CHAPTER VPAYMENT
CONSTABLE SINCLAIR sealed and addressed his last letter. He sat back in his Windsor chair and, for some moments, pondered the address he had just written.
Then he turned and glanced over the ill-lit room that was his official home.
It was a bare enough place. It was no more than sufficient for the simplest human needs. But then no more was asked of it. Police life was never made easy.
The room was narrow and low-ceiled, and its walls were boarded. At one time in their career they had been varnished, but that was long ago. Now they were dingy with the smoke of many winters. A bed-cot of trestles and boards, with a straw palliasse and brown blankets on it, was the man’s sleeping place. A well-polished wood stove abated some of the winter cold. The only thing that could have been considered luxury was a washbowl on a makeshift table with a water bucket standing beside it. As for the writing table at which Sinclair was seated, it was small, of white wood, and served its purpose with nothing to spare.
There was no floor covering of any sort. There was not even a curtain over the double windows toafford privacy. A couple of old grain sacks were jambed at the foot of the door, but these were only for the purpose of shutting out some of the penetrating bitterness of the winter cold. The Spartan severity was extended even to the illumination. The single oil lamp was just sufficient to stir up shadows even in those narrow limits.
Sinclair was indifferent to bodily discomfort and found no fault with his quarters. But he hated the office work which he performed with meticulous thoroughness. That was his way. He was looking for promotion and knew how much that branch of his work counted with those in whose hands his official future lay. So he had spent a long and dreary evening completing his weekly report of ten foolscap pages. And after that he had written two private letters.
There was not much choice for him with the snow falling heavily outside. It was either work or his blankets. And as yet he was in no mood for sleep. So he had written a dutiful epistle to an aged mother in Toronto and a letter of several pages to a girl who occupied the position of governess to two very young children in the household of one of Calford’s leading citizens.
It was all very characteristic of Ernest Sinclair. He was sure of his own efficiency; quite certain of it. And furthermore he took good care never to leaveundone any of those things which might serve his ambitions.
It was his way to spend a lot of spare time in calculation. No interest of his own was too small that it should not be fully weighed and measured. It was his aim in life that his sums should always prove. And if things did not always work out as his figures indicated it was not for lack of strenuous effort. When things went wrong with them he usually assured himself of the inevitability of the failure. Never, in his frankest moments did he admit the unfailing discount demanded by his own besetting weaknesses.
He rose alertly from his desk and crossed the room to the stove in the corner. Habit set him raking it. Then he generously replenished it from his store of cord-wood. Automatically he closed the damper and stood up, wiping the wood ash dust from his hands.
He felt almost elated. He was wondering and speculating as to the outcome of his morning’s interview with Annette. He felt that things should certainly come his way. He assured himself he was entitled to such a result. It had been hard work. It had made him sweat in spite of the cold. The inspiration that had leaped to his mind in the nick of time was something which tickled his vanity mightily.
But as he began to fill his pipe he found himself resorting again to his habit of calculation.
He knew Annette’s headlong temper, her impulse.He felt he knew by heart the nature of the clay he was seeking to mould. Annette had no real cleverness. She had a measure of nimbleness. In truth she was just a beautiful young animal full of a glorious joy of life. She was utterly desirable, of course, but nevertheless, a brainless, hot-blooded animal. That was all.
He forgot to complete the filling of his pipe. Instead he returned it to his pocket and rubbed his hands.
Then what would be the result, he asked himself? Whatmustbe the result? Annette had come to him with her woman’s purpose of forcing his hand. She meant him to father her child in the eyes of her world in Buffalo Coulee. She was a half-breed and he was white. And full well he knew the crazy desire of her kind for a white husband. She—yes—she would sacrifice anything—anybody—for the thing she wanted. She had been shocked in those first moments of the big idea. But——
Sinclair started. He shot a swift glance at the door of his room, which opened into his outer public office. For an instant he eyed it questioningly. Then he looked at the cheap clock hanging on a nail over his table. But, in a moment, he turned again to the door.
Several moments passed. Then he moved. He moved swiftly. And as he came to the door and flung it wide, the snub nose of an ugly small gun was pokingout from the grip of his palm, which an instant before had been quite empty.
The yellow lamplight revealed a fur-clad figure. For an instant Sinclair’s gun hand was raised. Then it lowered. And it resought his pocket as he laughed.
“Say, kid,” he cried a little boisterously, “you gave me quite a scare. I sort of figgered you were some guy looking for my scalp. I was all for perforating your swell furs with a gun that don’t usually quit under ten rounds. Say, you faced this darn storm to see me? Why?”
He held out his arms, and for all the melting snow that was saturating Annette’s furs she was caught and held tightly to him while his hot lips caught hers.
The girl yielded. Then, with a little struggle, she released herself and stood breathing quickly. The dusky blood flushed up to her beautiful cheeks, and a flash of resentment to her eyes.
