"Right you are," Silk agreed, producing a five-dollar bill. "Show your money."
For a second time he was allowed to pick out the king and to take possession of the stakes. The table was now surrounded by a pressing crowd of onlookers, including Percy Rapson, who tried to attract the sergeant's attention and to caution him against the certainty of being swindled; but Silk held his face down, shadowed by his wide felt hat, all his attention upon the game.
"You've got the eyes of a lynx," commented the dealer encouragingly. "You'll sure make your pile at this rate. Try once more!"
The cards were thrown again, and again the supposed rancher won. He made a clever show of becoming eager, though he knew that he was only being decoyed to a final plunge. When he had won twenty dollars and the watching crowd had drawn closer, he laughed and glanced across at the sharper.
"Say, do you put any limit on this here game?" he asked.
"How far will you go?" questioned the dealer. "You're twenty dollars to the good already. You're shaping to break me."
Sergeant Silk hesitated and looked swiftly back over his shoulder. He wanted to delay operations until one or more of his chums of the Mounted Police should come in to his support, as had been planned in case of trouble.
"How much do you bet?" invited the sharper.
Silk leant forward, fumbling at his belt pocket.
"Fifty dollars," he readily answered.
The man with the diamond ring made a pretence of hesitation. Silk deliberately counted out ten five-dollar bills and held them between his fingers on the table.
"All right," the gambler assented, taking up what appeared to be the same three cards. "I don't mind running the risk, just for once on the off-chance of my luck taking a turn."
And he began to make passes with the three pieces of pasteboard.
"Wait a bit, though," objected Silk very calmly. "I don't see your ownstake. Here is my money. Where's yours?"
"Oh, that's all serene," said the other. "My credit's good for anything in this emporium."
"May be so," demurred Silk. "All the same," he insisted firmly, "I expect to see your money alongside of mine."
There was some quibbling, but after consulting with one of his confederates the gambler yielded and reluctantly counted the money in gold from a bulky canvas bag that he drew from his breast pocket. Probably Silk was the only stranger present who was aware that the coins were counterfeit.
"That ought to satisfy you," sneered the trickster, as he dealt out the three cards.
Very coolly and without an instant's hesitation Sergeant Silk bent over and placed his hand upon the card nearest to him, drawing it an inch or two towards him, but not turning it up.
"This is the king," he declared positively, for the first time looking the gamester straight in the eye.
"Ah, so that's your fancy, is it?" The professional swindler leant back with a satisfied smile. "Well, suppose you just turn it over and let every one see."
Silk's steel-blue eyes flashed for an instant. He knew that with his next move there was going to be trouble.
"No," he cried. "You will turn over the other two."
With an oath the swindler refused, betraying by his agitation that for once he had met his match.
"That's not the way this game is played," he objected in confusion. "Show us your king."
"It's the way that I intend to see it played," declared Silk very calmly but firmly. And with his forefinger he adroitly flicked the two cards over, face upward. "You see," he cried, "neither of yours is a king. Therefore mine is bound to be."
Utterly confounded, and dreading the consequences if the third card should now be revealed, the swindler tried to shuffle out of his awkward position by giving in.
"In that case, you win," he said.
Sergeant Silk quietly pocketed the hundred dollars with one hand, while with the other he still retained the third card.
The gambler snatched at it.
"Give me that card!" he demanded, dreading that any one should see it.
Silk laughed and stood up.
"Not before the company have seen it," he retorted, and turning the card over he cried: "See, boys, it's the three of diamonds! The king is up his sleeve!"
His voice, the accusing flash of his eyes, his whole attitude, revealed him in his true identity to the crowd, who now recognised him through his disguise as a well-known officer of the Mounted Police. There was a cry—
"It's Silk—Sergeant Silk!"
In the wild confusion that followed his exposure of the cheat, Percy Rapson did not see exactly what happened. All that he knew was that the unmasked card-sharper and his confederates were fighting their way out of the saloon, that one or two pistol shots were fired, and thatSergeant Silk had been flung to the floor with blood upon his face.
"So that was Nick-By-Night, was it?" Silk now asked of Rapson as they rode into the valley. "How do you know?"
