CHAPTER VITHE CACHE
THE moon was at its full. Its cold brilliance was a perfect match for the temperature prevailing. It was a clear, bitter night, without a breath of wind out of the western hills sufficient to lift it, however slightly, from the depths below zero into which it had plunged.
The frigid melancholy was broken only by odd nature sounds. They came from afar. They echoed near at hand. There was the rarer boom of frost-bitten forest trees. There was the occasional moan from the hungry bowels of some lonesome creature of the wilderness. There were other sounds, too. Mysterious, unaccountable sounds that only served to express more surely something of life’s last hope lost in the cold heart of a merciless winter.
East and west a frozen watercourse wound its way. It lay at the foot of a shouldering of sharp, rough-hewn cliffs, which represented the last barrier where the world of western hills gave on to the undulations of virgin prairie.
Even under snow the course of Spruce Coulee was sharply outlined. The snow-laden limbs of conifers sagged heavily for miles along its banks. So, too,with the lower scrub, and the rime-decked branches of leafless trees. Otherwise it would have been indistinguishable from the rest of the world.
The woods on its far bank were tight-packed against the sheer of the cliffs. In places they even hid the rocky wall entirely. Doubtless in summer they were gracious enough. But just now their only service seemed to be to lend the gleaming white of their burden to hide up the careless roughnesses of Nature’s quarrying.
At one point along the course of the coulee the woods broke on either bank. One break was natural. But that was where an irresistible freshet had driven a way for itself through the rocky barrier of the hills in a boisterous effort to reach and swell the waters of the superior stream. Its achievement was doubtless the work of ages. But it was complete. A deep rift split the face of the gray stone cliffs to a breadth of something over twenty feet.
On the prairie bank the break was a narrow enough opening, barely sufficient for the passage of a horse-drawn vehicle. It had nothing of the naturalness which had split the face of the opposite cliff. But so cunning was its design, so insignificantly winding its course through the trees, and with so much care had obstructing tree-boles been removed, that its presence betrayed not the smallest indication of the human handiwork that had fashioned it.
Directly between these openings a figure on foot was floundering through the bed of snow which obscured the coulee. It stood out sharply in the moonlight in its dark furs. Nor was there the smallest indication of any means, other than afoot, by which it could have arrived there. Neither horse, nor vehicle were in evidence anywhere.
Half-way across the coulee Sinclair paused to consider his surroundings, and to clear the icicles from about his lips, and even the lashes of his eyes. Eyes and ears were equally well trained to the haunting silence of the world about him, and, after a prolonged survey, he knew there was nothing to disturb. It was just the shadowy white world he knew and hated. And the sights and sounds that came to him were of the things he could interpret beyond any question.
So his whole attention became concentrated upon the gap in the rough wall of the cliffs ahead. Again he knew it all by heart. He had seen and ignored it so frequently. It was just one of those spring watercourses feeding the coulee. But now it had assumed an importance in his mind that demanded for it his closest attention.
That which he beheld filled him with a certain admiration for the astuteness which had seen in the rift a safe hiding place for a secret traffic. The bed of the spring watercourse was hidden up by trees, and scrub, and was choked with drift snow. From adistance it was only high up where the opening was at its narrowest that the place could be detected at all.
He moved on. With the coulee well behind him there came a battle with the snow-buried undergrowth. But after a while the trees hid him up, and forthwith the world he left behind him forgot the intrusion upon its frigid solitude.
A small circle of light flashed to and fro in the inky blackness. It turned upwards and found the domed roof of a cavern. It swept to the right and to the left. Dark walls of broken rock were all it revealed, a simple expression of Nature’s monstrous labor.
Presently it turned away and became motionless. It had suddenly revealed a mass of equipment that had nothing to do with Nature.
The light made no further movement. A pair of eager eyes were searching the discovery.
But Sinclair had little enough time in which to indulge mere curiosity. The plans he had made depended entirely for success upon the swiftness with which they were executed. Delay would probably mean disaster to them and very likely to himself as well. So it was sufficient that he recognized the complicated gear of a distilling plant of considerable capacity without its further consideration at the moment.
It told him all he desired to know just then. It was the final proof of Annette’s sincerity. It was verywelcome. But the girl had further warned him that five hundred gallons of raw spirit had been brewed, and kegged, and set ready for shipment He must verify that. Now—where?