“I didn’t come around fer that,” she said sharply.
And Sinclair laughed in the confidence of success.
“Sure you didn’t. Say, is there a girl in the world ready to admit the things she wants from a man? No, no, kid. You didn’t come around for fooling. It’s a mighty important proposition to set you turning out on a night that’s only fit for starving timber wolves. Here, come across to the stove. Shake the snow off you, and thaw out those pretty fingers. I’ll close the door in case there’s any wolves chasing around.”
He laughed at his own pleasantry while he closed and fastened the door. Then, as the girl undid her fur coat beside the stove, her voice came sharply.
“That window,” she said. “Can’t you set a blanket across it?”
Sinclair paused half-way to her side. His eyes were still smiling the elation he felt. The girl gestured impatiently and spread out her hands to the warmth.
“You must,” she said. “I—I daresn’t stand around here with that window uncovered.”
“I see.”
In half a minute one of the brown blankets from Sinclair’s bed was hung on two nails that were already in the window casing for just such a purpose.
“You think anyone saw you come out?”
The policeman was at the stove. He was at the opposite side of it looking across into the pretty face that had lost something of its usual confidence. Annette’s gaze was unsteady. There was a distinct droop at the corners of the mouth that Sinclair knew could caress so hotly. He realized from the swift rise and fall of a tumultuous bosom that she was disturbed and apprehensive.
“They’re abed,” she said. “They’ve been abed an hour. But I—I think I’m scared.”
Sinclair shook his head.
“No, kid,” he said. “Not scared. That’s not you. I tell you I’d hate to stand up to the thing that couldscare you. But you’ve nothing to be scared for anyway.”
He moved round the stove to the girl’s side, his pulses stirring. He sought to take her into his arms again, but, with a swift movement, the girl eluded him.
“What’s amiss?” he asked sharply.
“Nothin’, Ernie. Only—only—ther’ ain’t time to fool now.”
The man’s eyes were hot. All the worst in him was uppermost. His cooler, calculating mind was befogged by that passionate weakness he was powerless to deny. He wanted the girl more than he desired advancement at that moment.
“Why?” he cried, with a petulant snap of disappointment.
Annette gestured impatiently.
“Because I’ve got what you want, an’ must beat it right back to home before—before——”
“Kiss me first, then, so I can listen right. Say, I can’t listen, I can’t think till—till you kiss me.”
The man was beside himself. The whole expression of his face had transformed. It was rather terrible. The hot blood was madly surging to his head, and veins were standing out on his forehead. He watched her devouringly.
The girl understood. And curiously there was no responsive feeling in her. It was as if something she saw in him reacted adversely. Her own passions werefor once quiescent in proportion to the extravagance of his. She turned to the stove.
“Quit fool’ry, I tell you,” she said, so coldly that Sinclair grew angrily calm. “What sort o’ man are you anyway? Can’t you quit that sort of thing when—when we got business to fix? I tell you I got what you need, an’ I’ll go clear through with it. But you can’t get it till you quit foolin’. An’ you can’t get it till you swear before God you’ll marry me right away when it’s thro’.”
For some moments the man stood a prey to the madness of his passions. For a while desire set him yearning to lay violent hands on the beautiful creature who so furiously inflamed him. Then, at last, the cold stare of the girl’s eyes reduced him to sanity. But it was a surly sort of sanity.
“You’re a cool devil, Annette,” he sneered. Then he tried to laugh. “Go right on,” he added sharply.
Annette stared down at the stove.
“You swear ’fore God?”
The man made no answer. And Annette shook her head.
“You got to hand me that,” she insisted.
“Say, kid that’s all right, but I just hate the notion of a—a bargain between you an’ me.”
Sinclair was master of himself again. And his brain was working on those calculations which came so naturally to him.
“See, Annette, I’m just crazy for you, and always will be,” he went on. “Bargaining with you is like playing the Jew game. There’s no sort of need for a bargain. Of course I’m goin’ to marry you. Do you think I’d leave our little kiddie without a father? I’m no skunk of that sort. I just love you to——”
“But you got to swear that Ernie, all the same,” Annette persisted. “It’s your own bargain. You made it that way this mornin’. You figgered you’d marry me if you got your promotion. An’ I was to make it so you could get it. Well, I figger I ken do all you want. I ken make it so you get them at the still with five hundred gallons of liquor lyin’ ready to ship. But when I’ve done that I’d say I can’t draw back. Can I? Once you got your hands on ’em you got what you need. Well, I got to get from you what I need. You’ve got to swear on the Gospel. You got to swear by the swell mother that bred you. You got to swear by all that figgers a thing in your life. If you don’t——? Well, we’ll leave it right there.”
Sinclair realized from the tone, from the cold of her manner, that he had come very near to blundering. He even feared that her suspicions were already aroused. The remedy must be instant.
He nodded and smiled with all the good will he could summon.