"I found out only this morning," Percy explained. "I was at Hilton's Jump and heard two fellows talking about him in Canadian French. They called him Nick Cutler, and Cutler was the name by which Pierre Roche referred to the card-sharper in the Golden Bar. I expect he has heaps of aliases and disguises. Anyhow, you'll know him when you see him, won't you?"
"Why, cert'nly," nodded Silk, "thanks to you. You see, I never forget a face."
"Say, Sergeant," interposed Constable Medlicott, "that outfit in front of us has pulled up. I guess they're intending to make camp for the night."
"Do you suppose they've spotted us?" questioned Percy Rapson.
"It's likely," said Silk. "What if they have?"
"Well," returned Percy, looking serious, "I was thinkin' it might be a trap. It's quite possible that the man you're trackin'—Nick-By-Night—is in that wagon with some of his gang, lying in wait for you, and that he planted that hair-pin and the other signs to decoy you."
Silk smiled.
"It's 'cute of you to hit upon such a notion," he said, "but, you see, it was by the merest chance that we halted where we did; and besides, the innocent hair-pin was dropped there quite early in the morning, before I myself knew we were coming on this trail. Just in case there is any trickery, however, I will ride on in advance, and if I find that the wagon is occupied by a gang of armed bandits, I'll sound my whistle. You two will wait right here."
He touched his mare's flank with his heel and went off at an easy gallop down the trail. As he drew near to the wagon he saw that the two men in charge of it had unharnessed the mules and were taking them to a neighbouring stream. A large deerhound appeared from behind the vehicle, followed by a girl. The hound barked at the approaching horseman.
"Quiet, Don! Quiet!" the girl called.
She stood waiting. Silk observed that she was dressed in dark serge and wore a green felt sun hat, which did not wholly conceal her very fair hair. He also noticed that she carried an artist's canvas and a portable easel.
"How do, officer?" the girl said in response to his salutation, as he drew to a halt in front of her. "The sight of your uniform is like arainbow. It signifies hope."
"Hope?" he smiled. "Hope of what?"
"Hope that you are here to protect a lone and defenceless wayfarer from danger," she answered him. "My teamster alarms me with the news that there is a notorious highwayman prowling around in these parts. Naturally the presence of a member of the Mounted Police is reassuring." She glanced at the stripes on his arm. "Won't you dismount, Sergeant?" she asked.
Sergeant Silk slipped from his saddle.
"I'm glad to know that you have been warned," he said. "I can't deny that the warning is reasonable. As a matter of fact, we are at present hunting for that same highwayman."
"I hope you will catch him," the girl urged. "One hardly expects to be troubled by such characters in peaceful, law-abiding Alberta. I hope sincerely that he will be arrested. Do you think he will be, Sergeant? Shall I be safe, camping here?"
"You need not be afraid," Silk assured her. "Whatever else happens,Nick-By-Night shall not be allowed to interrupt your sketching tour."
The girl looked at him in amused wonder.
"My sketching tour?" she repeated. "You have not taken long to discover that I am an artist."
"The fact is obvious," he rejoined quickly, indicating the canvas that she held in her left hand. Its back was towards him, and he could not see what she had painted; but he added at a venture: "You made a picture of Minnewanka Mountain this morning."
"How do you know?" she asked in surprise. "Were you there? Did you see me at work?" She turned the canvas and held it for his inspection. "It is only a rough sketch," she explained. "I haven't come out West on a sketching tour. It is only my amusement. I am on my way to pay a surprise visit to my brother on his ranch at Mosquito Crossing. I am going to live with him, I hope, and help him with housekeeping. Perhaps you know him?"
Sergeant Silk had glanced aside at a packing-case that lay on the grassnear one of the wheels of the wagon. She saw that he was reading what was written on the address label: "Miss K. Grey, Mosquito Crossing, Red Deer River, Alberta."
An expression of perplexity came upon his face.
"I did not know that any one of the name of Grey had a ranch near Mosquito Crossing," he said. "There was Andrew Grey, who ran a fruit farm near Medicine Hat; but he was too old to be a brother of yours, and besides——"
He broke off.
"My brother's name is Jim," Miss Grey explained.
"When did you last hear from him?" Silk inquired.
"Oh, months and months ago—six months, at least. It is because he hasn't written to me that I have come out to take him by surprise."
