"What a wicked-looking weapon!" he declared, drawing back with a shudder.
Silk closed his fingers over the haft.
"Ever seen anything like it before!" he inquired.
Dan shook his head.
"Never."
"Neither have I," said the sergeant. "At least, not in Canada. It's the sort of thing you might come across in a museum. I'd say it was of Moorish workmanship. Dare say some Bedouin Arab once carried it in his waist-belt, riding across the desert, as we ride across the plains with our revolvers."
"You're going to keep it as a curiosity, I suppose?" Dan surmised. "Where did you pick it up? Buy it? Have it given you?"
"Found it," returned the soldier policeman, puffing slowly at his pipe. "Found it 'way back in the forest. What I'm trying to figure out is the problem of who left it there, yesterday, see?"
"Yesterday?" repeated Dan, in wonder at this precision as to time.
"Yes. You see, there's no rust on it. It'stoo clean and bright to have been there more than a few hours. Besides——"
"Those red stains on the cloth wrappings——" Dan interrupted. "What are they?"
Silk glanced behind him through the open window of the room, where Maple Leaf, the kitchen girl, was clearing the supper table. Maple Leaf was an Indian, and she had sharp ears. He lowered his voice as he resumed in response to his companion's inquiry—
"Not much need to ask what they are. Of course, they're blood. You see, I found the dagger sticking in the trunk of a soft maple tree. The long blade had been driven clean through a man's chest, between the ribs, pinning him against the tree. Who killed him, and why, I have yet to find out. One sure thing is that, whoever it was, he hated his victim so badly, so vindictively, that he wanted him to stay there where he was, fastened with his back against the tree, while the knife should hold him."
"Who was the victim—the deadman?" Dan asked abruptly. "You knew him?"
Silk nodded. There were not many inhabitants of the province of Alberta whom he did not know, at least by sight.
"Oh, yes!" he responded. "It was a French half-breed, Henri Jolicœur, of Hilton's Jump—the same who won the cup at Regina races last spring, beating Flying Feather, the Iroquois Indian."
Dan Medlicott looked up sharply.
"Those two have always been rivals in horsemanship," he reminded the sergeant. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if it was that same Indian who killed poor Henri, out of revenge."
Sergeant Silk shook his head.
"It wasn't an Indian who did it," he decided. "No Indian would have left so valuable a weapon behind. An Indian would have robbed his victim of everything that was worth stealing, and would probably have taken his scalp. He would almost certainly have appropriated the poor chap's horse. No; it wasn't an Indian."
Dan Medlicott then asked—
"Would a white man—a Canadian—have been any more likely to leave the dagger behind as evidence against himself?"
"I don't feel sure that a white man would use such a weapon in any case," returned Silk. "He'd be much more likely to use his revolver, openly. But, even allowing that the criminal may have been a white Canadian, the dagger may not have been his own. It may have been the property of some one else, who had nothing to do with this crime, and his leaving it behind would provide a convenient false clue, drawing suspicion away from himself."
"Yes, I see," admitted Dan. And, after a pause, he added: "I expect they had a struggle—a fight—back there in the forest?"
"No. There was no struggle," Silk argued. "It was done stealthily, suddenly."
Dan Medlicott did not ask for an explanation of this theory; but he waited, knowing that one would come.
"I've figured it out this way," the sergeant presently resumed. "The two men met each other on the forest trail and decided to make camp together.They hobbled their ponies, and went on foot in among the trees to fix up their camping place. They made a fire beside a stream, boiled some water, and made tea. I saw the ashes of their fire, the tea leaves, and some bacon rind. I found a crust of bread, with teeth marks on it. They were very even teeth; not the teeth of Henri Jolicœur, which were crooked and broken."
"They seem to have been friendly enough, anyway," remarked Dan, "eating together and meaning to camp together."
"Yes," acknowledged the sergeant, "but, at the same time, there was treachery in the mind of one of them. When they had finished eating they went aside from the fire and sat together on a bank under the maple tree, where they remained for a long time, smoking cigarettes. Henri never suspected what was coming. But the other knew. He was nervous, very nervous."
"Eh?" interrupted Dan Medlicott. "Nervous? How on earth did you make such a discovery as that?"
Silk took his pipe from his mouth andknocked out the tobacco ash on the rail of the verandah.
"Well," he answered. "For one thing, it was shown by the fact that, having spoilt a cigarette paper, he tore it up into little bits. For another thing, he used quite a heap of matches to keep his cigarettes alight, and he chewed the ends of his cigarettes to tatters. He was restless, too, always moving, cutting the dry grass and ferns with his spurs, and digging his heels into the parched ground. They were high heels, like those of a cowboy's boots."
"An Indian would have worn moccasins, and no spurs," said Dan.
"Why, cert'nly," assented his companion. "It's clear he wasn't an Indian. I'm inclined to think he was a half-breed, the same as Henri himself. Still, I'm puzzled."