The light of his flash lamp continued its work. The searching circle of light passed on here, there, everywhere. It shone ahead, an ever-widening shaft of light that became faint and ineffective in the far remoteness of the bowels of the cavern. It came back sharply to the nearness. Left and right it flashed swiftly. And finally it searched the litter of impedimenta upon the uneven surface of the rocky floor.
It was then that an exclamation broke sharply. The man dropped to his knees before a great lantern which stood ready trimmed for lighting.
The mellow lantern light fulfilled its purpose. The cavern lit up sufficiently, all but the far distance which formed an ugly, rugged passage. The place was far larger than Sinclair had suspected, and conveyed nothing pleasant or easy. It was a grim hiding. And as he gazed, a queer weight of depression settled heavily on his spirits.
But the feeling passed as the thing he sought was revealed. Excited satisfaction replaced it when he beheld a neatly arranged stack of ten-gallon kegs.
The policeman moved across to it at once. The barrels were arranged near the right hand wall in three tiers. He set his lantern down on the top of the uppertier to leave himself free for examination. He lifted a barrel and replaced it. He tried several others. And with each test his satisfaction grew. They were all full. Annette had not deceived him. A smile of deep significance lit his eager eyes.
Five hundred gallons!
Sinclair considered. He was listening and watching, too. He told himself the whole desperate game was now in his hands. The Wolf and Pideau were definitely booked for penitentiary—provided always he made no mistake.
Oh, he was going to do nothing of that sort. He was taking no chances. Everything was just as he would have it. Even to the setting of those precious kegs. He could crouch behind the stack, an excellent rampart against gunfire, with the drop on the men he was waiting for as they silhouetted against the moonlight beyond the mouth of the cavern.
Eight o’clock. Annette had said eight o’clock. It was not so long to wait now. And he was glad. He was yearning for activity. Yearning for that triumph he felt to be coming to him. For all the cold was already eating into his bones he felt that he could, if necessary, endure hours of waiting for such an end to his night’s work.
It would be so very easy, too. Those two would not have a dog’s chance really. How could they? He knew his own value as a shot. And then the moonlight.Why—— But he would be very careful. He would shoot. Of course he would shoot on sight. But not to kill. Oh, no. That would——
A shot crashed in the echoing cavern like the thunder of high explosive. The policeman’s whole body seemed to jolt and stiffen. Then a spasm shivered him from his head to his heels. He staggered, swayed, and slowly crumpled up. He fell forward almost without a sound. Without so much as the moan of a dying soul he rolled over face upwards on the rough stone of the floor. And he lay there still—so still.
Ernest Sinclair was stone dead. Already he was stiffening in the bitter cold of the night. The kneeling figure crouching over his body was in no doubt upon the subject. The shot had driven straight through its victim’s heart as he stood outlined against the lantern light with his back turned to the cavern entrance.
The groping hands desisted from the examination they had been carefully carrying out. The figure sat back on a pair of moccasined heels, and thoughtful dark eyes considered the sprawled body. Then they glanced down at the old-fashioned, seven-chambered revolver lying on the ground near by.
A deep-drawn sigh. Perhaps it was relief, or even pity at the necessity for the destruction wrought. It was impossible to tell.
A moment later the figure was standing. It reached out to the lantern on the kegs and opened it. The next moment black darkness descended, shutting out the sight of the sprawled body of the murdered man. Then came the soft padding of moccasined feet.
Outside the cave the uncertain light of the moon shining down between the overhang of gorge revealed a newcomer. It might even have been the return of the earlier visitor, the one who had knelt searching the body of the murdered police officer. It was impossible in that half-light to identify it. The outline was similar. But there is so little to differentiate in the outline of heavy furs in a snow country.
But now there was something furtive in the manner of approach. It suggested fear of discovery, for the figure was hugging every shadow cast by the overhang of rock, and its every movement was as stealthy as the deeps of drift snow would permit. It came on slowly, laboriously. And at last it halted just outside the entrance to the cave with an ear cocked, obviously listening for any sound to suggest danger.