"I see," Silk nodded. "But many changes may happen in six months. I guess you had better have announced your intention. He might then havemet you and saved you some trouble. Surprise visits aren't any more successful in Alberta than anywhere else. They're a mistake."
The fair-haired girl stared at him in alarm.
"Do you mean that something has happened to Jim?" she cried. "Do you mean that I shall not find him—that he has gone away—or that he is dead?"
Sergeant Silk shook his head.
"I did not say so," he responded. "I do not happen to know him, that is all that I can tell you. But, you see, there are many people in the Province of Alberta whom I do not know. Your brother is just one of them. Nevertheless, I hope I may find him for you."
"You are very kind to trouble about me," the girl told him. "I've no doubt you will find Jim, if any one can. For the present, however, I am more concerned about my personal safety from those highwaymen. You see, Sergeant, I haven't even a pistol to defend myself with."
Sergeant Silk took out a cigarette as he said—
"The situation would only be awkward if Nick-By-Night chanced to come along this trail and discover your outfit. It certainly wouldn't be nice if he were to take a fancy to your mules and leave you stranded in a lonesome place like this. But, I repeat, you need not be afraid."
He lighted his cigarette, raised his hand to a half-salute, and strode up to his broncho, while Miss Grey climbed the steps at the rear of the wagon with her easel and picture.
Silk looked down upon the dusty trail where the marks of his mare's hoofs showed amid the smaller footprints of the four mules.
"Guess we'd be wise not to disturb that track, Beauty," he decided, speaking to the mare as if she were a human.
Without giving any explanation to the girl, without even telling her that he was leaving her, he leapt into his saddle and rode down to the stream where the two wagon men were watering the mules. He spoke to the older of them, bidding him keep a big fire burning and to see that the mules were well secured.Then he entered the shallow stream and followed its current to a point near to where he had left his two companions, when he whistled to them and signed to them to come down to him.
"It's all right, Percy, my boy," he announced as they joined him. "I have interviewed the owner of the innocent hair-pin and seen her picture of Minnewanka Peak. It's great! I find she is some scared about Nick-By-Night. She's got some fixings that would be worth his stealing, and—well, if you two chaps see no objection, I figure we may as well hang around hereabout until morning."
"Joining Miss Hair-pin's encampment?" questioned Percy.
"Not exactly," Silk answered, "but keeping an eye on it from ambush."
"Why did you come back along the bed of the stream?" Percy wanted to know. "Why did you bring us off the trail?"
"Just a whim of mine," smiled the sergeant. "I didn't want to make a return track. I wanted you two to leave the hoof-marks of two horses leading off the trail.There'll be a full moon to-night, and if any one—any bandit or highwayman—should follow on our traces, he'll think just what I mean him to think, that two of us have gone off on a side track, leaving the wagon unprotected."
"Say, you wouldn't take such elaborate precautions if you didn't suspect that something was goin' to happen," declared Percy. "But, of course, you couldn't well leave a mere girl in such a situation."
"That is what I thought," said Silk. "We will lie in our blankets within close call."
He led his companions back on the far side of the stream, and they took up a position, well concealed, between the water and Miss Grey's camp fire, hobbling their horses beside them. They had food in their haversacks, and when they had taken supper the sergeant claimed first turn for a sleep.
At midnight he was on watch alone, sitting with his back against a tree-trunk and his carbine across his knees, while Medlicott and Rapson rested. The moon was shiningbrightly, making everything almost as clear as in daylight. All was quiet excepting for the occasional movement of one of the horses, the croaking of bull frogs, and the harsh chirping of night insects. Suddenly a new sound fell upon his ear. He put forth his hand and touched Trooper Medlicott.
"You awake, Bob?"
"I am listening," whispered Medlicott. "There's two of 'em. They're coming this way on the trail of the wagon. They've passed the place where we forked off."
"Maybe they're a couple of our own boys," said Silk. "But whoever they are, they'll sure pull up near the camp fire to nose around. Follow me up. Bring Rapson; but keep him well in the rear. There's the deerhound barking!"
He tightened the cinches of his saddle, and, mounting, rode up very cautiously towards the fire. His overcoat covered his red tunic, and the two teamsters, who were awake and on their feet, neither saw nor heard him as he moved stealthily among the black shadows of the trees bordering the trailbetween the wagon and the approaching horsemen.
