Fyles stirred uneasily. He meant every word he had said, and somehow he felt he was still beyond the barrier, still outside the citadel he was striving to reduce.
“Yes, I know,†he said almost bitterly. “It is just a wager—a wager between us. It is a wager whereby we can force our convictions upon each other.â€
Kate nodded, and the warm light of her eyes had changed to a look of anxiety.
“There is a whole day and more before the—settlement, a day and night which may be fraught with a world of disaster. Let us leave it at that—for the present.†Then, with an effort, she banished the seriousness from her manner. “But I am delaying. I must pack my grip, and harness my team. You see, I must leave directly after dinner.â€
Fyles accepted his dismissal. He turned to his horse and prepared to mount. Kate followed his every movement with a forlorn little smile. She would have given anything if he could have stayed. But——.
“Good luck,†she cried, in a low tone.
“Good luck? Do you know what that means?†Fyles turned abruptly. “It means my winning the wager, Kate.â€
“Does it?†Kate smiled tenderly across at him. “Well, good luck anyway.â€
Service was still proceeding at the Meeting House. The valley was quiet. Scarcely a sound broke the perfect peace of the Sabbath morning. The sun blazed down, a blistering fragrant heat, and the laden atmosphere of the valley suggested only the rusticity, the simple innocence of a pastoral world.
At Kate Seton’s homestead a profound quiet reigned.There was the occasional rattle of a collar chain to be heard proceeding from the barn; the clucking of a foolish hen, fussing over a well-discovered worm of plump proportions, sounded musically upon the air, and in perfect harmony with the radiant, ripening sunlight. A stupid mongrel pup stretched itself luxuriantly upon the ground in the shade of the barn, and drowsily watched the busy hens, with one eye half open. Another, evidently the brother of the former, was more actively inclined. He was snuffing at the splashes of axle “dope†on the ground beneath the wagon. He was young enough to eat, and appreciate, anything he could get his baby teeth into.
There was scarcely a sign of life about the place otherwise. The whole valley was enjoying that perfect, almost holy, calm, to be found pretty well all the world over, yielded by man to the hours of worship.
Inside the house there was greater activity. Kate Seton was in her homely parlor. She was at her desk. That Bluebeard’s chamber, which roused so much curiosity in her sister, was open. The drawers were unlocked, and Kate was sorting out papers, and collecting the loose paper money she kept there.
She was very busy and profoundly occupied. But none of her movements were hurried, or suggested anything but the simple preparations of one about to leave home.
Her work did not take her long. All the loose money was collected into a pocketbook, bearing her initials in silver on its outer cover. This she bestowed in the bosom of her dress. Then, very deliberately, she tore up a lot of letters and loose papers, thrust them in the cookstove, and watched them burn in the fragment of fire smouldering there. Next she passed across to the wall where her loaded revolvers were hanging, and took one of them from its nail. Then, with an air of perfect calm and assurance, she passed out of the room to her bedroom, where a grip lay open on the simple white coverlet of her bed.
Her packing was proceeded with leisurely. Yet the precision of her movements and the certainty with which she understood her needs made the process rapid.
Everything was completed. The grip was full to overflowing. She stood looking at it speculatively. She wasassuring herself that nothing was forgotten for her few days’ sojourn away from home.
In the midst of her contemplation she abruptly raised her eyes to the window and inclined her head in an attitude of listening. A sound had reached her, a sound which had nothing to do with the two puppies, or the hens, outside. It was a sound that brought a swift, alert expression into her handsome eyes, the look of one who belongs to a world where the unusual is generally looked upon with suspicion.
A moment later she was peering out of the window into the radiant sunlight. The sound was plainer now, and she had recognized it. It was the sound of a horse galloping, and approaching her home.
Still the doubtful questioning was in her eyes.
She left the window and passed out of the room. The next moment she was standing in the doorway at the back of the house, and in front of her stood the wagon that was to bear her to Myrtle. The slumberous pup was on its feet standing alertly defiant. Its brother was already yapping truculently in its baby fashion. The old hen had abandoned its search for more delectable provender, and had fled incontinently.
A horseman dashed up to the house. He had ignored the front door and made straight for the barn. He drew up with a jerk, and sat looking at the wagon standing there. Then, with an excited, impatient ejaculation, he flung out of the saddle.
The next moment he became aware of Kate’s presence in the doorway. With eyes alight and half-angry, half-impatient, Charlie Bryant turned upon her.
“Why have you taken this wagon, Kate?†he demanded, going to the point of his concern without preamble.
The woman drew a sharp breath. It was as though she realized that a vital moment had arrived, a moment when she must grip the situation, and use all her power of domination over the questioner.
“You’ve placed it at my disposal at all times,†she said, smiling into his excited eyes.
The man rushed on.
“Yes, yes, I know; but why have you taken it now? You say you are going to Myrtle. You don’t need it. Youcould ride to Myrtle—in the ordinary way. You are welcome to the wagon at all times. To anything I have. But why are you taking it now? I only found out it had gone this morning. I—†he averted his gaze—“I only happened to go over to the corral this morning—and I found it—gone.â€
Quick as a shot Kate’s answer was formulated and fired at him.
“Why did you go to the corral—this morning?â€
The man’s reply was slow in coming. His cheeks flushed, and it looked as though he were seeking excuse.
“I had to go there. I—needed my wagon for to-morrow’s work.â€
Kate smiled. She was feeling more confident.
“For hauling your hay? Won’t it wait? You see, I can’t carry a grip on the saddle.â€
Great beads of sweat were standing on Charlie’s youthful face. He raised one nervous hand and brushed it across his forehead. He cleared his throat.
“Say, why—why must you go now, Kate? What is this absurd talk I have heard? You going away because—because of that tree business? Kate, Kate, such an idea isn’t worthy of you. You going? You flying from superstition? No, no, it’s not worthy of you. Kate——†he paused. Then, with a gulp: “You can’t have the wagon. I refuse to—lend it you. I simply must have it.â€
Kate was leaning against the door casing. She made no move. Her smile deepened, that was all. She understood all that lay behind the man’s desperate manner, and—she had no intention of yielding.
“If you must have it, you must,†she said, in her deep voice, so like his own. “You had better send for it, but—†her look suddenly hardened—“don’t ever speak to me again. That is all I have to say.â€
The man’s determination wavered before the woman’s coldness. He looked into her dark eyes desperately. They were cold and hard. They had never looked at him like that before.