"I don't wonder," nodded Dan. "You don't seem to have got any clue that's of much value, except the weapon. What has become of Henri's horse? It wasn't stolen, you say."
"No. The fellow was too cunning to riskbeing discovered in possession of his victim's broncho. He left it hobbled in the forest, where I found it. It's there now, in charge of one of my men—Trooper Collins."
Silk had wrapped the dagger in its windings of dirty cloth, and now he thrust it back under the cover of his tunic.
"Will you do me a favour, Dannie?" he asked, as he went down the steps.
"I'll do anything you wish," returned Dan, accompanying him along the garden path. "What do you want me to do?"
"To ride to Hilton's Jump to-night," said Silk, "and break the news to Marie Jolicœur about what has happened to her son. And perhaps while you are there in the half-breeds' village you might be able to discover who were Henri's enemies. I can trust you to be discreet."
Dan said nothing of this affair to Percy Rapson, leaving Percy to guess what he liked concerning his reason for going out on horseback after Silk had said good-night and ridden off alone along the trail.
On the next morning Sergeant Silk wasback again at Rattlesnake Ranch, on the same chestnut mare. He had had no sleep, but if he was fatigued the fact was not betrayed in his appearance, for his eyes were as brightly alert as always. He had shaved. His dark moustache had its usual curl, and his brown canvas uniform—even to the shine on his long boots and the gleam of newly-polished brass in buttons and cartridges—was as tidy as if he were going on parade.
Dan Medlicott met him as he approached the homestead.
"I see you did not fail to go to Hilton's Jump last night," the sergeant smiled.
Dan looked at him queerly.
"How do you know?" he asked.
Silk glanced down at the feet of Dan's pony.
"By the mud on your broncho's fetlocks," he answered. "You took the short cut by the edge of the marsh, and you didn't give yourself time to groom your plug this morning. Well, have you any news? Did you see Marie Jolicœur?"
"Yes. She was in an awful state about it.Henri was her only support. Of course, she wanted to know everything, and I told her as much as I could. When I spoke about the dagger and described it, she screamed and rushed excitedly to a corner cupboard and flung it open and brought out an old leather scabbard, which she dropped on the table. It was empty, but I saw in a moment that it was ornamented with the same sort of silver bands as those on the handle of the dagger you showed me."
"Ah!" cried Silk. "That is significant. It means that it was with his own weapon that Henri Jolicœur was killed."
"Yes," Dan agreed. "His mother saw him handling the dagger, day before yesterday, but she didn't know he'd taken it out with him."
"I see," nodded the sergeant. "It was probably snatched from his belt—and used—while he stood up beside the maple tree. In that case it isn't of much further use as a clue. Did you discover the name of his enemy? He must, after all, have been afraid of being attacked."
"It seems he had several enemies," said Dan Medlicott. "There was Dick Transom for one, who hated him like poison, and Emile Guyot for another, who owed him a grudge on account of some gambling affair."
"It wasn't Transom," promptly decided Sergeant Silk. "Dick Transom has lost one of his front teeth. And it wasn't Emile Guyot, for he is in prison at Moose Jaw. Any others?"
"Henri's mother believes it was Flying Feather," Dan went on. "They had a bad quarrel just after the races in the spring. But I assured her that it wasn't an Indian who did it. The only other enemies of Henri's that she could think of were Pierre Roche and Adolf Simon, both of them half-breeds; but she didn't reckon it could be either of them who took her son's life."
Silk repeated the two names thoughtfully as he turned to remount.
"Pierre Roche?—Adolf Simon? Let's see! Yes. Thank you, Dan; I was right about two heads being better than one. You have put me on a new scent. I hope youhaven't mentioned either of these men to any one else?"
"Not I," Dan assured him, adding, as the soldier policeman leapt into his saddle: "Aren't you coming into the house to have some breakfast?"
Silk shook his head.
"I am on duty," he answered. "I am off to Pincher's Creek. That is where Adolf Simon and Pierre Roche usually hang out."
"Then it's one of them that you suspect?" said Dan.
"I did not say so," smiled Silk, touching his pony's side with his spurred heel.
He rode through the stifling heat of the summer noon across the parched prairie and among the winding valleys of the foothills, arriving at Pincher's Creek in the early evening, covered with dust, but with his well-cared-for broncho as free from fatigue as he was himself.
No one guessed what he had come for. The ranchers and cowboys supposed that his purpose was only to make one of his periodical patrol visits to inquire into anycomplaints that they might have to make, and to see that the settlers' homesteads were guarded against fire, as the law required them to be.
Silk made the tour of the far-stretching corn-fields, where the men were at work harvesting the ripe grain, and when the labours in the fields were over and he had taken supper with the ranch-master's family, he strolled down to the bunkhouse, where most of the hands fed and slept. He entered very casually, and was greeted as a friend.