Nearer and nearer they came. For a long time Silk listened to the sound of their horses' hoofs, watching for them to cross into a wide stretch of moonlit grass. Trooper Medlicott was now close behind him. Percy Rapson was far back.
"Here they come!" whispered Sergeant Silk. "Be ready to give chase. They're both masked."
He rode boldly out to meet them, halting in the middle of the trail and raising his carbine.
"Who goes?" he cried. "Pull up, or I fire!"
The two masked riders dragged their horses round and made off by the way they had come. They were in the full light. Silk fired two shots in quick succession. One of the horses staggered, went down on its knees, and rolled over. The other dashed on. Silk fired again, then put spurs to his broncho and rode off in pursuit, with Medlicott following.
"Look to the one that's fallen!" he cried.
Percy Rapson rode out also, to help Medlicott. The man who had been thrown had broken a leg and could not move. Medlicott quickly disarmed him and left him in charge of Percy, who stood over him until the two policemen returned with their captive riding between them.
"This chap's plug is done for, Sergeant," Percy reported.
"I'm sorry for that," Silk regretted. "Help him to mount yours and lead him to the wagon. I must see to that broken leg of his. We shall stop here until daybreak."
Their two prisoners were led into the circle of light made by the camp fire. The one with the broken limb was put to lie on a blanket until he could be properly attended to. The other was secured against escape by means of a trail rope, which was bound about his wrists and ankles. Percy Rapson watched this operation with interest, admiring the skill with which Sergeant Silk tied the knots and combined absolute security with freedom to move. It was not until the last knot was tied that the man's mask was removed.
"That's him, sure enough!" declared Percy when the outlaw's face was revealed. "That's the chap who tried to swindle you, Sergeant—Nick Cutler—Nick-By-Night!"
The prisoner was writhing curiously, bending forward, and staring towards the wagon. Sergeant Silk turned to see what he was looking at so intently, and beheld Miss Grey standing in the firelight, wrapped about in a rich fur coat.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you," Silk said to her apologetically. "But, you see, we have caught your highwayman. Say, you had better get back into the wagon and finish your sleep."
She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed in blank amazement upon his prisoner's face. Silk moved aside and she made a step forward, pointing a trembling hand at the man writhing in his ropes.
"Jim!" she cried. "Jim!"
The captured outlaw drew back as if from a blow.
"Kitty!" he faltered. "Kitty! You—here?"
The girl waved her hand to dismiss him from her sight, then turned to the tall soldier policeman who stood near her, betraying no surprise at the strange recognition.
"It's all right, Sergeant," she murmured brokenly. "You have found my brother for me, as you said you would."
The millionaire was seated close to the open window of the luxurious Pullman car that waited in Macleod Station. He was looking across the platform at a tall man in a red tunic.
"Fine, handsome chaps, these North-West Mounted Police," he remarked to his fellow-passenger. "Look, Colonel, look at that one on the platform! Quite a picture of soldierly bearing; fit to be an officer in the Guards so far as outward appearance goes! Just a trifle too tidy, perhaps; too consciously elegant; too much as if he were intended as an ornament rather than for serious active service. There's not a crease or a flaw in his scarlet tunic, see! Hat set on at the right angle, not a strap out of place or a button that doesn't shine enough to dazzle your eyes. Even the way he carries his overcoat and holds his carbine in the crookof his arm makes one think he'd studied the effect in front of a looking-glass. Indeed, the only departure from military precision that I can detect is his wearing his chin-strap at the back of his head instead of in the regulation manner."
There was no response to these criticisms, and the millionaire went on after taking one or two puffs at his very large cigar—
"Do you suppose, now, Colonel, that he could do any serious business with that service revolver of his? You'd think by the cartridges in his bandolier that it was intended for use. And do you suppose that a dandy such as he is could do any real good in a scrimmage?"
The passenger on the other side of the dining-table sipped at his cup of black coffee.