“D’you mean that, Kate?†he demanded desperately. “Do you mean that if I take that wagon you have—done with me forever? Do you?â€
“I meant precisely what I said.†Kate suddenly bestirred herself. The coldness in her eyes turned to anger, a swift, hot anger, to which the man was unused, and he shrank before it. “If you are sane you will leave that wagon to me. Youdo notwant it for your haying to-morrow. Anyway, your haying excuse is far too thin for me. I know why you want it. If you take it I wash my hands of you entirely. You must choose now between these things, once and for all. I am in no trifling mood. You must choose now—at once. And your choice must stand for all time.â€
Kate watched the effect of every word she spoke, and she knew, long before she finished speaking, she was to have her way. It was always so. This man had no power to refuse her anything. It was only in her absence, when his weakness overwhelmed him, that her influence lost power over him.
All the excitement had died out of his eyes. Anger gave way to despair, decision to weakness and yielding. And through it all a great despair and hopelessness sounded in his voice.
“Oh, Kate,†he cried, “I can’t believe this is you—I can’t—I can’t. You are cruel—crueller than ever I would have believed. You know why I want to keep the wagon just now. I implore you not to do this thing. I will do most anything else you ask me, but—leave that wagon.â€
Kate shook her head in cold decision.
“My mind is quite made up,†she said. “There is nothing more to be said. You must choose here—and now.â€
The man hesitated. Just for a moment a gleam of anger flashed into his eyes, but it died almost at its birth, and he made a gesture of something like despair.
“You must do as you see fit,†he said, yielding. Then, in a moment, his weakness was further displayed in an impotent obstinacy. “You must do as you see fit, and I shall do the same. My mind, too, is made up. I shall carry out the plans I have already made, and if harm comes—blame yourself.â€
He turned away abruptly. He refused even to look in her direction again. He sprang into the saddle with remarkable agility and galloped off.
Charlie Bryant raced back to his house. For the moment a sort of frenzy was upon him. He flung out of the saddle,and left his horse at the veranda. He rushed into his sitting room, and, in a sort of impotent excitement and anger, he paced the floor.
He went through the little house without object or reason. At the kitchen door he stood staring out, lost in a troubled sea of racing thought. Presently he returned to the sitting room. He was about to pass out on to the veranda, but abruptly paused. With a gesture of impatient defiance he returned to his bedroom and drew a black bottle of rye whisky from beneath the mattress of his bed. Without waiting to procure a glass he withdrew the cork, and, thrusting the neck of the bottle into his mouth, took a long “pull†at the contents. After a moment he removed it, and gasped with the scorch of the powerful liquor. Then he took another long drink. Finally he replaced the cork and returned the bottle to its hiding place.
A few moments later he was on the veranda again looking out over the village with brooding eyes. For a long while he stood thus, his stimulated thought rushing madly through his brain. Then, later, he became aware of movement down there in the direction of the Meeting House. He realized that service was over. In a few moments Bill would return for the mid-day meal which was all unprepared.
With a short, hard laugh he left the veranda and mounted his patient horse. Then, at another headlong gallop, he raced down toward the village.
It was sundown the following day. A horse stood grazing in the midst of a small grass patch surrounded by a thick bush of spruce, and maple, and blue gums. A velvet twilight was gathering over all, and the sky above was melting to the softer hues of evening.
The horse hobbled about in that eager equine fashion when in the midst of a generous feed of sweet grass. Its saddle was slightly awry upon its back, and its forelegs were through the bridle reins, which trailed upon the ground. The creature seemed more than content with its lot, and the saddle disturbed it not at all.
Once or twice it looked up from its occupation. Then it went on grazing. Then, quite suddenly, it raised its head with a start, and the movement caused it to raise a forelegcaught in the trailing reins. Something was moving in the bushes.
It stood thus for some moments. Its gaze was apprehensively fixed upon the recumbent figure of a man just within the bush. The figure had rolled over, and a pair of arms were raised above its head in the act of stretching.
Presently the figure sat up and stared stupidly about it.
Charlie Bryant had awakened with a parching thirst, and a head racked and bursting with pain. It was some minutes before his faculties took in the meaning of his surroundings. Some minutes before they took in anything but the certainty of his parched throat and racking head.
He stared around him stupidly. Then, with a dazed sort of movement, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his clenched fists. After that he scrambled to his feet and stood swaying upon his aching limbs. Then he moved uncertainly out into the open. He felt stiff, and sore, and his head was aching maddeningly.
Now he beheld his horse, and the animal’s wistful eyes were steadily fixed upon him. Every moment now his mind was growing clearer. He was striving to recollect. Striving to remember what had happened. He remembered going to the saloon. Yes, he had stayed there all day. That he was certain of, for he could recall the lamps being lit—and yet now it was daylight.
For a moment his dazed condition left him puzzled. How did this come about? Then, all in a flash he understood. This must be Monday. He must have left the saloon—drunk, blind drunk. He must have ridden—where? Ah, yes, now it was all plain. He must have ridden till he fell off his horse, and then slept where he fell. Monday—Monday. He seemed to remember something about Monday. What was it—ah!
In a moment the cobwebs of his debauch began to fall from him, and he became alert. He felt ill—desperately ill—but the swift action of his brain left him no time to dwell upon it. He moved across to his horse, and set the saddle straight upon its back. Then he disentangled the reins from about its feet, and threw them over its head. The next moment he was in the saddle and riding away.
It was some moments before he could make up his mindas to his exact whereabouts. He knew he was in the valley, but——. At that instant he struck a cattle track and promptly followed it. It must lead somewhere, and, sooner or later, he knew that he would definitely locate his position.
He rode on down the track, pondering upon all that must have occurred to him. He must have slept for eighteen hours at least. He knew full well he was not likely to have left O’Brien’s until the place was closed, and now it was sundown—the next day. Sundown on Monday. He quickened his pace. His nerves were shaking, and—he wondered in what direction the river lay. He was consumed with a fierce thirst.
Suddenly his horse threw up its head and pricked its ears. Charlie sat up, startled, and peered out ahead. The next moment he had reduced his horse’s gait to a walk. He knew where he was, and—he heard a sound like a distant neigh.