The profundity of silence was intense. The cavern had become a veritable sepulchre, assuming the atmosphere, to which, as such, it seemed entitled. It was almost as if nothing could ever again disturb the place. As though the recent momentary crash of gunfire was an unreality, a dream, a figment of imagination.
The newcomer leaned forward peering. Whatever the ultimate purpose for a long time there was no attempt to pass those black, yawning portals. But at last there came definite movement. It was as though confidence had more fully returned. The figure moved forward towards the engulfing darkness. And, in a moment, all that remained to proclaim the visit was the soft shuffle of footsteps over the rough surface of the cavern floor.
A pair of dark eyes shone in the reflected light which outlined the entrance to the cavern. There was no longer the impression of the sepulchre. The lantern on the stack of kegs had been relit. It had only just flashed out, its yellow rays illuminating a scene which amazed, almost paralyzed the brain behind the startled gaze endeavoring to take in and sort out the meaning of what it beheld.
The light threw into relief every detail of the industry, which for so long had remained secret. There stood all the complicated paraphernalia which made up the primitive still. There stood the various rough adjuncts, denoting human occupation. Then there was that store of liquor ready prepared for shipment.
But the gaze that took in these details found nothing in them to interest. For the time being they were completely meaningless. It was that by the stack of kegs, and in the full rays of lantern light, that stirred aspasm of horror so deep that it left the faculties stunned.
A figure, a living human figure was standing over a dead body sprawled on the ground at its feet. It was a figure clad in familiar enough furs. And in its right hand was a revolver of old-fashioned pattern.
It was all vivid and unmistakable. It required no imagination to translate that scene and discover the meaning of it. Murder! It was murder. And the figure gazing down upon the lifeless form of its victim, maybe gloating over the dreadful work it had accomplished, was there red-handed, seemingly indifferent to all chances of discovery.
The brilliant patch of color, staring up under the lantern light, where the murdered man’s black furs were flung wide open, told at once of the identity of the victim. A policeman! A police officer shot down! Shot to instant death! The madness of it. The reckless wantonness.
A mitted hand was raised and passed across the watching, horrified eyes. It was a gesture of helplessness. A gesture that told of something approaching weakness. It was followed by a deep-drawn breath. Then came reaction. The watching eyes turned abruptly from the spectacle. It was as though a supreme effort of will had been put forth to shut out a terror that was overwhelming.
Then sudden movement.
It was at that moment that the lantern light was extinguished, and the whole scene was gone from view. The watcher could only hear. There was the slither of hurried footsteps. A shadow detached itself from the blackness of the cavern. It moved out into the dim moonlight. And presently it was gone, vanished in the twilight of the shadowed world.
The next moment the place where the watcher had crouched was empty.
Pideau was standing in the shadow of the woods. He was at the appointed rendezvous. He had faithfully carried out the orders he had received. But there was no liquor awaiting him.
The bluff on Spruce Coulee was deserted, given up to the solitude that belonged to it.
The man had passed the time of waiting pacing the rotting underlay of the woods, in a vigorous effort to keep his stout limbs warm in the fierce cold. But now he had halted and remained staring down at the white bed of the coulee, where two teams and double bobsleighs were waiting with the blanketted horses knee deep in the soft snow of the recent fall.
His small eyes were snapping as they gazed out from amidst his furs. His mitted hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his long coat, where they encountered two loaded weapons. They were his principal defence in the hazardous journey yet to be made whenhe was to complete his deal with those he knew as the “O’Hagan bunch.”
He was considering. The Wolf should have been there with the goods. He was not. What course should he, Pideau, adopt? Should he wait on? Or should he go down there to the teamsters and tell them to wait while he went to the cache to discover the reason of the Wolf’s absence.
These were the obvious alternatives. But, somehow, Pideau arrived at no decision. He just thought on and on. And so he waited. His snapping eyes gazing always down at the waiting teams.
Suddenly he started. He turned an ear at a sound in the woods behind him. A new note had been added to the many sounds of the night. It was the scrunch of feet crushing the rotten pine cones where the foliage was too thick to permit penetration by the snow.
There was no reason to consider his future movements now. He knew his waiting was at an end.
The Wolf came up out of the shadow of the forest. Pideau was ready for him.
“Well?” he demanded in the harsh fashion habitual to him.