"I don't only suppose, Sir George," he answered slowly, glancing out through the open window. "I happen to know. The man you're looking at isn't always dressed as if he had just come out of a bandbox to parade his elegance and his good figure on a railroad platform. I have seen himlooking very different, riding out on the lone patrol. If he is clean and tidy now, it is because he hates slovenliness of any kind, and, perhaps, too, because he likes to hide the fact that the one purpose of his existence is to do his duty with efficiency. You ask if he could do any serious business with his revolver. My dear Sir George, that chap is considered the best shot in all Canada. He is that, just as surely as he is the best all-round scout, the best rider, and the bravest man in the Dominion. I could tell you a lot about him, but I see by the twinkle in his eye that he knows we are talking of him, and he hates to be noticed. Ah, he's coming this way."
Sir George produced his box of cigars as the soldier policeman strode across the platform towards the waiting cars. The Colonel rose from his seat and leant his elbows on the frame of the window.
"How d'you do, Sergeant Silk?" he said in greeting, extending his hand. "Say, it seems queer to see you on foot and not in the saddle. You'reoff duty, I suppose?"
"No, Colonel," returned Silk, "not exactly. My broncho is in the horse box at the rear. I'm going on by this train."
"Have a cigar, Sergeant," urged Sir George.
Silk took one, biting off the end with his sharp, even teeth, as cleanly as if he had cut it with a knife.
"Won't you come in along with us?" the millionaire invited.
Silk shook his head.
"No, thank you, sir. I go third-class, and I may have to jump off between stations." He glanced at the Colonel. "I'm going west to see if I can find out something of the affair that happened along the line last night," he explained. "Perhaps you heard of it? No? Well, you see, the 7.42 was held up by a gang of train robbers, who managed to board her while she was side-tracked, waiting for the limited express to pass. The engine-driver was killed in the scuffle, and the conductor was badly hurt. I'm going as far as Hill Crest to have a word with the conductor,if he is well enough to be examined."
"It is to be hoped there's no danger of those train thieves paying us a visit to-night," said the millionaire anxiously. "I should hardly have expected to meet such gentry in Canada."
Sergeant Silk shook his head and smiled as he struck a match to light his cigar.
"They were caught, sir," he said, enjoying the aroma. "We happened—my broncho and I—to drop on them as they were escaping with the swag; and they are here in Macleod, safe under lock and key."
"What?" exclaimed the millionaire. "A gang of armed desperadoes, you say, caught—arrested—by you and your horse alone?"
Silk dropped the extinguished match and carefully trod it under foot. Experienced prairie rider as he was, he was always cautious about fire.
"You've got to allow something for my being in uniform," he smiled. "Law-breakers out here have a wholesome dread of the Mounted Police."
Touching the wide brim of his hat with a forefinger, he turned away, striding along the platform with a military clink of spurs.
He went towards the front of the waiting train, where the engine had just been coupled and was being oiled up for the run along the branch line from Macleod to Crow's Nest Pass. The district superintendent stood by and was reprimanding the engine-driver, who had evidently been making some complaint about his job.
"What's the matter with you that you register for rest?" the superintendent wanted to know. "You know we're short handed, Ted Chennell bein' killed. You've got ter take Ted's place. You've only been at work twenty hours. There's Tom Morden has been on his engine twenty-eight hours, and Tom ain't askin' for rest yet. Say, some of you fellows ought to get a job clerkin' in a drug store. This yer train's got to go. You're the only available man to take her, and that's straight."
Sergeant Silk puffed for a few moments at his cigar before speaking.
"Seems to me, Mr. Garside," he remarked casually, "that Halkett and his engine are about on a par. They're both promising candidates for hospital."
The superintendent looked round at him in surprise, resenting his interference.
"What's the matter with the engine?" he snapped. "Ain't she good enough? What's wrong with her? I allow you knows a lot about hosses, Sergeant. Thar's not many men in the Prairie Provinces knows as much. But come to locomotive engines, all that you know wouldn't take up much room on a news-sheet. I reckon I can give you points and get in front of you every time. What's the matter with 99, anyhow? You ain't overhauled her."
Sergeant Silk shifted his carbine to his other arm.
"I happen to have had a look at her this morning when she was lying in the siding," he responded lightly, regarding number 99 as if she were a horse, "and with all deference to your greater experience, Mr. Garside, I'd say that, like Halkett, she is suffering from overwork. She wantsrest. She's needing a tonic. She ought to be put out to grass. Her truck centre castings are weak; her driving wheel tyres have grooves in them half-an-inch deep; the coupling pin of the tender is worn loose; she wants a new throttle latch-spring, and some of her tubes are leaky. She's wheezing now as if she had congestion of the lungs. Dare say she'd do credit drawing freight wagons; but for passenger cars—well, it's your business, not mine."