In a moment he was out of the saddle. He tied his horse just inside the bush and then proceeded on foot. The old corral lay ahead of him. That corral where he usually kept his wagon, and where the old hut stood.
He moved rapidly forward, and, as he neared the clearing, he left the cattle track and took to the bush. That tell-tale sound, his horse’s pricked ears, had aroused his suspicions.
A few moments later he reached the fringe of the clearing. Keeping himself well hidden, he pressed to the very edge, and peered out from amid the bush. As he did so he breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Two horses were tied to the corral fence, and the door of the little old shack was wide open.
One of the horses he recognized as belonging to Inspector Fyles—the other didn’t matter. So he waited breathlessly, while one hand went to his coat pocket, an unconscious movement, and rested on the revolver it found there.
He had not long to wait. The sound of voices reached him presently. Then they grew louder. And presently he beheld two men appear from within the hut. Inspector Fyles came first, closely followed by a half-breed whom he recognized at once. It was Pete—Pete Clancy.
In a moment the waiting man understood. A sort of blind fury mounted to his brain and set his head swimming. Now, too, his right hand was withdrawn from his gun pocket, and the weapon was gripped tightly, and his finger was around the trigger.
But the men were talking, and the watcher strained to catch their words. He felt he must know. He must know what treachery was afoot, and how far it affected——
“The game’s a pretty bright one,†Pete was saying; and the waiting man ground his teeth as he realized the swagger in the man’s tones, and the grin of triumph on his still scarred features. “Maybe it ain’t a new sort of play, but I guess it ain’t none the worse for that. Y’see, that wagon is kept here right along. It’s allers my work runnin’ it back here, and fetchin’ it along when it’s needed. That’s how I know about things here,†he added, with a jerk of the head in the direction of the hut. “It’s far enough from the village for folks not to know when it’s here or not. Then the feller runnin’ this layout keeps other things here. Y’see, when a job’s on he don’t fancy folks gettin’ to know him. So he keeps an outfit o’ stuff back in the hut there as ’ud hide up a Dago ice-cream seller. Maybe he has other uses for that shack. I ain’t wise. But that hidin’ hole I located dead easy. Guess he figgers it’s a dead secret—but it ain’t.â€
Then Fyles’s voice, sharply imperious, carried to the listening man.
“Who is he?†he demanded, turning suddenly upon his companion as they reached the horses.
The grin left the half-breed’s face, and Charlie held his breath.
The half-breed halted. An ironical light possessed his discolored eyes.
“Why, the feller you’re getting to-night—in the boat.â€
Fyles eyed his man sternly.
“That’s the second time you’ve answered me in that way. I’m not to be played with. Who is this man?â€
A curious truculence grew in the half-breed’s face.
“I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you. Guess you’ll be askin’ me to lay hands on him for you, next. I’ve earned my freedom, and when you get these folks I’ll be square with the game. You can’t bluff me on this game. No, sir. I got the law clear. You can’t touch me for a thing. It’s up to you to get your man. I showed you the way.â€
Charlie breathed again, though his fury at the miserable traitor was no less.
Fyles swung himself into the saddle. He bent down, and his voice was harshly commanding.
“Maybe I can’t touch you—now,†he cried. “But see you play the game to-night. You get your free run, only if I get the man I’m after. The rest of the gang don’t count a lot, nor the liquor. It’s the boss of the gang I need. If you’ve lied to me you’ll get short shrift.â€
“You’ll get him all right.â€
The half-breed grinned insolently up into the officer’s face. Then Fyles rode away, and, from the moment his horse began to move until it vanished down the cattle track, the muzzle of Charlie Bryant’s gun was covering him. His impulse was homicidal. To bring this man down might be the best means of nullifying the effect of Pete’s treachery. Then, in time, he remembered that there were others to replace him, and, in all probability, they knew already the story Pete had told their chief. There was one thing certain, however, that liquor must not be run to-night.
Urgent as was the moment Charlie had not yet finished here. The moment Stanley Fyles had disappeared he turned back to the half-breed. He saw Pete take his horse and lead it on to the grass some distance from the corral fence, and his gun held him covered. Then he watched him go back to the hut and carefully close the door. After that he watched him disturb his own footmarks and those of the policeman in the neighborhood of the doorway.
Charlie moved. The bushes parted, and he made his way into the open. The half-breed’s back was turned. Then, quite suddenly, a deep, harsh challenge rang out, breaking up entirely the sylvan peace.
“You damned traitor!â€
With a leap the half-breed swung about. As he did so the gleaming barrel of his gun flashed with a sharp report. A bullet whistled through Charlie Bryant’s hat, another tore its way through the sleeve of his jacket. But before a third could find a vital spot in his body his own gun spat out certain death. The half-breed flung up his hands, and, with a sharp oath, his knees crumpled up under him, and he fell in a heap on the ground.
His face livid with passion, Charlie hurried across the intervening space. For one moment he stood gazing downupon the fallen man. Then he aimed a kick of spurning at the dead man’s body and moved away.
It was some minutes before he left the precincts of the old corral with its evil history. He went into the hut and opened the secret cupboard. It was quite empty, and he closed it again. Then he passed out, and removed the saddle and bridle from the half-breed’s horse, and turned it loose. Then, after one last look of hatred and loathing at the dead man, he moved away and vanished among the trees.
Big Brother Bill, after an evening of considerable worry, had retired to his little lean-to bedroom with its low, camp bedstead. It was useless sitting up any longer attempting one of those big worrying “thinks†which, usually, he was rather proud of achieving.
On this occasion thinking led him nowhither. His worries had come swiftly and significantly. In the first place, on Sunday afternoon he had been seriously concerned about Helen. It was not until Kate’s going that either he or Helen had realized the girl’s lonely position in the house on the river bank. It came home to them both as they returned thither at about sundown, to find that neither of the hired men had shown up again, and the work, even to the “chores†of the homestead, was at a standstill.
He really became angry in his anxiety. Angry with Kate, angry with the men. However, his displeasure was not likely to help matters, so he and Helen turned to and fed the few livestock, made them snug for the night, and then proceeded to consider Helen’s position. After some debate it was decided to appeal to Mrs. John Day. This was promptly done, and the leading citizeness, after a closer cross-examination, consented to take the girl under her brusque wing, and lodged her in her own rather resplendent house.