“I’ll swear by every god that was ever worshipped,”he said eagerly. “I’ll swear it by my dear old mother ’way East on her farm. It’s my dying oath, kid. The oath every school kid knows, and would hate to break. Do you feel good about it now? You know, little girl, there isn’t a thing in the world I want like you. Not even that promotion we been worrying over. It hurt you didn’t trust me without that oath. But I sort of see now. You got to have it for our—kiddie. Well, now you’ve got it you can pass me mine.”
Annette gestured nervously. She turned from the man’s challenging eyes.
“It—it seems tough,” she demurred.
“What? To fulfil your side of the bargain?”
Annette raised her eyes to the glassy watchfulness of his.
“It sure means penitentiary?” she cried suddenly. “How long?”
“Five years at most, I’d say.”
“Five?”
“Yes.”
Sinclair saw the struggle going on behind the girl’s eyes. He had everything to gain by patient persuasion. So he held strong check upon himself.
“I don’t guess your father’ll get more than a year. It’s the Wolf,” he said, watching the effect of his words. “He’s the feller with the still. He’s the real boss. That’s his way. He runs the still. He’s got yourfather where he needs him. And treats him to the same bull-dozing he does you. He’s a swine of a bully. He’s made your life tough as well. Five years in penitentiary’ll hand him an elegant lesson not to bet on a ‘full house’ when he’s barely ace high. He’s got a hell of a stiff neck. But five years of penitentiary’ll change all that.”
A bitter laugh answered him.
“Yes, yes,” Annette cried eagerly. “That’s it. It’ll smash his fool conceit. It——”
She broke off with a sharp intake of breath.
“Well? Where is it? The still?”
The girl flung out her hands.
“The Coulee. Spruce Coulee. Back to the hills.”
Sinclair stared.
“Why Spruce Coulee’s only eight miles back to the hills, and I ride that trail every month of the year.”
“I know. That’s his bluff—the Wolf’s. He figgered you’d never locate it if it was right under your nose.”
The man had forgotten Annette entirely. He was thinking of the men. He was furious at the bluff which the Wolf had flung at him.
“Just where?” he asked, with a sharpness that sounded harsh in the stillness of the half-lit room.
Annette’s slim hands came together sharply. There was a queer straining in the eyes that gazed up at herlover. She drew a deep breath as she remembered the child that was to be born to her.
“’Way back of the big bluff of jack pine wher’ the freshet cuts out o’ the hills into the coulee. It’s the break in the hillside that’s full o’ water come spring, an’ snow in winter. You seen it, an’ passed it, and reckoned it wasn’t worth a thought. It’s just a split in the rock wher’ it starts. But it opens out to a widish cañon right inside, an’ it goes back miles. The still’s set up in a cave west o’ the third bend, a cave big enough to drive a team an’ spring wagon into. It needs findin’ even at that, for it’s hid up close by a fall of loose rock and a wall of scrub. But it’s ther’. An’ ther’s five hundred gallons kegged an’ waitin’ shipment. They’re to tote the stuff eight o’clock to-morrow night.”
The girl’s words came torrentially. It was as if she dared not pause lest her purpose should fail her. At the finish she confronted the policeman, with her rounded bosom heaving.
“Eight o’clock?” Sinclair nodded. “They’re shipping five hundred gallons?”
Suddenly he laughed. And a look of fear in Annette’s eyes replied to him.
“Ernie!”
But again the policeman laughed.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he cried.
“But they’re desperate. They’ll fight like devils.They’ll shoot to kill. They mustn’t kill you. They——”
“Kill nothing!” the man scorned. “There’ll be no killing. Just penitentiary. I want ’em both. And now I’ll get ’em. And——”
The girl’s hands were prisoned.
The next moment her body was caught in the man’s arms, and Annette submitted to fierce caresses. She submitted but did not respond. A queer desperation seemed to have taken hold of her. It was reaction. And it robbed her of the power to think connectedly. In those moments the one thing she knew was an awful despair, and a pitiful desire to fall a-weeping.
For Sinclair it was a wonderful moment of triumph. At last the whole game was in his hands.
An hour later Ernest Sinclair was alone. Annette had passed out again into the silent deluge of snow.
The girl’s going left him unconcerned. It meant nothing to him that she must make her way alone across the township in a blinding snowstorm. He had obtained from her all he wanted, and that was all that mattered. She had served her purpose. She was a half-breed. Just a half-breed. A mere chattel to be discarded when his end was achieved.
He sought his bed, and pulled the blankets up about his neck and ears. His stove was well banked for thenight. And now he had a pleasant stock of thoughts which would occupy him till sleep overtook him.
Oh, yes—there was going to be no mistake. He was winning all along the line. It would be strange indeed if his efficiency failed him in the moment of success. At eight o’clock to-morrow night there would be no shipment of five hundred gallons of “homebrew.” No—but there would be two prisoners who had long been “wanted” to his credit. And then—and then——