Mr. Garside stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips, critically watching Sergeant Silk through the narrowed slits of his watery eyes.
"If you know such an almighty lot about locomotives, Sergeant," he said, "and if you calculate as Joe Halkett ain't fit and capable to manage his own business, pr'aps you'll condescend to take the train along yourself. She's scheduled to start in three minutes from now, and there's no time to change either engine or driver, see?"
Sergeant Silk looked at the superintendent sharply.
"Are you serious?" he questioned. "Do you really mean it?"
"Sure!" nodded the superintendent. "I allow there's some truth in what you say. She ain't just in the best of health, and there's room in the cab if you'll take charge. You can at least keep an eye on that throttle latch-spring, and keep Joe from droppin' asleep so as he don't run past the switches when the limited is comin' along behind."
Silk glanced upward into the cab, where Joe Halkett stood awaiting the signal to start.
Joe was looking exceedingly green and ill. He was a tallish fellow, wiry and muscular, with a hard face, dark hair, and sharp, peery eyes. He was reputed to be one of the best drivers in the Canadian Pacific Railway service; it was said that he could manage a cranky engine better than any other engineer west of Winnipeg. But Silk had already noticed that there was something queer about his manner this evening. There was a curious light in his peery eyes and a curious look on his face that did not inspire confidence.
In spite of the roar made by the steam escaping from the safety valve,Joe had heard the superintendent's suggestion that the soldier policeman should ride in the cab, and he signed beckoningly with a backward toss of his head while Silk hesitated.
"You may as well come along, Sergeant," he pleaded. "I tell you straight, I ain't fit fer duty to-night, and I'd sooner take on any other trip than this one to Crow's Nest. It ain't my reg'lar line, and I'm some scared. I'm all of a tremble. I'd oughter be home in bed. Ask Dick if I oughtn't."
Dick, his fireman, paused in his work of shovelling coal into the fire-box.
"This yer train ain't anyways safe, Joe drivin'," he said, as the superintendent turned on his heel and strode back towards the rear of the train. "Dunno what's come over him."
Sergeant Silk needed no urging. He caught at the rail, mounted the footplate, and swung himself into the cab.
"All right, Joe," he said soothingly, putting on his overcoat to shield his tunic from grease and coal. "Just you do the best you can, and don't worry. I guess you'll feel well enough once you're started. There goes your signal!"
With a loud clang of the engine bell the train moved out of the station, slowly at first, but gathering speed as it left the little town with its flour mills and grain elevators behind.
Silk seated himself on the box and continued smoking his cigar. He was not long in discovering that his judgment of the locomotive had been accurate. She was certainly cranky. Her rods moved jerkily, and there was a constant rattling of loose bolts. The wheel tyres were so badly ground down in parts by the use of brakes that you might almost have believed that she had square wheels.With every revolution as the flat spots hit the metals, she dropped with a noisy thud, and then when she went over them she would raise herself bodily again, while the tender rammed her so spitefully that the worn coupling bolts were strained almost to breaking-point.
"Say, Joe," said the sergeant, "this is about as comfortable as riding a bucking broncho. How long have your wheels been like this?"
Joe Halkett looked round at him blankly, stupidly, and answered in a mazed way—
"Ever since last winter. They was ground down wrestlin' with the snow-plough in Crow's Nest Pass."
Silk glanced at the gauge.
"You're not getting much speed out of her," he said, "considering the amount of steam you're using."
"She's just obstinate," said Joe. "Obstinate an' wilful. You can't coax her nohow. I'm sick and tired of tinkerin' with her."
"She's wuss to-night than usual," declared Dick. "Reckon it's thatheavy private car as takes it out of her. We've got all we c'n do ter fetch Three Moose siding 'fore the limited hustles along."
It was not a stopping train and it was only necessary to watch that the signals were shown for clear at the few stations that came at infrequent intervals along the line.
Joe Halkett appeared to be working very well. He had got the train adjusted to its gait, and the cars were thumping over the frogs and switches at a reasonable pace, labouring, panting, and grunting when mounting a steep gradient, but settling down again when there was a stretch of good running ground ahead. It was mostly cultivated prairie land, but now and again the track was through gloomy pine forests or deep mountain defiles.