This was comparatively satisfactory, and Bill breathed his relief. But hard upon this came the more alarming realization that Charlie did not return home on Sunday night.Not only that, but nothing was heard of him the whole of Monday. All the alarmed brother was able to discover was the fact that Charlie had left the saloon at the time O’Brien closed it, about midnight on Sunday, in a hopelessly drunken condition.
So, what with assisting Helen with the work of her homestead, and searching for his defaulting brother, Bill’s day was an anxious one. Then, at nightfall, a further concern added fresh trouble to his thought. Kid Blaney had defected as well, and, in consequence, the work of Charlie’s little ranch had been completely at a standstill the whole day.
In the end, quite wearied out with his unusual exertions, Bill abandoned all further attempt to get a grip on the situation and went to bed. He knew he must be up early in the morning, at daylight, in fact, for he had promised Helen to be at the ceremony of the felling of the pine tree, for which all preparations had been duly made under the watchful and triumphant eye of Mrs. John Day.
Sleep, however, was long in coming. His brain was too busy, a sign he was secretly pleased at. He felt that during the last two days he had more than proved his ability in emergency. So, lying awake, waiting patiently for sleep to come, he rather felt like a general in action, perfectly assured of his own capacity to meet every situation successfully.
It was nearly midnight when he finally dropped off into a light and rather disturbed slumber. How long he had slept, or even if he really had slept at all, he was never quite sure, for, quite suddenly, he was aroused, and wide awake, by the sound of his own name being called in the darkness.
“Bill! Bill!â€
At the second pronouncement of his name he was sitting up with his bare feet on the bare floor, and his great pajamaed body foolishly alert.
“Who in——†he began. But in a moment Charlie’s voice cut him short.
“You there? Thank God! Where’s the lamp? Quick, light it.â€
To Bill’s credit it must be admitted he offered no further attempt at a blasphemous protest, but leaned over toward the Windsor chair on which the lamp stood, and fumbled for the matches.
The next moment he had struck a light, and the lamp was lit. He stood up and looked across the room. Charlie’s slight figure was just inside the doorway. His face was ghastly in the yellow lamplight. His clothes were in a filthy condition, and, altogether, in Bill’s own words, he looked like a priceless antique of some forgotten race.
However, the hunted look in the man’s eyes smote his brother’s generous heart, and a swift, anxious inquiry sprang to his lips.
“What’s—what’s up, Charlie?†he cried, gathering his clothes together, and beginning to dress himself.
Charlie’s eyes glowed with a reflection of the lamplight.
“The game’s up, Bill,†he cried hoarsely. “My God, it’s been given away. Pete Clancy, the feller you hammered, has turned informer. I—I shot him dead. Say, the gang’s out to-night. They’re coming in with a cargo of liquor. Fyles is wise to their play, and knows just how it’s coming in. They’ll be trapped to a man.â€
“You—shot Pete—dead?â€
In the overwhelming rush of his brother’s information, the death of the informer at his, Charlie’s, hands seemed alone to penetrate Bill’s, as yet, none too alert faculties.
“Yes, yes,†cried the other impatiently. “I’d have shot him, or—or anybody else for such treachery, but—but—it’s the other that matters. I’ve got to get out and stop that cargo. It’s midnight now, and—God! If the police get——â€
Bill’s brain was working more rapidly, and so were his hands. He was almost dressed now.
“But you, Charlie,†he cried, all his concern for his brother uppermost. “They’ll get you. And—and they’ll hang you for killing Pete—sure.â€
Suddenly a peal of hysterical laughter, which ended in a furious curse, rang through the room.
“God Almighty!†Charlie cried fiercely, “don’t stand there yapping about me. Hang me? What in hell do I care what they do to me? I haven’t come here about myself. Nothing that concerns me matters. Here, it’s midnight. I’ve time to reach ’em and give ’em the word. See, that’s why I’m here. I don’t know what’s happened by now, or what may happen. You offered to help. Will you help me now? Bill, I’ve got to get there, and warn ’em. The policewill try and stop us. If there are two of us, one may get through—will you——?â€
Bill crushed his hat on his head. His eyes, big and blue, were gleaming with the light of battle.
“Give me a gun, and come on,†he cried. “I don’t understand it all, but that don’t matter. I’ll think it out later. You’re up against it, and that’s good enough for me. Somebody’s going to have to look bright if he lays hands on you, if it’s Fyles, or McBain, or the devil knows who. Come on.â€
Picking up the lamp, Bill took the lead. Here, in action, he had no doubts or difficulties, Charlie was in trouble; Charlie was threatened; Charlie, his foolish, but well-loved brother.
Five minutes later two horsemen, regardless of rousing the inhabitants, regardless of who might see and recognize them, galloped headlong through the heart of the village.
The little river wound its silvery way through the heart of the valley. The broken summer clouds strove to shut out the brilliant light of the moon, and signally failed. The swift-moving currents of air kept them stirring, and breaking. So the tattered breaks through which peeped the radiant lamp of night, illuminated each fringe of mist with the sheen of burnished steel.
In spite of the high wind above, the night was still in the heart of the valley. So still. High up above, the racing wind kept up the constant movement, but not a breath below disturbed one single sun-scorched leaf. It was warm. The night air was heavy with the fragrance of ripening vegetation, and the busy droning sounds of stirring insect life chorused joyously and seductively with the murmuring of speeding waters.
The very stillness thrilled. It was the hush of portent, the hush of watchfulness, the hush of a threatening tension.
In the wide heart of the valley the waters of the river laughed, and sang, and frollicked on their way, while undercover of the deep night-shadows lurking figures waited, with nerves set, and weapons of destruction ready to fulfill their deadly mission. Strife loomed heavy amid the reigning peace, the ruthless, savage strife which seems ever to center the purpose of all sentient life.
So the moments passed. Minutes grew. With every passing minute the threat weighed heavier and heavier, until it seemed, at last, that only the smallest spark was needed to fire the train.
The racing clouds melted. They gathered again. Again and again the changes came and went. It was like one great, prolonged conflict wherein the darkening veil strove to hide the criminal secrets upon the earth below from the searching gaze.
For awhile the moon held sway. The river lit, a perfect mirror. Only the shadowed banks remained. Round the bend came a trifling object, small, uncertain in its outline. A sigh of relief went up from many lips. The tension was relaxed.
Caught in the dazzling light the object shot across the water to the sheltering bank. Then the clouds obscured the moonlight, and eyes strove vainly to penetrate the shadow.