At first he gave his attentions to the white men, but presently he approached a group of Indians and half-breeds. Amongst the latter he had seen Adolf Simon, one of the men against whom his suspicions were directed. Adolf was now seated at the end of a bench, rolling a cigarette, while he chattered volubly in Canadian French to his companions.
"Say, Adolf, are you making that fag for me?" Silk inquired.
The half-breed looked up and smiled, showing his white and even teeth under a small, black moustache.
"Oh! but yes, if m'sieur will accept," he answered gaily, as he delicately held forth the cigarette ready to be licked. "Voilà!"
Sergeant Silk took it and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the paper, smoothing it down neatly and nipping off the shreds of tobacco which protruded from the ends. He crumpled the fragments between a finger and thumb and sniffed at them critically.
"Ah! you no like such tabac," said Adolf. "It ees no good for mek de cigarette; only good for pipe, eh?"
"I dare say it smokes all right," nodded Silk, striking a match.
He was not concerned whether the tobacco were good or bad. What he wished to discover was whether it was the same quality as the tobacco in the cigarettes smoked by Henri Jolicœur and his enemy at the foot of the maple tree in Grey Wolf Forest. He quickly assured himself that it was different. It was darker and coarser. He noticed also that the paper used by Adolf was yellow instead of white.
As he lighted the cigarette Silk glanced down at Adolf's feet. They were clad in very much worn moccasins. Already he had decided that Adolf Simon was not the criminal of whom he was in search. Nevertheless, he put his judgment to the proof. Watching the half-breed's face, he casually asked—
"Say, Adolf, have you seen anything of your friend Henri Jolicœur, lately?"
Adolf's countenance betrayed no agitation at this abrupt mention of a name which would certainly have disturbed his conscience had he been guilty.
"Henri Jolicœur?" he repeated, pausing in rolling another cigarette. "He is no friend of mine. I tink you mek meestek, Sergeant. Once—long tam since—we wasbons camarades, but since two, tree month we 'ave nevaire speak. We 'ave not meet. Dere is no occasion, you un'erstand."
"In that case," returned the soldier policeman, "it is needless for me to ask you anything about him. I shall probably get all the information I require from Pierre Roche.Pierre is on the ranch here, isn't he."
Adolf sent a very long, slow jet of tobacco smoke into the air and watched it fade.
"Not since four day," he responded, meeting Silk's keen scrutiny. "He 'ave mek heemself absent on private affair."
Presently, when Silk went out of the bunkhouse, Adolf followed him at a distance and overtook him as he came within sight of the lighted windows of the homestead.
"Pardon, Sergeant," he began mysteriously. "Why you come here, nosing round? I tink you come for de special police duty, eh? Is not dat so?"
"It is possible," admitted Silk. "But is there anything wonderful in that? Why are you anxious about my being here—on special police duty?"
Adolf shrugged his shoulders.
"You spek of Henri Jolicœur, of Pierre Roche," he went on. "You savee dey was enemy, hating each oder lak de poison—what? You 'ave discover som'ting."
Sergeant Silk stood facing the half-breedlooking into his dark, alert eyes, wondering if he were to be trusted.
"Why, cert'nly," he nodded. "I have discovered something. I have discovered the dead body of Henri Jolicœur in Grey Wolf Forest."
"So?" ejaculated Adolf, with less surprise than might have been expected. "Tiens! tiens!And you 'ave come for try mek de arrest of Pierre Roche? Dat is ver' queek, certainly. You 'ave lose no tam. But dere is no use you come 'ere. He no come back to Pincher's Creek. It ees de las' place he come to."
"You appear to have no doubt of his guilt, anyway, Adolf," observed Silk.
"But what would you?" rejoined the half-breed. "Was it not hees intention? Many tam I hear heem say he will tek de life of Henri Jolicœur. Yes, many tam. And now he 'ave tek it! Well, M'sieu', it will be ver' interesting suppose you catch heem. You are clever tracker, Sergeant Silk. You catch many criminal. But you no catch Pierre Roche. It is impossible, absolutely. Younevaire catch heem—nevaire. He 'ave too many friend. He ees too cunning—cunning as de fox."
"There can be no harm in trying," Silk smiled. "Canada is a large country, and there are many places where a hunted criminal may hide successfully—for a while. But Pierre Roche will not escape."
"We shall see," laughed Adolf, turning on his heel.
Sergeant Silk had at least the satisfaction that he had now discovered the identity of the man who had taken the life of Henri Jolicœur, and that same night, without resting, he hastened to the nearest police depot to telegraph his report to head-quarters at Regina. He waited for a reply, which came in the early morning, intimating that Pierre Roche must be captured, dead or alive. The whole Force would see to it that he was caught and brought to justice.
