive. He must clear himself for Muriel’s sake, and he was filled with rage against the man who had tried to betray him. He would go on, if necessary, until his hands and feet froze or the big Clydesdale fell.
CHAPTER XXVIIITHE END OF THE PURSUIT
When they had ridden some distance through the wood, Stanton checked his horse.
“Hold on!” he cried. “Here’s a bit of an opening in the brush!”
He moved away a few yards, and then called out:
“Looks mighty like a trail. I guess you didn’t notice it when you came along.”
Prescott admitted that he had not done so, which was not surprising. There was little to distinguish the gap between the nut bushes from others that opened up all round; but Stanton seemed satisfied that he was right.
“Somebody has driven out this way not long ago,” he explained.
“It doesn’t follow that the man was Wandle.”
“Why, no. Still, I guess it’s likely; and if there’s a trail, it leads to a homestead. Anyway, we’ll track it up.”
When they reached the open prairie, the moonlight showed faint wheelmarks running on before them to the east. The country was open and empty; a wide plain, with one slight rise some miles away that cut with a white gleam against the deep blue of the sky. They headed toward it wearily, following the track, and drew bridle when they gained the summit. A half-moon floated rather low in the western sky, glittering keen with frost, and they could see that the prairie ahead ofthem was more rolling and broken. Dusky smears of bluffs checkered its white surface here and there, and a low irregular dark line ran across it. Prescott supposed this to be a small timber growing along the edge of a ravine. Beyond it, in the distance, a faint glimmer of yellow light caught and held his eye. It was the one touch of warm color in the chill and lifeless waste of white and blue.
“A homestead,” said Stanton. “We’ll ride as far as the ravine together; and then I guess I’ll make for the farm alone. If Wandle’s been there looking for horses, he’ll strike south and take the trail we left, farther on. You’ll head down that way and watch out to cut him off if he lights out before I come up.”
Prescott understood the maneuver. By driving east the fugitive had lost ground, and if he could push on fast enough, Prescott might reach a position from which he could either run him down or turn him back into the hands of the trooper.
When they came to the ravine and descended the deep shadowy hollow, they parted company, Prescott following the opposite brink, because Wandle would have to cross it lower down to regain the south trail. Once or twice he left it for a while when the gorge twisted in a big loop away from him, but he could see nothing of his companion. They had commanded a wide sweep of plain when they crossed the rise, but now that he was on low ground, the scattered bluffs obstructed his view. Indeed, he fancied from their position that they would prevent Stanton’s seeing the farm. Once he stopped and listened with strained attention, but he could hear only the faint sighing of a light wind among the trees he skirted and the snapping of a twig, made by what means he could nottell, for there was no sign of life in all the frozen wilds. It was very dreary, and Prescott had little expectation of overtaking Wandle after the time they had lost, but he doggedly rode on.
At length an indistinct sound, too regular for the wind to account for, reached him, and grew louder when he pulled up his horse. It was a dull, measured throbbing, and he knew it to be the beat of hoofs. It was drawing nearer, but it might be made by Stanton riding to join him, and he headed so as to clear one of the bluffs which prevented his seeing far across the plain. On passing the end of the timber he saw another taller patch half a mile off, which hid most of the prairie between him and the farm, and knowing that time might be valuable he clung to the ravine, urging the jaded Clydesdale to its fastest pace, which was very moderate. He had gone about a mile, opening up the flat waste beyond the second bluff, when the black shape of a team and rig appeared on it. The team was being driven furiously, and in another few moments Prescott was not surprised to see a horseman sweep out from the gloom of the trees behind them. It was, however, soon obvious that the trooper was not gaining ground; Wandle had got fresh horses, his rig was light, while Stanton’s mount had already carried him a long way. Prescott’s Clydesdale had been harder taxed, but he knew he could not spare the beast. Wandle must have seen him, but he was holding straight on, and this could only be because he was following a trail which led to the easiest crossing of the ravine. The man would shrink from the risk of getting entangled among thick timber with his team.