The moments passed. Again the moon shone out. Again was the object caught in the revealing light. Now it was closer, and as it raced once more for the wood-lined bank the watching eyes made out a deep-laden canoe, low in the water, with a solitary figure plying a skillful paddle.
It crept on under the bank. With a wonderful dexterity the man at the paddle steered his course beneath the green of drooping foliage, while now and then his narrow, evil, humorous eyes surveyed the heavy cargo at his feet with a smile of satisfaction.
But the shadows could not claim him for long. The full stream lay beyond in the middle of the river. His cargo was heavy, and the sluggish water under the bank made his progress slow and arduous. Again he sought the stream, and the lesser effort, and the little craft raced on.
Then, of a sudden, the peace of the night was broken. A chorus of night cries awoke to the sharp crack of a carbine. A voice shouted a swift command, and the canoe was turned head on to the hither bank. In a moment a ring ofmetal was thrust into the face of the man with the paddle, and the hard voice of Sergeant McBain bade him throw up his hands.
The boatman glanced swiftly about him. His evil eyes lit with a smile of appreciation as he dropped his paddle and thrust his hands high above his head. There were ten or twelve police troopers upon the bank—and he was only one.
“Haul him out o’ that, boys, and yank the boat up out o’ water. We’re needin’ his cargo bad.â€
The man was dragged unceremoniously from the boat, and stood before the hard-faced sergeant.
“Name?†he snapped.
“Holy Dick,†chuckled the prisoner.
The sergeant peered into his face. At the moment the clouds had obscured the moon.
Was this the man they were waiting for? He made out the gray hair, the smiling, evil eyes. He knew and recognized the features.
The officer struggled with himself for a moment. Then his authority returned.
“You’re under arrest for—running this cargo of liquor,†he said sharply.
Holy Dick’s smile broadened.
“But——â€
“If you’re going to make a statement I’m here to listen, but—it’ll be used against you.â€
Sergeant McBain rapped out his formula without regard for the letter of it. Then, while one of the troopers placed handcuffs upon the prisoner’s wrists, he turned to those at the canoe.
“How many kegs?†he demanded.
For a moment there was no reply. Holy Dick sniggered. McBain glared furiously, and his impatience rose.
“How many?†he cried again, more sharply.
One of the troopers approached him and spoke in a low voice.
“None, sergeant,†he said, vainly striving to avoid the sharp ears of their prisoner. “The boat’s loaded heavy with loose rocks. It’s——â€
A cunning laugh interrupted him. Holy Dick was holding out his manacled arms.
“Guess you’d best grab these off, Sergeant; maybe you’ll need ’em for someone else.â€
But the policeman’s reply became lost. A rattle of firearms far off on the other side of the river left it unspoken. Something was happening away over there, something they had not calculated upon. The rest of the patrol, with Fyles, was divided between the other bank and the more distant trail. He turned to his men.
“Loose him and get into the saddle sharp!†he cried. “They’ve fooled us. By God, they’ve fooled us—again!â€
The uncertain moonlight revealed to Stanley Fyles a movement on the distant rise of ground where the trail first mounted, and, beyond, finally disappeared. His night glasses made out a rapidly oncoming vehicle, accompanied by a small band of horsemen.
The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pass him. He would take these men as part of the gang, working in conjunction with the boat. All was well, and his spirits rose. A sharp order was passed back to his men, ambushed in the bluff where he had taken up his position. The thing would be simple as daylight. There would be no bloodshed. A few shots fired to hold the gang up. Then the arrest.
He waited. Then he backed into the ambush out of sight. The wagon came on. Through his leafy screen he watched for the details of the vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant’s wagon; that he knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance which did not belong to the village.
Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men’s carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses’ hoofs were almost abreast. A few seconds more, then——
Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of the wagon, and above the horses’ heads. The teamster reined up, throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell headlong from his driving seat.
Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry went up from the wagon’s escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the ambush.
In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses, with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.
Then the fight waged furiously.
It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been certain—certain as death itself.
But, after that first furious assault, these untamed prairie souls realized the inevitable result of their action. They broke and fled, scattering across country, vanishing like shadows in the night. The next moment, acting on a sharp command, the police were in red-hot pursuit, like hounds breaking from leash. Only Fyles and three men stayed behind with the fallen teamster and his one other dead comrade.
But at the moment of the flight and pursuit, the sound of racing wheels some distance away caught the officer’s ears. In a moment he was at the wagon side. His men were close upon his heels. The wagon was empty. It was the blind he had anticipated, but—that sound of speeding wheels.
He shouted to his men and set off across country in the direction. Nothing must be left to chance. There was no doubt about the peculiar rattle which sounded so plainly. It was a buckboard being driven at a racing speed. Why?
As his horse ploughed through the low scrub his men followed hard upon his heels. Farther on the country was open, and a wide stretch of prairie grass spread out without cover of any sort. It was over this the buckboard was racing.
He strove to estimate its distance away, the start it had of him, by the sound. It could not be much over a mile. A light buckboard and team could travel very fast under the hands of a skilful teamster. It would take a distance of five miles to overhaul it. The direction—yes, it was the direction of the village. The buckboard might get there ahead of them.
Fyles rammed both spurs into the flanks of the faithful Peter, and, as he did so, he saw a party of horsemen converging on him from the left. They drew on, and, in a moment, he recognized McBain and his men.
He called out to the Scot as they came together.
“You get the boat?â€
McBain shouted his reply.
“Sure, but—there was nothing doing. It was loaded down with rocks.â€
Just for one brief instant a bitter imprecation hovered on the officer’s lips. Then, in a wave of inspiration, he shouted his conviction.
“By God, then we’re on the right trail now. It’s the buckboard ahead. We must get it. That’s the cargo, sure as fate. Come on!â€
A light buckboard was moving leisurely over the open prairie. It was just an ordinary, spidery buckboard drawn by an unusually fine team of horses, and driven by a slightish man clad in a dark jacket and cord riding-breeches, with a wide prairie hat drawn firmly down upon his dark head, its brim deeply shading his boyish, good-looking face. Running beside his team, tied to the neck yoke of the near-side driver, was a saddle horse. It was a fine beast, with racehorse quarters, and a shoulder laid back for speed.