Dusk had already deepened into darkness when they were rattling along the track across the Piegan Indian Reservation, and Halkett had somehow worked up his engine to such easy going that Sergeant Silk began to believe that he had exaggerated the disabilities of both locomotive andengineer, and that he might just as well have been enjoying the greater comfort of one of the passenger cars, or been seated luxuriously in the private Pullman spinning yarns with the Colonel and Sir George.
In the darkness Silk did not perceive the change that had come upon Halkett's face. It was only when Joe chanced to lean over into the light from the open fire-box that he saw the look of terror that had come into it. It was a look like that of a man who had got some terrible secret on his soul and was driven half mad by it.
"Joe? What's the matter?" Silk cried, starting to his feet. He glanced round at the fireman.
Dick had just come back from the water tank.
"Say, Sergeant," he gasped, "the water's runnin' low, an' we've passed the plug. We've got ter go back!"
Silk was alarmed. He knew well that one of the important things for an engine-driver to do is to figure out at what plugs he can fill his tankmost advantageously, and that it is a high crime to run short of water.
"Are you certain sure we've passed it?" he asked sharply. He had leapt to the lever to stop the train, and whistle for brakes.
The fireman nodded.
"Yes," he answered. "We've got ter push back. It's a good three mile."
"But we can't push back," Silk protested. "There's not time, and we shall not have enough steam. There's the limited express to think of. How far on is the next water plug?"
"'Bout the same distance," Dick told him. "We're half ways between."
"Then we'll pull ahead," decided the sergeant.
"She'll bust, sure, if we do," declared Joe Halkett, rousing himself to a realisation of the situation. "Thar' ain't enough power ter carry her through, draggin' such a weight, and, say, thar's no switch near hand, where we kin side-track ter let the limited run past."
The train had stopped. Sergeant Silk stood still, hardly daring to take the responsibility.But even in the matter of managing an engine he proved himself to be a person of ready resource. He whistled for the conductor.
"Jump down and cut the engine loose, Dick," he ordered. And without questioning the motive, Dick obeyed.
By the time that the engine and tender had been uncoupled from the foremost car, the guard had come through the corridors from the brake van to know what had happened.
"All right; don't alarm the passengers," cried Silk. "We're short of water. We've run past the plug. I'm going on with the engine alone to the next plug to get some. Climb up to the roof of the head car with a lamp and signal us back, see?"
Leaving the conductor to guess how it chanced that the locomotive was in charge of a sergeant of police, he opened the throttle valve and started off along the line at the highest speed that he could get out of the cranky old kettle, arriving at the hydrant with an empty tank and a dangerously exhausted boiler.
Halkett and Dick helped him, and almost before the tank was filled they had started on the back journey. Many precious minutes had been lost, but the engine had returned to the waiting train with a quarter of an hour to spare in which to reach Three Moose siding and get out of the way of the express.
"D'you reckon we can do it, Joe?" Silk asked with a quick glance at the engineer.
Halkett had abandoned his duty. He sat on a corner of the tool-box and was staring about him like a man in a fever, with a sort of wild gleam in his eyes, as if some mortal terror had taken hold of him and was tormenting him. He held a long-spouted oilcan in his hand, and the oil was dripping to his feet.
"Can we do it?" Silk repeated. And looking at Joe more attentively he began to realise that the man's strange agitation of mind was due to something quite apart from the danger of being run into by the express.
"We can't get to the switch on time," Joe roused himself to say in avoice that was hoarse and unnatural. "You c'n try as you like; but, clever as you are, you'll never get this yer engine to pass Three Moose Crossing. Thar's blood on the track, see? The place is haunted—haunted by the ghost of a dead man."
"He's sure mad, now," muttered Dick. "Say, Sergeant, you'd best leave him and take charge. We might git inter the siding if we start right now."
Sergeant Silk snatched the oilcan from Joe Halkett's grip and handed it to the fireman.
"Look here, Dick," he commanded, "take this can and run back to the tail of the train and grease the metals. Oil first one rail and then the other. D'you understand? It's our only chance. Let the oil run about a car's length on the top of each rail, and come back again quick as you can."