Prescott would have found speed difficult, even had he been mounted on a fresh horse. The snow was thin, butit was loose and dusty beneath the crust, through which the hoofs broke, while Wandle was making excellent progress along a beaten trail. Still, Prescott was nearer to the point the man was making for, and if he could reach it first, Wandle could not escape. Riding with savage determination, he sped on, the snow flying up behind him, the thrill of the pursuit firing his blood and filling him with fierce excitement. Wandle’s fresh team was going at a gallop, the hoofs beating out a sharp drumming that mingled with the furious rattle of wheels, and through these sounds broke a rapid, pounding thud which told that Stanton was following hard behind. The trooper was, however, less close than he had been; too far, Prescott thought, to use his carbine; and as he mercilessly drove his beast he feared that he could scarcely reach the trail in time. He was closing with the rig and could see Wandle savagely lash his team; the trouble was that instead of riding to cut off the fugitive, in another few minutes he would be behind him, which was a very different thing.
While he plied the quirt he saw the rig vanish among the trees close ahead. They stretched out some distance into the prairie, and he might not be too late yet, if he were willing to take a serious risk. He did not think the trail ran straight down into the ravine—the hollow was too deep for that—it would descend the slope obliquely and might trend toward him. If so, he should still be able to intercept the rig by cutting off the corner and riding straight down the steep bank through the timber. The odds were in favor of his killing the horse and breaking his own neck, but this did not count, and the next moment there was a crash as the Clydesdale rushed through a brake. A branch struckPrescott’s leg a heavy blow, but he was too numbed to feel much pain, and as he swung round a bush that threatened to tear him from the saddle he could look down between the trees. Then he was filled with exultation, for the trail had turned his way. Below him, but farther from the bottom of the dipping track than he was, Wandle’s horses were plunging downhill at a furious gallop, the rig jolting behind them, the driver leaning forward and using the whip. There was no sign of Stanton except the pounding of hoofs that rose among the trees.
Then the slope grew dangerously sharp and Prescott set his teeth. The Clydesdale flinched from the descent, but it was too jaded to struggle hard, and the next moment it stumbled and slid over the edge. They went down, slipping over ground as hard as granite under its thin coat of snow, smashing through nut bushes, tearing off low branches. Prescott saw Wandle turn his head and look up at him. Then the fugitive sent up a hoarse cry of rage and warning, too late. If he could stop his team, which was very doubtful, he might escape the threatened collision; but this would involve his capture by Stanton, and he lashed his horses and went on, while Prescott and the great plow horse came madly rushing down at him. He looked at them again, with a breathless yell; then he let the reins fall and seized a seat rail.
The Clydesdale struck the light off-side horse, hurling it upon its fellow, breaking the pole. Both lost their footing and were driven round. Prescott, flung upon the backs of the horses, grasped the front of the rig, which ran on a yard or two and overturned with a crash. The Clydesdale went down among the wreckage, another horse was on its side, kicking savagely; and Stanton,hurrying up, saw Prescott crawl slowly clear of it. Seizing him, he lifted him to his feet, and to his great surprise the man leaned against a tree with a half-dazed laugh.
“Well,” he gasped, “I’m not in pieces, anyway!”
“Then you ought to be!” said Stanton, too startled to congratulate him on his escape. “But where’s Wandle?”
Prescott seemed unable to answer and the trooper, looking round, saw Wandle lying in the snow; but before he could reach him the man began to raise himself on his elbow. This was disconcerting, for Stanton had thought him dead.
“Well,” the trooper said stupidly, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know,” Wandle replied weakly. “Don’t feel like talking; let me alone.”
Stanton had no fear of his escaping, so he went back to the horses. One of them stood trembling, attached to the rig by the deranged harness; the other still lay kicking, while the big Clydesdale rolled to and fro, with its leg through a wrenched-off wheel. It was astonishing that none of them was killed. Prescott apparently needed no assistance, and Stanton felt that he required some occupation to calm himself. Accordingly, he freed the Clydesdale of the broken wheel, narrowly escaping a kick which would have broken his ribs. The horse was a valuable one and must not be left in danger, and after a few minutes of severe exertion Stanton got it on its feet. Then he turned to the fallen driving horse and began, at some risk, to cut away its harness. Prescott came to help him, and together they raised the beast. Then Stanton sat down heavily on the wreckage.