The buckboard was well loaded. Nor was its load disguised. It consisted of a number of the small wooden kegs adopted for the purpose of transporting contraband liquor.
But though the vehicle moved over the rough grass in such a leisurely fashion, the man’s eyes were alert and watchful. His ears, too, were sharply set, and lost no sound, as his eyes lost no sight, in the distant prospect of the country through which he was traveling.
His gait was by no means the result of any reposeful sense. It was the well-calculated result of caution. There was caution in his whole poise. In the quick turn of the head at any predominating sound. In the sharp glance of his dark eyes at any of the more fantastic shadows cast by the searching moonlight. Then, too, a tight hand was upon the reins, and there was an alert searching for those badger and gopher holes so perilous for horses in the uncertain light of the moon.
He was traveling in a parallel, a mile to the south of the river trail, and, far ahead, to the right, he could see the bush which marked the winding course of the river.
Now he was listening to the faint rumble of a wagon moving along the trail, and, with which, though so far away, he was carefully keeping pace. This was his whole object—to keep pace, almost step for step, with the rumbling movement of the distant wagon.
At his present gait his wheels gave out practically no sound. They gently, almost silently, crushed their way over the tufted grass, and the sound of his horses’ hoofs suggested a muffling.
So he made his way, stealthily, secretly. His was the brain which had planned, and this vital work of convoying his smuggled liquor could be entrusted to no other hand. The work he demanded of others was simple; it was the background to his central purpose. He had no desire to risk his helpers. His must be the risk, as, too, his must be the chief profit.
With all his caution he yet had time to think of those other things which frequently brought a smile to his dark eyes. Why not? There was a wild exhilaration in this work. He reveled in the thought of his risk. He reveled in laying plans which could beat all the best brains among the law officers. The excitement of the chances was as the breath of life to him, and the cargo once safely secreted he could feel that he had not lived in vain.
He knew full well that the penitentiary doors were wide open waiting to greet him, but he meant them to remain open, and spend their whole time in a yearning which he vowed should never be fulfilled. Five years. He smiled. Five years—wearing a striped——
What was that?
A shot! One single shot! Far away, there, by the river. Ah, yes. That big bluff. Holy Dick was probably busy. Holy Dick in his boat. He smiled. But all unconsciously he eased his hand upon the lines, and his horses quickened their gait. It was just the slight, nervous quickening as the critical moment of his effort drew near.
The buckboard was less silent. The wheels began to rattle over the hummocky surface of the prairie grass. He listenedeven more acutely for the rumble of the wagon on the trail. He must definitely assure himself he was still abreast of it. That was all important.
He could plainly hear it. Was he abreast? For the moment he was not quite sure. Therefore, he further permitted his horses to quicken their pace. It was better to——
He sat up, and a look of alarm peered out from under the brim of his hat. The sound of a volley being fired over there on the trail suddenly disconcerted him. This was something he had not reckoned on. This was something he had wished to——
Hark! Again! An answering volley! The first was the heavier. The latter was the familiar note of revolvers. A definite alarm took hold of him. What was the meaning of it? An attack? Were the men on the trail resisting the police? He had warned them. He——. Listen! The shouting! Now he could distinctly hear the sound of galloping horses.
He leaned forward and grabbed the whip from its socket on the dashboard, and brought it smartly down upon his horses’ backs.
In an instant they leaped into a gallop, and he was racing over the rough grass at a perilous pace.
The fools. The mad, idiotic fools. Resisting the police. An armed attack on the police. If they killed any of them——. Great God, was there ever such a pack of fools and madmen? It was no longer simple contraband. It was no longer playing up a ridiculous law. It was——
Again he brought his whip down upon his horses. He must get through now. He must get to the cache with the liquor, and trust to the luck of the reckless to get away. Further concealment was out of the question.
Hark, what was that?
Horsemen coming his way. Yes—horsemen. There could be no doubt of it. The racing hoof-beats were unmistakable. Down came the whip again, and the great team, with the saddle horse beside them, raced with bellies low to the ground.
Now he had no thought but for getting away. His mind ran over the possibilities. If only he could get clear with the liquor there might yet be a chance of his comrades’ and his own escape. He had no knowledge of what had happenedto the others, except that there was shooting and pursuit. The only comfort to be drawn was from the certainty in his mind that the first shooting he had heard was the heavy firing of police carbines.
Hark! Yes, there was no doubt of the pursuit. Furthermore, the pursuit was hard behind him. Why? The police must have heard the buckboard. He flogged his horses to a greater effort. They were the speediest team in the country, and he had only three miles to go. They——
“Hold up, you beast,†he cried, his deep voice hoarse with excitement.
One of the horses lunged forward, stumbling in a badger hole. The buckboard jolted terrifically. The driver was nearly thrown from his seat. Under his firm hands, however, the beast managed to recover itself. Then, as though he saw the gates of the penitentiary closing upon him, a feeling of unutterable horror shivered through the man’s body and settled upon his heart. The horse was dead lame.
But there was no time now for feeling, no time for regrets. The pursuers had found his trail, and were hard upon his heels. The cargo must go. Everything must go. Personal safety was the only thing to be considered. From the confidence of victory now he had fallen to the zero of certain failure.
He pulled his sweating team up and sprang to the ground. He ran up to the saddle horse, and, casting the neck-rope loose from the neck yoke, looped it over the horn of the saddle. The next moment he was in the saddle and racing over the grassland in the direction of the village.
The trail declined over a long, gradual slope. At the bottom of it was a broad, almost dried-out slough. A wooden culvert spanned the reed-grown watercourse. Then the trail made a sharpish ascent beyond, and lost itself behind a distant bush, beyond which again stretched out a broad expanse of grass.
Two horsemen were speeding down the longer slope. Their horses were fresh and full of speed. There was no speech passing between them. Eyes and ears were alert, and their grimly set faces gave warning of the anxious thought teeming through their brains.
The indications of the night were nothing to them. The trail might ring with the beat of their horses’ hoofs, or only reply with the soft thud of a deep, sandy surface. They were not out to consider either their horses or themselves. Each knew that his journey was one of desperate emergency, and one of them, at least, cared nothing what might be his sacrifice, even if it were life itself.
The horses came down the hill with a headlong rush. Loose reins told of the men’s feelings, and the creatures, themselves, as though imbued with something of their riders’ spirits, abandoned themselves to the race with equal recklessness.