Roche had long been suspected as a persistent law breaker, but he had never yet been convicted. More than half an Indian, he had all the Redskin's cunning in covering his traces and evading detection; but now the evidence against him was more than a mere suspicion.
A whole troop of the Mounted Police turned out in pursuit of him. They were posted to guard all passes through the Rocky Mountains, and a district of ninety square miles was combed over incessantly by strong patrols. His escape seemed almost impossible. The district, however, was one of foothills, bush, winding gorges, tracts of boulders, and, to the eastward, rolling prairie, where the fugitive's friends, the Piegan and Blood tribes, were using every subtlety of Indian craft to hide him and outwit the police.
Day after day went by, and no positive trace of the criminal was found. The only hint of his whereabouts was given in the fact that Sergeant Silk, the most energetic of his pursuers, was constantly encountering unexpected dangers. This was particularly so whenever he rode alone unattended by scouts.
Artful traps were laid for him. He was misled by a hundred rumours that took him far astray into lonely places. False trails were set to lure him into hidden pitfalls and ambuscades.
Once, in the darkness, his horse bolted for a cause unknown until he found an Indian arrow sticking in her buttock. Once his saddle and bridle were stolen while he slept in the shelter of a friendly ranch house.
It did not take him long to realise that he was himself being dogged and shadowed by the very man he was pursuing and against whom he had given information. His every movement seemed to be known almost before it was made. A man less bravely watchful might have gone in fear of his life; but Silk only welcomed the signs which proved that he was still upon the fugitive's trail.
At Lee's Crossing one dark night he went out swinging his lantern, sniffing the warm air, bound for the stable, when he saw a sudden blaze revealing a dark face behind the horse trough, while a bullet ripped through his sleeve.
Silk ran back to the house, grabbed his gun, and returned, only to hear a horse galloping away in the night. The creature was his own favourite mare, and the man who had stolen her—the man whose face he had seen inthe flash from the gun barrel—was Pierre Roche.
On a borrowed mustang, heavier and less swift of foot than his own stolen troop horse, Sergeant Silk went off in pursuit. He knew by the direction taken that Roche was making for the refuge of the Indian Reservation at Minnewanka, thirty odd miles away across the mountains.
There were two possible trails. He realised that the fugitive would take the shorter one over the steep shoulder of Minnewanka Peak, and that he would give the mare a rest before ascending. By taking the longer, though somewhat easier, trail through One Tree Cañon, it might be possible to head him off. This is what Silk did, and he urged his horse forward at almost reckless speed.
It was early dawn when he came out from the gloom of the gulch at the point where the trails crossed and examined the dewy grass for signs. There were no hoof marks to be seen, and, satisfied that he had gained his object, he waited under the shadow of a great boulder, watching and listening.
In less than an hour's time he heard the familiar sound of his mare's hoofs, carried towards him by the morning breeze, and soon afterwards his keenly searching eyes distinguished against the rosy glow of the sky the form of a horseman riding slowly over the ridge of one of the nearer hills.
The sound of pattering hoofs came clearer and clearer from the farther valley, and at length, when Pierre Roche came again into sight, hardly a hundred yards away, Silk moved out and halted in the middle of the trail, drawing his revolver.
"Stop, or I fire!" he cried aloud, confronting the fugitive.
His instructions were to shoot at sight, but he held his weapon in front of him, hesitating to fire, wanting, for the sake of a great tradition, to make the usual arrest, the taking of an outlaw alive and uninjured.
Roche's rifle lay across the saddle, and he held the reins Indian fashion with the right hand; but when Silk, riding boldly up to him, grabbed him by the shoulder, he swerved, touching the trigger with his left.
Silk knocked the gun upward, and the bullet, meant for his body, tore through the rim of his hat, grazing his ear.
"Hands up!" he commanded, keeping a watchful eye upon the now desperate half-breed. "Drop that gun!"
Roche stared into the threatening muzzle of the shining weapon that was levelled at his forehead. He knew that it was futile to resist one of the resolute Riders of the Plains. For an instant he glanced around to see if the sergeant were alone, fearing, perhaps, that he had companions waiting in ambush. His fingers were twitching at the lock of his repeating rifle, but he saw that it was no use, and he sullenly obeyed, letting his weapon fall heavily to the ground as he slowly raised his empty hands above his head.
Sergeant Silk brought the two horses closer together, took possession of his prisoner's knife and pistol, and leisurely drew out a pair of handcuffs, which shone like burnished silver in the sunlight.
At sight of them Pierre Roche swayed inhis saddle, then began to struggle in an attempt to break away, but the cold ring of a revolver muzzle was pressed against his neck, his right arms was seized by a hand stronger than his own, and the handcuffs were smartly clasped upon his wrists.
"Now you will go with me," said Sergeant Silk.
He dismounted to pick up the gun and his hat and to examine his mare to assure himself that she had suffered no harm at the hands of her strange rider.
