CHAPTER XVIIIThe Spy
AS Andy McFardell rode home from the Marton farm two definite channels of thought preoccupied him. And curiously enough that which had his passionate infatuation for Molly for its inspiration made by far the lesser claim upon him.
Perhaps it was the result of his confidence. Had Molly been more difficult, had she been less of the simple child she was, had she had knowledge and experience of the world of men, or realised something of the physical charm she exercised, doubtless she could have transformed his confidence into an agony of doubt, and plunged him into a vortex of maddening suspense that would have made any other interest impossible to him.
As it was his dominating concern had become the obvious antagonism of Lightning. He had left the farm under no misapprehension on the score of the old choreman’s regard. The cattleman had displayed his displeasure at his intrusion without any attempt at concealment, and, deep in his heart, McFardell understood the reason.
The reason of it left him undisturbed. And he smiled to himself as he wondered what the man’s attitude would have been had he been witness to that which had taken place just before his return from work.
But the attitude of Lightning brought back to his mind that other matter, when the old man had been at such pains to seek him out, and impress upon him the opportunity held out to him. It looked to McFardell like a foolish bluff in the light of Lightning’s unvarying antagonism.Yes, he felt sure it was a bluff—in a way. The man was anxious to be rid of him. He was anxious and worried to death about——
He laughed softly to himself. Then of a sudden his mood became deadly serious. He dismissed Lightning’s purposes from his mind. It did not matter a thing to him what the cattleman’s object might be. Molly and he understood each other, and—— But he knew that every word Lightning had said about Dan Quinlan was right. He had heard all the talk in Hartspool. And Hartspool was very much given to plain speaking on matters concerning cattle and grain.
He had told Lightning he would look into the matter after the dance in Hartspool. But long before he reached his home his mind was definitely made up. Quinlan’s was thirty-five miles or so away up in the hills from his place. Well, it would help to fill in the week before the dance if he outfitted himself for a few days on the trail. He would pay his promised visit to the queer Irishman and spy out the land—before the dance. In fact—right away.
So it came that two days later McFardell found himself on the trail, or—as he preferred to think of it—on patrol. It was useless to make pretence that he was anything but the police officer he had always been. He was on patrol, that work he had always loved in the days before his disaster. And as he rode the tangled country of the foothills his spirits rose, and he found himself almost thankful to the old man who had prompted him out of his own secret purposes.
It did not matter a thing. Lightning was old and well-nigh decrepit, and his antagonism need make no difference. He, McFardell, would do the thing he contemplated just as it suited him. And meanwhile the hills around Quinlan, and Quinlan’s place itself, would be investigatedvery thoroughly before he returned on the day of Hartspool’s dance.
The watcher moved stealthily through the forest. Eyes and ears were alert. They were tuned, by long years of training, to the hush of the woods. He was afoot. And his movements gave out no sound as he passed amongst the myriad of bare tree-trunks, supporting their well-nigh impenetrable roofing of sombre foliage. His feet were moccasined, and they padded softly on the rotting carpet beneath them.
Far down the aisles of the forest he could see a sunlit clearing beyond. And the voices of the cattle came back to him something muffled by the intense forest hush. The sharp barking of dogs left no other doubt in his mind than that of the chances of his own discovery through canine scent and inquisitiveness. That, however, was in the lap of the gods. He was not unduly concerned. He was moving up against the wind, which in the shelter of the forest was almost indistinguishable, and his position he felt to be more than favourable.
As he neared the forest limits the wide expanse of the clearing opened out to his astonished eyes. And so his progress slowed down and finally ceased altogether. There was no need to go farther. He had no desire to court disaster. Besides from where he had halted he could see all that he needed and study it at his leisure.
It was an amazing sight. He had looked for the squalid hiding-place of a secret cattle camp, where the thief could secret and re-brand the beasts he had stolen. He had looked for the ordinary thing which Police work had taught him to expect. But that which he discovered was altogether different, and left him impressed and—disappointed.
There were corrals whose extent astounded him and left him metaphorically rubbing his eyes. They were stoutly built and of a permanent nature, and they were literally teeming with cattle amongst which a large number of men were busily at work. Beyond the corrals were other buildings. There were log shanties, and barns, and all the equipment of an extensive ranch. The place was literally a hive of industry, and bore no resemblance whatever to that which he had looked for.
The human figures amongst the cattle interested him deeply. At the distance he got the impression that they were mostly Indians, or, at least, half-breeds. But without doubt there were white men amongst them, and two particularly caught and held his interest.
One was a powerfully built man clad in typical buckskin, while the other looked to have very little relation to the hill country at all. Furthermore, judging by the mass of snow-white hair he discovered under the brim of his prairie hat, he was an old man. But clearly these two were supervising the activities in progress.
He remained where he was until the last detail of the thing he was gazing upon had been well photographed and tabulated in his mind. Then he withdrew. He would have been glad of a closer view of the two white men, but caution deterred any further approach.
He moved away and presently again became swallowed up by the shadows of the forest. And the direction of his going was southerly, where he looked for a view of the valley below.
When he reappeared again it was at a break where an undergrowth walled the limits of the woods, and he pressed through it till he came to the final screen. He held the foliage apart while he peered out beyond. Below him lay the valley of grass and woodland bluff, and it was alive with grazing cattle.