Halfway down the hill the foremost of the two, the smaller and slighter, abruptly flung a word across his shoulder to his companion behind.
“Someone coming,†he said, in a deep, hoarse voice.
The second man beat his horse’s flanks with his heels, and drew abreast.
“I can’t see,†he replied, shading his eyes from the light of the moon, which, at that moment, shone out from behind a cloud.
The other pointed beyond the culvert.
“There. Riding like hell. Gee! Look—it’s—trouble.â€
Bill Bryant now discerned the hazy outline of a moving figure. It seemed to him that whoever, or whatever it was, it was aware of their approach and desirous of avoiding them. The moving object had suddenly left the trail. It had taken to the grass, and was heading straight for the miry slough.
“The fool. The madman,†muttered Charlie. “Does he know what he’s making for?â€
“Is it—a stream, Charlie?â€
Bill’s question seemed to irritate his brother.
“Stream?—Damn it, it’s mire. His horse’ll throw himself. Who——?â€
He leaned forward in the saddle searching the distance forthe identity of the oncoming horseman. His horse shot forward, and Bill’s was hard put to it to keep pace.
“Can’t we shout a warning?†cried Bill, caught in his brother’s anxious excitement.
“Warning be damned,†snapped Charlie over his shoulder. “This is no time to be shouting around. We don’t——Hallo! He’s realized where he’s heading. He’s——. Oh, the hopeless, seven sorts of damned idiot. Look! Look at that! There he goes. Poor devil, what a smash. Hurry up!â€
The two men made a further call upon their horses, urged by the sight of the horseman beyond the slough. He had crashed headlong into the half-dry watercourse at the very edge of the culvert.
The man’s disaster was quite plain, even at that distance. He had evidently been unaware of his danger in leaving the trail for a cross-country run to avoid those he saw approaching him. As he came down to the slough, all too late he had realized whither he was heading. Then, instead of keeping on, and taking his chances of getting through the mire, he had made a frantic effort to swing his horse aside and regain the culvert. His reckless speed had been his undoing. His impetus had been so great that the poor beast under him had only the more surely plunged to disaster, from the very magnitude of its effort to avoid it.
Charlie was the first to reach the culvert. In a moment he was out of the saddle.
The stranger’s floundering horse struggled, and finally scrambled to its feet. The rider was close beside it, but lay quite still where he had fallen. To Charlie’s critical eye there was little doubt as to what had happened. The adjacency of the edge of the culvert warned him of what had befallen. The rider must have struck it as he fell.
As Bill dismounted he pointed at the stranger’s horse.
“Grab it,†cried Charlie. The next moment was kneeling beside the fallen man.
Then, in a moment, the wondering Bill, looking on, beheld a sight he would never forget.
Charlie bent down over the silent figure. He reached out and placed an arm under the man’s body and turned him over. The next instant a cry, half-stifled in his throat, acry as of some dumb creature mortally wounded, a cry full of hopeless, dreadful pain rose from the kneeling man, and its agony smote the sympathetic brother as though with a mortal blow.
Then came words, a rush of words, imploring, agonized.
“Kate! Kate! Oh, Kate, why did you do it? Why? Oh, God, she’s dead! Kate! Kate! Speak to me. For God’s sake speak to me. You’re not dead. No, no. Not dead. It can’t be.â€
The man’s hand caressed the soft pale cheek under it. He had thrust back the prairie hat which still retained its position, pressed low upon the head, and a mass of dark, luxuriant hair fell away from its place, coiled tightly about the small head.
At that moment the horrified voice of Bill broke in.
“Charlie! Charlie! I can hear horses galloping in the distance!†he cried, alarmed, without actually realizing why. And some sort of desperate instinct made him thrust his hand into his revolver pocket.
For an instant only Charlie looked up at him in a dazed, only half-understanding. Then his eyes lit with a stirring alarm as he turned a listening ear to windward.
The next moment his arms were flung about the body of the disguised woman at his feet, and, with a great effort, he lifted her and struggled to his feet.
Bill stared in stupid wonderment when he beheld the figure of Kate Seton clad in man’s clothing, but he continued to hold on to the horses, and, with a hand on his revolver, awaited his brother’s commands.
At that moment Kate opened her eyes and gazed into the dark face above her. In a moment the ardent eyes of Charlie smiled down at her. Then the injured woman’s lips opened, and, as they formulated her halting words, his smile gave place to something like panic. She was still in a fainting condition, but power was vouchsafed her to impart a story which drove him to something like a frenzy of activity.
“It’s the police,†she gasped. “It’s—it’s shooting. They’re—behind. They’re right after me—O-oh!â€
She had fainted again with her last word, and the dead weight in the man’s arms became almost unsupportable.
But now there was no longer any uncertainty. Kate wasalive. The police were behind. At all costs—the woman he loved must be saved.
Charlie looked up at Bill, and his voice became harshly commanding.
“Quick! On your horse, man,†he cried, almost fiercely. “That’s it,†as Bill flung himself into the saddle without question. “Here, now take her. You’re strong. Get her across your saddle in front of you. There, that’s it—lift. So. Gently. Get her right across your lap. That’s it. Now take my horse and lead it. So.â€
Bill obeyed like a well-disciplined child, and with equal enthusiasm. He leaned down from the saddle and lifted the fainting woman out of his brother’s arms. She was like a babe in his powerful arms. He laid her across his knee. Then, as his brother passed the reins of his own horse up to him, he took them and slung them over his supporting arm. The command died out of Charlie’s tones, and his whole attitude became an irresistible appeal.
“Now, Bill,†he cried, urgently. “Down there, along the bank of the slough.†He pointed away southwards. “Along there, into that bush. Get into hiding and remain till the coast is clear. Then get her back to her home. Leave the police to me, and—and remember she’s all I care for—in the world.â€
Bill waited no further word. Once he understood what was required of him he could do it—he would do it—with all his might. He moved off with all the confident air of his simple, purposeful nature.
Charlie watched him go. He saw him vanish amid the shadows of the bush. Then he turned to Kate’s horse and sprang into the saddle.
For a moment he sat there watching and listening. But his purpose was not quite clear. It had not been clear to Bill, who had asked no question, feeling such to be superfluous at the moment.