"You tek me to de prison for steal your cayuse?" Roche panted agitatedly.
Silk nodded.
"For stealing my mare, yes," he answered, bringing his hat into its proper shape, "and for an offence yet more serious than your old game of horse stealing. And you may consider yourself lucky that I did not shoot you at sight just now."
"It is probable you tek me to Bankhead?" questioned the half-breed. "It is de nearest depot of de police."
"It is the nearest, sure," returned the sergeant."But as the way to it lies across the neighbourhood of your Indian friends, who would no doubt attempt to rescue you, I take you to a stronger lock-up, see? I take you to Fort Canmore."
"But dat was a two-day journey," exclaimed Roche, "across de prairie!"
"If it were twenty days it would be all the same to me, now that I have you," Silk retorted.
He tied the mare's bridle over her neck, fastened a rope to the bit ring, and led her behind the heavy bay mustang, which he continued to ride.
As the sun rose above the hills the air became oppressively hot, and Pierre Roche appealed many times to have his hands liberated, if only that he might wipe the perspiration from his forehead and fend off the midges and mosquitoes; but all that the police sergeant would do for his comfort was to give him a drink of water whenever they came to a creek, and, at midday, to let him dismount for a rest and to feed him with a share of the remaining contents of his haversack.
By the afternoon they had left the foothills behind in the blue distance, and were ambling slowly, wearily, over the parched prairie, miles and miles away from any human habitation.
So fatigued were they and their ponies that even before sundown Sergeant Silk resolved to halt and make camp for the night beside a water hole in the hollow of a coulee, where a few dwarf elder trees afforded a meagre shelter.
On dismounting Roche flung himself down in the long grass, apparently to sleep, while Silk attended to the horses. He had taken off his tunic, and laid it neatly folded with his belt and the firearms on a tiny knoll. Once he glanced round at his prisoner, and saw that he was lying exhausted, with his face downwards, across his manacled hands.
Having no fear of him, Silk went on with his work of driving stakes in the dry ground, by which to tether the horses by trail ropes. His back was turned to the half-breed, but in a pause of his hammering he heard a slight movement behind him.
He wheeled sharply round, and, to his amazement, saw that Pierre Roche had crawled forward, caught up one of the loaded revolvers, and was holding it with both hands, aiming at him point-blank.
With quick instinct Silk gripped his hammer to fling at the man, but even as he raised his arm there was a flash. The bullet went wide of its intended mark, but struck the shoulder of the bay mustang, which reared, kicked and whinnied with pain.
"Say, my boy, you've done yourself no good by that silly trick," cried the sergeant. "How d'you suppose you could have mounted and ridden away with the handcuffs on if you'd killed me? You'd sure have died here of hunger and thirst, and that wouldn't have been anyways nice."
"Tiens!Is dat so?" returned Roche in surprise.
"Why, cert'nly, you brainless cariboo. Don't you understand that you're helpless without me to look after you?"
As a precaution against the repetition of any such attempt upon his life, Silk now tookone of the ropes and tied it tightly about his prisoner's legs and body, leaving him lying there unable to stir hand or foot. Then he went to examine the wounded bay.
The wound was much more serious than he had supposed, and he was occupied for a long time in trying to extract the bullet and staunch the flow of blood from the animal's chest. Darkness came over the prairie before he had finished, and he had no lantern. All that he could do was to plug the wound with his handkerchief and wait for daylight, snatching a few hours' rest meanwhile.
Before lying down he saw that his mare was secure. There was no need for him to concern himself further with Pierre Roche, who could do no harm. So he wound his watch, took a drink of water, glanced at his prisoner, spread his blanket, and curled himself up to sleep.
The difficulties and anxieties of his situation, isolated here on the desolate prairie in charge of a desperate criminal and a wounded horse, without food or the immediate hope of getting any, did not prevent himfrom sleeping soundly. He had had no rest on the previous night, and had been in the saddle for a score of hours, and he yielded to his fatigue.
He awoke with a start. There was a dry, choking sensation in his throat, which made him cough. His mare was snorting impatiently and tugging violently at her halter.
A strange, weird moaning filled the air, like the sound of distant waves breaking against a rocky coast.
Silk sat up, staring about him wonderingly. All was dark around, excepting in the east, where there was a rosy flickering glow in the sky. He could see Pierre Roche lying near him, still sleeping soundly.
He leapt to his feet and strode up to the wounded horse. It lay motionless on its side, and, as he bent over it and touched it, he found that it was dead.
He turned away from it and stood staring upward at the sky, sniffing curiously, agitatedly, at the warm air. It was heavily charged with nipping, pungent mist. Flocks of prairie birds were in flight—sage hens,sand owls, linnets—all winging their way westward.