“Well,” he remarked, “that was the blamedest fooltrick, your riding down the grade; they wouldn’t expect that kind of work from us in the service! What I can’t account for is that you look none the worse.”
Prescott, standing shakily in the moonlight, smiled. “It is surprising; but hadn’t you better look after Wandle? He seems to be getting up.”
Wandle was cautiously getting on his feet, and the trooper watched him until he moved a pace or two.
“You don’t look very broke up,” he said. “Do you feel as if you could walk?”
“I believe I could ride,” Wandle answered sullenly.
“Well, I guess you won’t. You have given us trouble enough already, and you’ll be warmer on your feet.” Then he drew out a paper. “This is my warrant. It’s my duty to arrest you——”
Wandle listened coolly to the formula, in which he was charged with fraudulently selling Jernyngham’s land and forging his name. Indeed, Prescott fancied that he was relieved to find that nothing more serious had been brought against him.
“Well,” he said, “you’ll hear my defense when it’s ready. What’s to be done now?”
“Head back to the homestead where you got the team. Think you can lead one of them? It’s either that or I’ll put the handcuffs on you—make your choice.” Stanton turned to Prescott. “It will be warmer walking, and I’ve ridden about enough.”
The suggestion was agreed to, and after looping up the cut harness awkwardly with numbed fingers, they set off; Wandle going first, holding one horse’s head, Prescott following with two, and the trooper bringing up the rear. When they reached the farm, to the astonishment of its occupants, they were given quarters in the kitchen, wherea big stove was burning. Soon afterward, Prescott and Wandle lay down on the wooden floor, wrapped in blankets supplied them by the farmer, and Prescott sank into heavy sleep. Stanton, sitting upright in an uncomfortable chair, kept watch with his carbine laid handy on the table. He spent the night in a tense struggle to keep awake, and when Prescott got up at dawn the trooper’s face was haggard and his eyes half closed, but he was still on guard.
After breakfast, they borrowed a saddle for Wandle and set out on the return journey, meeting Curtis, who had ridden from the railroad, at the first settlement they reached. Prescott left the others there, and rode toward the station the corporal had just left, taking some telegrams Curtis asked him to despatch. He spent an afternoon and a night in the little wooden town, and went on again the next day by a local train.
While Prescott was on the way, Jernyngham drove to Sebastian with Gertrude. The girl had insisted on accompanying him. Soon after they left the homestead Colston, who was trying to read a paper from which his interest wandered, looked up at his wife.
“It’s fine weather and not quite so cold,” he said. “Suppose we go to the settlement and get supper there? I’ve no doubt there’s something you or Muriel would like to buy.”
“As it happens, there is,” Mrs. Colston replied. “But I don’t think that’s all you have in your mind.”
“The fact is, I’m disturbed about Jernyngham,” Colston admitted. “He has been in an extremely restless mood since Prescott disappeared.”
“I have noticed that. But do you know why he has gone to Sebastian to-day?”
“He told me. One of the police authorities, whom he has seen already, is staying at the hotel to-night. Jernyngham means to get hold of him and insist upon an explanation of what they are doing.”
Muriel leaned forward in her chair. She looked anxious, for no news of anything that had happened since Wandle’s flight had reached the neighborhood. It was only known that the police were in pursuit of him; and local opinion was divided as to whether Prescott was also a fugitive or, knowing more about the matter than anybody else, had offered Curtis his assistance.
“I think you ought to go,” she said. “And you may hear something.”
“Well,” Colston replied, “I’ll confess that I’m curious, though I’m going mainly on Jernyngham’s account.” He turned to his wife. “Don’t you think it’s advisable?”
“I do, and it would be better if we all went. Then you will have an excuse for following Jernyngham and can watch him without making the thing too marked. It’s a pity you didn’t succeed in getting the pistol away from him.”
“I’ve done what I could. I had another try this morning, but he caught me looking for it and I believe he guessed what I was after, because he was unusually short with me. It’s my opinion that he has taken to wearing the thing; so far as I can discover, it’s nowhere in the house. One hesitates about ransacking his room.”