Before Dick returned, panting and perspiring, with the empty can, Silk was ready to start, with his hand on the throttle valve. He blew the whistle, and with a snort, a grunt, and a noisy rattle, the engine movedon, now wholly under the sergeant's control.
"It's no use," Joe Halkett muttered with an insane laugh. "She'll never go past that crossin'."
"What do you mean?" Silk demanded. "Three Moose Crossing?" he repeated. And then, as if suddenly recollecting something, he looked down at Joe's face in the light from the fire-box; looked at it searchingly, wonderingly. "What do you know about Three Moose Crossing?" he asked with curious directness. "You were not on your engine that night—the night that Steve Bagshott was killed. What has it got to do with you?"
Halkett laughed—a ghastly, hollow laugh—then dropped into silence, while Silk forced the engine to fuller speed. But as the train dashed through the darkness, Halkett became more and more excited.
"The ghost'll be there, sure!" he repeated again and again.
"Well, and if it is," returned Silk, with his eye watchfully on thegauge, "I don't care for any of your ghosts. I don't care if there's a hundred of them so long as this train goes safe."
"But it can't go safe," cried Halkett, rising to his feet and laying a trembling hand on the sergeant's arm.
The train was covering the miles at terrific speed now as it went down the gradient. But it was not the speed that made Halkett shake like a reed and drove the blood from his cheeks.
"Sergeant," he said in a thick whisper as he clutched more tightly at Silk's arm, "that man who was run over—Steve Bagshott—wasn't killed by accident."
"What do you mean?" Silk cried. "What has come over you to-night?"
Joe bent his face forward. His hot breath was on the sergeant's cheek.
"He wasn't killed by accident," he repeated hoarsely. "He was murdered! That's why he haunts the crossing. He can't rest."
"Murdered?"
"Yes," Joe nodded grimly. Then, loosening his grip, he went to the sideof the cab and peered forward into the darkness. "We're gettin' near," he muttered. "We're gettin' near the place, but we can't go on. She can't go safe over the crossing to-night."
Sergeant Silk blew the whistle, asking for a signal. He did not know that he was still many miles from the siding. He turned to speak to the fireman, who was at work among the coals. When he looked back again, Joe Halkett had slipped forward and had raised his hand to shut off steam.
"Stop!" shouted Silk, seizing his arm. "Do you think you can play with this train? She's going on, and at the same speed, until I get a signal, though there were a score of haunted crossings in the way. Stand back!"
He thrust the man aside. But Joe renewed his grip. His hard face was working with terror and his eyes were starting out of his head.
"I murdered him!" he panted. And by the light of the fireman's lamp Silk could see great beads of agony on his forehead. He went on jerkily,his voice rising sharp and wild as he told his fearful story of a brutal vengeance.
But Sergeant Silk flung him aside, not heeding him, thinking only that the fate of the racing train and the lives of scores of human beings depended upon what happened in the next few minutes.
"I dragged him to the crossing," Joe went on. "I laid him across the line. There was a train due in three minutes. This train—this engine. They thought it was accident. You—you—thought so, too. But it wasn't. I did it—I!"
His voice rose to a shriek. Then he crept to Silk's side.
"Sergeant, there's death ahead and death behind," he cried, and with a leap forward he seized the lever.
"Let go!" Silk shouted, flinging him backward among the coals. "Lay hold of him, Dick," he ordered. "The express must be coming on behind. But that oil has delayed her, sure."
Once again he whistled for a signal, and this time one came, tellinghim that the switch was open. He slowed down cautiously. He had passed the crossing, and now with a sudden turn from the straight track, the engine panted into the siding, safe from all possible harm.
"Oh, stopping again, are we?" said the millionaire in the private car. "We've run short of water again, I suppose. I wonder that your railway companies don't introduce those water troughs on the permanent way, such as we have in England."
"We do, on some lines," returned the Colonel. "But I don't fancy it's water this time. Listen! Yes, I thought so. We've gone into a side track to let the limited express go past. Dear me, she must have been exceedingly close on our heels! But our engine-driver—a man named Halkett, is a magnificent fellow. Quite the best driver on the line, I believe."
When the express had rushed by, he lowered the window and looked out. Some one was walking along the line towards the rear of the train.