Silk knew the awful meaning of these signs. He ran up the sloping side of the hollow coulee, and when he reached its rim his worst fears were realised. The prairie was on fire!
Far back the whole wide expanse was wrapped in a vast rolling cloud of grey-brown smoke. The rising sun shone dimly through it, red as the flames beneath, that curled and leapt and twisted like a long ocean wave, sending up a spray of sparks into the overhanging gloom.
He heard the fierce crackling of the burning grass as the fiery tide swept towards him, devouring all in its way. He saw the wild creatures of the prairie bunched together in a moving mass—elks and antelopes first, then a host of the smaller fry—all bounding along, friend and foe alike, in a frantic stampede.
He was cool, as he always was, in the face of danger; but he knew the value of every moment now, and he ran back to his prisoner.
"Quick! Quick!" he cried, awakening him with a rough shake as he began to untie the rope with which the half-breed was bound. "The prairie's on fire! Look at the smoke! Quick; get to your feet. We've no time to lose. There's only one horse—my mare. The other's done for, see? You killed it—as you meant to kill me."
"Holy!" exclaimed Pierre Roche. His bronzed face had become suddenly livid. His dark eyes showed the abject terror that had come over him. "Only one horse? Yours? Den you will abandon me? You will tek your revenge so?"
A ghost of a smile played about the lips of Sergeant Silk. He turned away without answering, and the crackle of the advancing flames grew louder, the hot breath of the burning prairie grew hotter and hotter, the smoke more dense and choking. He went up to his mare, caressed her as he loosened her halter from the bit ring.
"All right, my beauty," he said very tenderly. "Be brave, keep cool. It all depends upon you. But you can do it, eh? At least you'll try."
He flung the saddle over her back and fastened the cinches. Then he led her to where Pierre Roche stood, with a foot across the two revolvers, while he frantically tried to squeeze his wrists from the handcuffs.
"Steady there! Steady!" cried Silk. "What's your game?" He gave him a shove backward, took up his own revolver, slipped it into his holster, and then flung the other away.
"So?" objected Roche. "You refuse me even de satisfaction for shoot myself? You leave me here, handcuffed, for de flames?" He made a step forward. "Pardon," he said, "but will you not do me de favour for shoot me yourself? It is more queek, less 'orrible. And for your revenge it is all de same. I die anyway. What?"
Silk was not listening to him. He glanced round apprehensively as a shower of black dust and smouldering grass blades fell from the midst of the heavy pall of rolling smoke. Then he stretched out his hands and caught hold of his prisoner in his strong arms, lifted him bodily, and flung him across the mare's back, holding him there while he seized thereins, raised a foot to the stirrup, and leapt up behind him.
"Go!" he cried, when his seat was secure. "Go, my beauty!"
With a snort and a shake of her mane the mare went forward, dashed up the slope, gained the level, and plunged off with a long, racing stride to mingle with the panic-stricken crowd of bellowing, screeching creatures of the prairie in the mad stampede for escape.
Mile after mile she galloped with her double burden, making never a pause or a break, while the fire, with its terrible crackle and moaning, came closer and closer, and the blinding, choking reek swept by in a thickening cloud.
Silk had no need to use spur or reins. He let her go her own instinctive way, and only strove to keep his awkward seat in the saddle and to hold grimly, desperately to the man lying helpless across his knees. Once only he tightened the reins to check the mare's headlong flight as they came to the brink of a creek. Then, with coaxing, affectionatewords, he bade her go warily, guiding her through the shallows, where a struggling crowd of coyotes, rabbits, and prairie dogs wallowed or swam or sank exhausted.
At the farther side of the sluggish stream Silk dismounted, trusting that the fire would not yet leap the water.
"Reckon we can take breath for a while," he said to his moaning prisoner. "Say, I'll just fix you in a more comfortable position and give you a drink. Guess you're needing it. I'd take the handcuffs off you, only I'm afraid you can hardly be trusted, even now. What do you say?"
As he brought a hatful of water and held it up, the half-breed dipped his face in it, and then looked down at him appealingly.
"Sergeant," he pleaded, leaning over and holding out his swollen hands and exhibiting the bruised wrists, "you tek dem off. You 'ave pity, eh?"
Silk shook his head and emptied his hat upon the mare's face.
"Do you think you deserve so muchpity?" he asked. "If I took them off you'd only try to escape."
Pierre Roche drew back his hands and awkwardly moved his body as if he meant to slip to the ground.
Silk stopped him.
"Stay where you are," he ordered sternly. "What are you up to?"
"I go no more," returned the half-breed. "I was coward. I no deserve any pity. It ees true. Listen, Sergeant. You was de mos' brave man I ever know. It ees not good you reesk you good life for me any longer. You leave me. You go on alone. I remain. I die. I gif myself to de flame. It ees bes' you go alone, see?"
Sergeant Silk recognised that the man was sincere in his curious entreaty to be left to his fate.