Now his interest quickened. It was not the sight of thecattle. That had been expected. There was something of even greater importance within his view. Away to his left on the sloping, hither side of the valley, and, he judged, somewhere adjacent to the clearing he had recently overlooked, a wide field of building operations looked to have been just begun. There were the cuttings ready for the foundations of a big barn or house. There, too, lay a wealth of hewn logs hauled ready for building. And even as he watched a four-horse team appeared from the woods, farther down the valley, skidding a load of freshly hewn lumber. He drew a deep breath.
Lightning was wrong. So, too, was Hartspool. All the tittle-tattle going on in that place was miles wide of the truth. Here was no cattle thief’s encampment. The extent of the organisation he had been so secretly observing could have only one meaning. How it had been achieved was something beyond his understanding. Where Dan Quinlan had obtained his capital to invest in such an enterprise it was impossible for him to suggest. The one outstanding fact remained. Here, away up in the heart of the hills, was a great and thriving cattle industry, and Dan Quinlan was the man who had created it.
McFardell’s discoveries at Quinlan’s were a source of bitter disappointment to him. They were the shattering, the complete shattering of his dream. He cursed himself bitterly that he had listened to Lightning’s suggestion, and the idle talk of Hartspool. It was always the way. Folks jumped to absurd conclusions out of suspicion of anything that was beyond their understanding. He knew he had been thoroughly fooled, and since Lightning had helped in his befoolment most of his bitterness was directed at him.
But his long training in the Police had deeply impressedhis mind. And, furthermore, the idea of somehow blackmailing his way back into the force had taken desperate hold of him. His inclination had been all for returning home and letting Lightning know the fool he had made of both himself and Andrew McFardell, but his training prevailed.
He asked himself the meaning of Quinlan’s rise to fortune, and determined to see the thing through to the end. He would explore to the limit of his time, and look for any other secret these hills might discover for him. So he went back to his camp, deep hidden from all chance discovery by Quinlan, and planned out his further campaign.
Andy McFardell was returning home after complete failure. He was moodily contemplating his wasted effort. He had done everything possible; he had left nothing unexplored, sparing neither himself nor his horse; and now there was nothing left but to return again to the life which he had learned to hate and detest.
His way lay down the same valley where recently Molly had sought and found her missing cows. He was travelling over almost the identical ground which her pinto had covered. He had found the same water-hole, and his weary horse had refreshed itself at the same stream that came down from the cold recesses of the far-off hills. The day was hot, and the air swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. But these things made no impression upon him, and only his horse suffered.
The net result of his five days’ work was a final conclusion that his chance of buying his way back into the Police was practically nil. The whole position was clear enough. While he could discover not a tithe of evidence that the Irishman and his band of Indians were on thecross, yet there was much that needed explanation. The renegade was no longer the white Indian, simply existing in his miserable home in the hills by trap and gun.
No. That may have been his original case. But it was so no longer. He was ranching on a big scale. And furthermore his stock was mainly highly bred Pole-Angus cattle, the numbers of which suggested a capital value running into anything over fifty thousand dollars. Where had the money come from? But more important still, how had that industry grown up without other outside evidence than the sale of young stock in the Hartspool and Calford markets? In spite of the shattering of his dream of getting back into the Police Andy McFardell felt that the position was still not without possibilities.
Moving down towards the creek his horse flung up its head in a startled fashion. He was riding over the stretch of blue grass, at the very spot where, so short a while since, Molly had finally discovered her cows. Ahead lay the bush-clad banks of the stream. And away to the left of him the slope of the valley opened sharply into the gorge where Molly had parted from the man she called Silver-Thatch.
McFardell was concerned at once. He knew the meaning of his horse’s pricked ears, and the faint sound of its whinny. Another horse was somewhere in the vicinity, and, since the Marton farm was something less than five miles on, he searched the direction of his horse’s gaze for a sight of Molly. To his mind it must be she. Lightning would be likely to have moved out from his work on the ploughing.
There were only a few yards of the open left and he bustled his horse on. The beast moved with eagerness and passed into the bush. Then, in a moment, Andy flung himself back in the saddle and jerked his horse to a standstill.
He was face to face with a horseman on a superb black beast with the small broad head and diminutive ears of a thoroughbred. But he at once became absorbed in the rider. He was the white-haired man he had seen in the clearing up at Quinlan’s.
The stranger had drawn rein. He sat quite still, contemplating the dishevelled appearance of McFardell and his tuckered horse. Then a slight, inscrutable smile lit his eyes, and he nodded. The next moment he lifted his reins, and the eager creature under him moved off like a flash and disappeared into the bush ahead. It was almost uncanny. Not a word of greeting had passed; scarcely a sign. The man had smiled, that was all, and—vanished.
Andy stared after him where the bushes had closed behind him. He made no attempt to follow. His dark eyes were frowning with heavy thought. And it was not till the last sound of the hoofs of the stranger’s horse had completely died away that he bestirred himself.
Then it was that he suddenly became transformed. His eyes blazed with a fury of excitement. He lifted his reins and jammed his spurred heels into the flanks of the beast under him, and rode straight at the bush where the other had disappeared.
“God!” he muttered. “It’s Jim Pryse!”