But his own purpose was clear enough to Charlie’s devoted mind. There must be no chance of Kate’s discovery by the police. Whatever had happened before, there must be no chance of harm to her now. His mind was quite clear. His thought flowed swiftly and keenly.
The distant sound of galloping horses was growing. Thesummit of the rising ground over which they must come was not more than two hundred yards behind him.
He waited. The clatter of hoofs was growing louder with each passing second. The police must certainly be near the top of the rise now. Bill was well away. He was well in the bush by this time.
Hark! Yes. There they were. The moon was hidden just now, but even so Charlie could see the bobbing figures at the hilltop.
Suddenly he rammed his heels into his horse’s flanks and dashed off up the slope which he had so recently descended. As he went he drew his revolver and fired two shots in swift succession in the direction of the horsemen approaching. Well enough he knew, as he raced on toward the village, that the police were beyond his range, but his purpose was that there should be no doubt in their minds that he—he was their quarry—that he was the man they had already been pursuing so far.
Ten men made up the tally of the pursuers riding with Inspector Fyles. McBain was not among them. He had remained with the abandoned buckboard while the rest of the police were scouring the neighborhood for the fugitives from the first encounter.
As Fyles came over the rise, and beheld the culvert below him, and heard the two defiant shots hurled in his direction, a thrill of satisfaction swept through him. The man was less than three hundred yards ahead of him with a long hill to climb, and something over a mile to go before the village, and the possibility of safety, was reached.
There was no match in the country for Peter when it came to a long, uphill chase. He told himself the man hadn’t a dog’s chance with Peter hard on his heels.
“We’ve got him, boys,†he cried to his men, in his moment of exuberance. “He ought to have been half a mile on by the start he got. It’s the poor devil of a horse playing out. He’s beat—beat to death. Now, boys, hard on my heels for a spurt.â€
Peter leaped ahead under the sharp reminder of the spur, and, in a few moments, the clatter of iron-shod hoofs left the wooden culvert behind it, and the race up the hill began.
The moon now blazed out, as though at last it had definitely decided to throw its weight in against the fugitive. The summer clouds were lifting and vanishing with that wonderful rapidity with which, once the brilliant moon gains sway, she seems to sweep all obstruction from her chilly path.
The steely light poured down upon the slim back of the fugitive, and left both horse and rider sharply outlined. The distance diminished under the terrific spurt of the police horses, and a confident look began to dawn in the eyes of their riders.
They were gaining so rapidly that it seemed hardly necessary to press their bronchos so hard. The top of the hill was still a quarter of a mile away. The fugitive’s evidently wearying beast could never make that last final incline. The man would be forced to turn and defend himself or yield for very helplessness. The whole thing was too easy. It was absurdly easy. Nor could there be any sort of a “scrap.†They were ten to one. It was disappointing. These riders of the plains reveled in a genuine fight.
But Fyles’s contentment suddenly received a disconcerting shock. Peter was stretching out like a greyhound. The pace at which they pursued the hunted hare was terrific. But now, although they were, if anything, traveling faster, they seemed to be no longer gaining. The three hundred yards intervening had, in that first rush, been reduced to nearly one hundred. But, somehow, to his disquiet Fyles now realized that there was no further encroachment.
He shook Peter up and left his companions behind. But it quickly became evident he could make no further impression. If anything, his quarry was gaining. An unpleasant conviction began to make itself felt in the mind of the policeman. The man had been foxing. He had been saving his horse up for that hill, calculating to a fraction the distance he had yet to go.
He called to his men to race for it.
They came up on his heels. The man nearest to him was a corporal.
“We’re not done with him yet, corporal,†he said grimly. “I wanted to get him without trouble. Guess we’ll have to bail him up. Once over the top of that hill, he runs into the bush on the outskirts of the village. We daren’t risk it.â€
The corporal’s eyes lit.
“Shall we open out and give him a round, sir?â€
Fyles nodded.
“Let ’em fire low. Bring his horse down.â€
The corporal turned back to his men, and gave the necessary order.
“Open out!†he cried. “It’s just over a hundred yards. Fire low, and get his horse. We’ll be on him before he can pick himself up.â€
“There’s fifty dollars between you if you can bring him down and keep his skin whole,†added Fyles.
Still keeping their pace, the men spread out from the trail, withdrawing the carbines from their leather buckets as they rode. Then came the ominous clicking of the breeches as cartridges were thrust home. Fyles, with Corporal Mooney, kept to the trail.
A moment passed. Then the first carbine spat out its vicious pellet. Fyles, watching, fancied that the fugitive had begun to flog his horse. Now, in swift succession, the other carbines added their chorus. There was no check in the pace of the pursuers. The well-trained horses were used to the work.
The first volley seemed ineffective. The men had not yet got their sights. The fugitive had another fifty yards before he reached the top of the long incline.
The distance to the top of the hill was lessening rapidly. Fyles was becoming anxious. It had become a matter of seconds before the man would clear the ridge.
“Keep low,†cried the corporal, warningly, in the excitement of the moment. “A ricochet—anything will do. Get his horse.â€
The horseman was twenty yards from the crest of the hill. Fifteen. The carbines again rattled out their hurried fire.
Ten yards—in a moment he would be——
A cloud of dust arose suddenly among the feet of the fugitive’s horse. It cleared. Fyles gave a sigh of relief and raced Peter forward. The man’s horse had crashed to the ground.
Fyles was gazing down upon the body of the fallen man. The horse was lying a few yards away, struggling to rise. A great welter of blood flooded the sandy track all about it.
A trooper walked up to the horse. He placed the muzzle of his carbine close behind the poor creature’s ear. The next moment there was a sharp report. The head dropped heavily to the ground and remained quite still.
The corporal looked up at his superior. He was kneeling beside the body of Charlie Bryant.
“I’m afraid it’s all up with him, sir,†he said seriously. “But he wasn’t hit. I can’t find a sign of a hit. I—think his neck’s broken—or—or something. It was the fall. He’s dead, sir—sure.â€
The officer’s face never changed its stern expression. But the suspicion of a sigh escaped him. He was by no means an unfeeling man, but he had his duty to do. In this case there was more than his duty concerned. Hence the sigh. Hence any lack of appreciation.
“It’s the man I expected,†he said. “A foolish fellow, but—a smart man. You’re sure he’s dead? Sure?â€
The corporal nodded.
“Yes, sir.â€
“Poor devil. I’m sorry.â€