But he shook his head gravely.
"No," he responded. "I must do my duty. I cannot go without my prisoner, and, though you were the worst sinner that ever breathed, I could not bring myself to abandon you tothat!"
He nodded in the direction of the fiercely advancing flames. A spark nipped his cheek. Round about him he saw tiny jets of smoke rising from among the dry herbage.
"It's coming," he said. "The water won't stop it. Quick!" he cried. "Your wrists!" He seized the handcuffs and adroitly whipped them free. "There!" he nodded, "I trust you, see? You could dash off without me now."
Pierre Roche drew a deep breath of relief. He looked down into the sergeant's eyes.
"Dat is true," he acknowledged. "But I give you my parole. I go wid you. I am you prisoner. I no try for mek my escape. No. I go to my punishment. Quick! Quick!"
He held out his blue and swollen hands to help the soldier policeman to mount.
The mare sped on again, panting hoarsely, snorting, swaying sometimes, but never faltering, never slackening her onward rush, until, at last, she reached safety on a wide stretch of blackened earth, where a previous fire had stripped the prairie.
And late on the following morning Sergeant Silk rode into Canmore and delivered up his prisoner at the barracks.
"Ah!" declared the commandant with satisfaction. "I am glad it was you who arrested the rascal, Sergeant. And single-handed, too. You look some jaded. I hope you have had no difficulties?"
"No, sir," returned Silk, "nothing to speak of."
Percy Rapson discovered the lumbering wagon by the cloud of dust which rose above the pine-trees half-way along the valley. He reined in his broncho and waited on the ridge of the hill until his two companions in the uniform of the North-West Mounted Police should rejoin him.
The loud crack of a teamster's whip had told him that there were strangers on the trail beyond this intervening hill.
"There goes the outfit that made the track we've been following up all the afternoon," he announced, pointing in the direction of the cloud of white dust. "Whose is it, I wonder?" he questioned, speaking more particularly to the one who wore a triple chevron on the arm of his faded red tunic. "Looks rather unusual, doesn't it, Silk?"
Sergeant Silk drew down the wide brim of his hat, to shield his eyes from the glare of the setting sun, and contemplated the distant vehicle with its white canvas roof and its plodding team of mules.
"I expect it's a party of prospectors going west to the diggings," remarked Trooper Medlicott, riding up to his side.
Sergeant Silk shook his head.
"It isn't that," he decided. "It's not the best time of the year to start for the diggings, winter coming on. And besides, a woman—a girl—would hardly be going alone on a journey like that."
Young Rapson looked at him sharply.
"A girl?" he repeated wonderingly. "But you can't possibly see her, all this way off! How do you know?"
"Come to that, I don't know—with any certainty," Silk returned. "And, of course, as you say, I couldn't see her all this distance off, even if she were not hidden under the awning. Who could?"
"But you never say things like that at random," pursued Rapson. "You'vealways got a good reason for everything you do and say."
"Exactly," Silk nodded. "But it's only my surmise that there's a girl in that wagon. I don't insist that she's alone. There's the teamster and the off man taking charge of the outfit, even if their passenger had no other companion than her dog. She's young," he went on, as if speaking to himself, "and I guess she has fair hair. A bit of an artist, I believe. Paints landscapes. I'm inclined to promise that if you were to overhaul her fixings, Percy, you'd find she has a sketch of Minnewanka Peak in her portfolio."
"My hat!" exclaimed Percy. "Say, you're clever to have figured out all that!"
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
"Clever? Not at all," he protested. "I've only found out what you or Medlicott or any one else might have discovered equally well. It's quite simple. I merely happened to notice a few little things back along the trail where we halted to have our grub. You noticed yourself thatsomebody'd been camping there in front of us, didn't you?"
"Yes," Rapson signified. "I couldn't help seeing the ashes of their bivouac fire; and, of course, I've noticed the track of their wagon wheels all along the trail, as well as the footmarks of a rather big dog. But I fail to understand how you can make out all that information about the girl having fair hair and bein' an artist."
Sergeant Silk smiled as he turned to lead the way down the slope of the hill trail into the valley.
"That's only because you don't smoke a pipe that needs occasional cleaning out," he responded. "Mine needed cleaning, see? and while you and Bob Medlicott were down at the creek, watering the horses, I looked about for a stalk of sage-grass or something that would go into the stem. I found just the very thing I wanted—a hair-pin. You'll allow that a hair-pin is peculiarly a feminine piece of furniture. It's reasonable to infer that it wasn't a man who lost it; and since the one I picked up was made of gilt wire,I guess it wasn't the property of a woman with black hair. What? Don't you agree with me?"
Percy Rapson was laughing.
"It's too ridiculously obvious to be disputed," he acknowledged. "But," he added inquiringly, "how about the supposed sketch of Minnewanka Peak? That's a corker!"