“You best come right over to the cache, Pideau,” the Wolf said, offering no explanation of the absence of the liquor. “Guess you’ll need to pass a hand totin’ the stuff. Things have happened along back at the cache. But we got to get the juice out right awayan’ make our trade. You can hand a close word to the boys down ther’. Just tell ’em I been held up by the snow. The stuff’ll be right along as fast as we can both haul it on the hand sleds. You get me?”
Pideau searched the other’s face all he was able. Then came his inevitable challenge.
“What’s happened?”
“That’ll wait. I’m worried to pouch O’Hagan’s dollars quick. You go right along to the boys, as I said. Then the cache. I’ll get back.”
“Trouble?”
Pideau’s persistence drew a short laugh from the other.
“It’s the way you look at it,” he parried. “But you beat it down to the boys.”
He moved off even as he spoke. And Pideau watched him go. He watched him till the shadows swallowed him up. Then he turned to carry out orders.
The cavern was almost brilliantly lit. Three lanterns were shining, where before only one had sought to dispel the shadows. The Wolf and Pideau were standing together. They were gazing down at the sprawled body of Ernest Sinclair.
Both were silent. Each was preoccupied with such thoughts as the ugly sight of the dead man inspired. But whatever their emotions there was no outward display. None at all.
The Wolf was lost in profound thought. The curious smile which Nature had stamped about his fine eyes gave the impression of amused, even derisive speculation. But nothing could have been further from his mood. It was just the natural mask he could not remove.
Pideau, in his different way, was quite as impossible to read. His expression never once changed after the first widening of the eyes which had occurred when the flash of lantern light had shown him the scarlet of the dead man’s stable-jacket.
Finally it was Pideau who broke the silence. He inclined his bullet head in a nod.
“Guess I take it right back,” he said amiably. “I didn’t reckon you’d the guts.” He drew a deep breath. “Gee, I am glad. Glad as hell. That puts him right out. We’re clear away with things. Annette’s shut of a scab p’liceman. An’ we——”
The Wolf caught and held the evil sparkle of the other’s eyes.
“Guess I’m not crazy, if you are,” he said sharply. “I found him just how you see him now, when I came along for those kegs o’ liquor.”
Pideau blinked.
“What sort of bluff did you pass him to get him wher’ you needed him? Say, Wolf, you’re brighter than hell. You surely are. I didn’t reckon that way last night. I thought you’d weakened. I’d ought’veknown better. I guess it’s the sort of trick only you could work out. Oh, boy, I’m glad. We’re partners. Ther’s bin times when I reckoned I was mostly a choreman doin’ as you said. Well, I’m most ready to act that way all the time for a partner who ken put through a play like this. That’s surely so. We got to cache him way back to the end of the cave wher’ he ken freeze good. What you done with his broncho an’ saddle?”
“Nothing.”
The Wolf’s eyes were still smiling, but a deep flush had spread right up to his broad forehead.
“I haven’t seen ’em,” he went on, after a pause. “I don’t know a thing, an’ haven’t seen a thing till I found—this—lying right here the way you see it now.”
Pideau shook his head. For a thoughtful moment he gazed at the dead man, whose glazed eyes and dropped jaw stared up at him. Then he eyed the big, seven-chambered gun lying on the ground in close proximity.
“It don’t do leavin’ your old gun around anyway,” he said. “That ain’t clever nor bright. Best take it an’ clean it good right away.”
The Wolf glanced down at the gun. Then he stooped mechanically in obedience to the other and picked it up. He opened the old-fashioned side of the breech and revolved the chambers. There were sixloaded chambers. The seventh contained a spent shell. He returned it whence he had taken it.
“Jest one shot,” Pideau approved. “But I don’t guess you ever need more’n one.”
The half-breed spoke with an amiable chuckle. But the Wolf’s shoulders went up coldly. Then he laughed.
“It’s a fool trick leavin’ the gun around,” he agreed. “But that’s easy fixed. Maybe I’ll clean it later the way you say. Meanwhiles we’ll leave it with him. We need to move quick. We’ll tote him back into the cave wher’ he’ll freeze right. We ken deal with his broncho later. O’Hagan’s waitin’ on his liquor an’ that means dollars. We’ll get busy. Say, get a grip on his legs. I’ll pack his other end.”