“It is not in the house, and he is not to be trusted with it,” Muriel said quietly.
Colston cast a surprised glance at her.
“Oh! You seem to know. I’ve no doubt you are cleverer with your fingers than I am and wouldn’t be so afraid of leaving your tracks.”
“Gertrude knows where the pistol is and she thought it necessary to go with her father,” Mrs. Colston said significantly. “We’ll get off as soon as you have asked Leslie for the buggy; I wish it had been the sleigh.”
They drove away in half an hour; but Jernyngham reached the settlement some time before they did. Leaving Gertrude at a drygoods store, he went to the hotel, where the commissioned officer of police had a room. The officer was acquainted with all that Prescott had told Curtis about his absence in search of the missing man, and had been advised by telegraph of the assistance he had rendered in Wandle’s arrest. This was, however, a matter that must stand in abeyance until he saw Curtis, for he had come down to investigate some complaints about the reservation Indians, who were in a restless, discontented state, and the business demanded careful thought and handling. He was studying the report of a local constable when there was a knock at the door, and he looked up with annoyance as Jernyngham came in. The man had his sympathy, but he was troublesome.
“I’m afraid I can’t spare you more than a minute or two,” he said. “I’m expecting a constable I’ve sent for.”
“One would have imagined that my business was of the first importance,” Jernyngham rejoined. “Have you any news of the fugitives?”
“Wandle has been arrested.”
“Ah! That’s satisfactory, though I don’t think it will carry us very far. His attempt to escape with Prescott, however, makes it obvious that they were confederates.”
The officer let this remark pass, for he was anxious to get rid of his visitor. Jernyngham was piqued by his silence.
“I suppose you have not apprehended Prescott yet?” he resumed.
“No,” answered the other shortly. “He will remain at liberty.”
There was a knock at the door and a trooper looked in and withdrew.
“Mr. Jernyngham,” said the officer, “if you will make an appointment to meet me on my return from the reservation, I will be at your service, but you must excuse me now. I have some instructions to give the constable, who has a long ride before him.”
“A minute, please; I’ll be brief. Am I to understand that you have no intention of seizing Prescott?”
“That is what I meant. So far as I can determine at present, we shall not interfere with him.”
Jernyngham’s haggard face grew red with anger.
“What are your grounds for this extraordinary decision?” he demanded.
“A strong presumption of his innocence.”
“Preposterous!” Jernyngham broke out. “The scoundrel killed my son, and you refuse to move any further against him! I must carry the matter to Ottawa; you leave me no recourse.”
The officer rapped on the table and the trooper entered.
“Come and see me when I get back, Mr. Jernyngham, and we’ll talk over the thing again. I have other business which demands urgent attention now.”
Jernyngham’s face was deeply colored and the swollen veins showed on his forehead.
“Understand that I insist on Prescott’s arrest! I will, spare no effort to secure it through your superiors!”
Seeing that he was in no mood to listen to reason, the officer let him go, and Jernyngham walked slowly tothe lobby downstairs. There were a number of men in it, but two or three strolled into the bar and the others drew away from him when he sat down. They were not without compassion, but they shrank from the grim look in the man’s worn face. For a while he sat still, resting one elbow on a table, and trying to arrange his confused thoughts. He knew nothing of Prescott’s interview with Curtis or the reason for his visit to Wandle on the night of the latter’s flight; the discovery of the brown clothes occupied the most prominent place in his mind, and convinced him of Prescott’s guilt.
Then he began to consider how he could best bring pressure to bear on the administration in Ottawa. From inquiries he had made, it appeared less easy than he had supposed. It was, he had been told, unusual for anybody to interfere with the Northwest Police, who had been entrusted with extensive powers; and there was a strong probability of his failing to obtain satisfaction. It was, however, unthinkable that Prescott should escape. Jernyngham’s poignant sense of loss and regret for past harshness to his son had merged into an overwhelming desire for vengeance on the man whom he regarded as Cyril’s murderer. He was left without an ally; the organized means of justice had signally broken down; but the man should not go unpunished.
Tormented by his thoughts, he went out in search of Gertrude.