Silk pushed back his hat.
"For one thing," he explained, "she sharpened a black-lead pencil, leaving the chips lying around, close beside the marks in the soil where her easel and camp-stool had stood, the dog sitting near. She had thrown away a bit of rag on which she had cleaned her paint-brushes. She'd used more azure blue than any other colour, and, say, I don't know anything quite so blue as Minnewanka Peak, of which she had an excellent view from where she had propped her easel."
"Rather a jolly idea, that—touring about Canada takin' sketches of the scenery," observed Percy Rapson. "I've often wished to be an artist. Do you suppose that shewould let us have a look at her sketches, Silk?"
"There'd be no great harm in your asking her," the sergeant answered. "But we shall hardly have time to loiter around. You see, Medlicott and I are on special duty. We're not here to occupy our time with strangers; unless, of course, we can be of some help to them. We've got to follow up the trail of Nick-By-Night and his gang, and hale them off to prison—if we're lucky enough to lay hands on them."
Percy Rapson glanced forward to the cloud of dust.
"Risky for an unprotected girl to be travellin' about when there are such characters as Nick-By-Night on the trail," he said. "I wonder nobody warned her against the possibility of bein' held-up by bandits."
"There is certainly that danger," Silk said with a tone of anxiety in his voice. "It was only half-a-dozen miles beyond where we are now that the bandits, as you call them, escaped from the patrol a week ago. Nick'ssecret hiding-place is somewhere over the hills there, on Ghost Pine Creek."
"Then that is where you are bound for?" Percy Rapson inquired. He had met the two Riders of the Plains unexpectedly, earlier in the day, and had continued to ride in their company, intending to break off from them on reaching the cross trail leading to his home at Rattlesnake Ranch.
"Exactly," Silk answered.
"Are you going to allow me to stand in with you?" the boy asked.
The sergeant shook his head.
"It would hardly be wise," he responded. "You might get hurt. There's sure to be some shooting, and I don't figure that I shall need you to identify him. I shall know him when I see him."
"You ought to," rejoined Percy. "You've seen him before."
"Eh?" Sergeant Silk looked aside at him in curious surprise. "I've seen him before, you say? When? Where?"
"Six months ago," Rapson answered, "at Calgary Races. I was there at the time, onlyyou didn't know me very well then. It was in the Golden Bar saloon. I dare say you would have arrested him then, only there was a nasty scuffle; you were wounded, and he gave you the slip."
Silk checked his mare's pace and stared at his young friend in a puzzled manner.
"Do you mean that swell mobsman with the diamond ring?" he questioned. "The chap who was playing three-card monte? WasthatNick-By-Night?"
"That's the chap, sure," Rapson informed him. "He'd done me out of two pounds by that sharper's trick of his, and I'd followed him and his gang of confederates into the saloon to try to get my money back. You remember what happened?"
"I am not likely to forget," answered the sergeant, "since apart from the wound, which was not worth mention, it was the one occasion in my experience on which I have known the excitement of pitting my common-sense against the skill of a professional swindler."
Percy recalled the exciting incident to his own memory now as he followed the red-coatedofficer down the trail. He pictured to himself the noisy saloon, thronged with racing men, cowboys, ranchers, idlers from the town and the outlying homesteads, with a sprinkling of Indians and half-breeds.
He saw a tall, lithe, blue-eyed man, dressed as a rancher, in corduroys, blue shirt, and wide felt hat, slowly threading his way, as though without definite aim, among the little tables at which men sat drinking, smoking, gambling. Percy did not recognise him at first in his disguise, never before having seen him out of his smart uniform of the Mounted Police; but presently he overheard a half-breed muttering—
"Parbleu!yes; it ees Sergean' Seelk! He shape for mek de arrest of Monsieur Cutlaire. What?"
Rapson watched the sergeant saunter up to the table at which the card-sharper now sat with a couple of companions as flashily dressed as himself.
"Say, stranger, what kind of a lay-out d'you call this?" Silk inquired in a slow,drawling voice, without removing the cigarette from his lips.
The sleek, clean-shaven, flashily dressed man with the diamond ring looked up at him without suspicion, evidently supposing that he was what he appeared to be—a careless, good-natured, easy-going rancher out for a holiday; a likely victim to be gulled and fleeced.
"What sort of eyesight have you got, cully?" the gambler asked, holding up three cards with their faces outwards, so that the newcomer might see them.
"Oh, I dunno," said Silk, trying to look stupid. "Pretty middlin', I reckon. Why?"
"Say, now," went on the three-card man, "d'you reckon you could locate the king when I throw them out, this way?"
"Why, cert'nly," declared Silk, pointing at one of the cards. "It's that one."
"My!" ejaculated the dealer in pretended surprise. "So it is! You're not such a cariboo as you look. But I bet you five dollars you can't do it a second time."