CHAPTER XMURDER
ANNETTE’S pony snatched at its bit and halted. And the mud-brown mare came to a stand responsively. The eyes into which Stanley Fyles found himself gazing were shining in the cold brilliance of the moonlight. Annette was listening.
Fyles found himself listening, too.
Annette’s effect on him was wholly extraordinary. It had begun at their first meeting on the trail. And the more he had considered her since, the more surely had it grown. There was her beauty, which could not fail to intrigue his manhood. That was inevitable. But it gave him no sense of pleasure. On the contrary, it inspired him with a feeling of greater repugnance. In his mind it conflicted so hideously with the savage bitterness with which she was pursuing what he understood to be her sheer revenge. The mercilessness in her he felt to be something verging on the terrible. It belonged to a fiend rather than a beautiful woman. And yet all the time there was something about her which found him doubting, even incredulous. It was as though she, herself, were unreal. As though every moment he spent with her were part of some ugly dream from which he would eventually awaken. It was monstrously unbelievable to him that even now he wason his way with her to discover the murdered body of Sinclair.
Yet he had no doubt of her truth. He was without a shadow of doubt of her story. It was just the girl herself and his own sensibilities reacting to the ugly thing she was doing. Then, furthermore, back of his mind lay urgent wonder that here, in something less than twenty-four hours, he was on the threshold of discovery. The riddle whose solution had looked like days and weeks of laborious effort was resolving itself as if he were turning the pages of an open book.
Annette’s tones came low and whispering.
“It’s coyotes,” she said. “I thought——”
“We left them all back in the town. Your menfolk were asleep in their blankets. You said so. Who else could be around out here in the hills—now?”
Fyles spoke sharply.
“Yes.”
The girl turned and gazed out across the white surface of the mountain coulee. Her whole attention was upon the wall of tattered rock across the frozen watercourse, where it rose above the lower tree-tops. The gap they intended to enter was there, plainly visible in the moonlight.
“Maybe I’m scared,” she said. “Ther’s only three folks in the world know this place, and two of them are back in Buffalo Coulee—asleep.”
“Let’s get right on.”
Fyles had no patience. He saw no sense in any waste of time. He wanted to get back to quarters where he could think and reason with himself and forget the repugnant human instrument that had lent itself to his work.
The pinto moved on. It passed down onto the snow-covered ice of the river and went forward. The mare was close behind. And in a few moments the narrow bed of the river was abandoned for a bush pathway that was little more than a track.
After a short, winding passage the bush gave on to the forest of lofty pine trees, and the moonlight faded out under the dense canopy of foliage that roofed the woods. The horses and riders moved on like ghostly figures in procession, and then came the rift in the wall of rock. Annette again drew rein.
“You need to follow close,” she warned in hushed tones. “It’s a path. Ther’ ain’t any sort of roadway. An’ ther’s a drop of nigh eight foot to the stream on the right.”
Fyles listened and nodded. He had no desire to question. He had no desire to do anything but push on. The difficulties they might encounter in reaching their objective gave him no concern whatever. It was sufficient that the girl’s cayuse should lead the way. His mare would follow.
The procession moved on and became lost in the shadows. Fyles was aware of the great overhangof rock which left a narrow, starry belt alone visible above. His keen mind was busy registering for reference. Every yard of the way testified to Annette’s veracity. And he was uncomfortably aware of it. The path over which they were travelling was desperately uneven and uncertain under the drifted snow. There was the stiff, snow-laden bush to one side, and, on the other, the drop of which the girl had told. It was strange. The man knew he would have been glad enough of excuse to discredit her.
Presently the starry belt overhead widened. And with the widening came more light. The moon searched the depths of the rift, and flung pitch-black shadows. The stream bed turned away in a wide bend. Then the two horses passed down the sharp incline, and moved in single file along the snow-laden watercourse itself.
Annette checked her pony and pointed. The mare drew alongside.
“It’s right ahead,” she said, and watched the man’s face in the moonlight. Then, of a sudden: “You don’t believe!” she cried hotly. “You didn’t last night. An’ you don’t now. Oh, I know. You can’t fool me. You’re reck’ning I’m on a play. An’ you’re saying ‘What is it?’ I know. Well, I’m not lyin’. I’m not makin’ any play. My man’s been shot. But, you’re a man. An’ maybe you won’t get what that means.”
Fyles studied the passionate eyes gravely for some moments.
“I get all that,” he said at last. “I don’t think you’re lying. I know we’re going to find Sinclair shot. I know that. I’m believing you all right. We’ll talk later.”
Fyles felt a certain relief as the girl turned, and her pony moved on with a jump, driven by the savage spur.
Minutes later they were clearly outlined in the moonlight, halted before a yawning, black cavern, whose bowels the moon failed to penetrate. Annette pointed.
“It’s all in there,” she said. “The gear. The still. The dead man. I’ll go light the way.”
She slid out of the saddle without waiting for reply. Fyles watched her. And his bowels chilled in a way that had nothing to do with the winter cold.
The body lay just where it had been flung without care or reverence. It was just a dead thing, flung aside out of the way. And it was left to the icy breath of winter to keep it from decay.
It was on its back with its fur coat removed, the better to let the frigid air do its work. Its legs were twisted about each other, and its arms were outflung. Its eyes were staring, hideously, and its lower jaw was dropped. It was intensely ugly to living eyes.
Fyles gazed down at it. So, too, did Annette. And her eyes were hidden.
The girl held the lantern quite still. They were far within the cavern and beyond the reach of the moonlight. Where they stood was out of sight of the distilling apparatus and all that gear which littered the wider floor of the hiding place. It was a narrow tunnel of jagged rock that went on far into the hill.
“He’s moved him back here,” Annette said, after awhile. “He wasn’t shot up here. It was back ther’ by the kegs all stacked around ready to be toted. Maybe as he couldn’t bury him for the snow he’s lettin’ him freeze right her till the spring thaw.”
Fyles made no reply. The girl had only stated that which was obvious to him. He was thinking hard.
Suddenly he dropped on his knees beside the body. He turned the dead thing over and examined the back of the red stable-jacket. There was no need for any close search. There was something more than a bullet hole in the red cloth. It was clear that the dead man had been shot through the heavy fur coat he had been wearing. The rent in the cloth was ragged. The heart had been pierced unerringly.
Fyles laid the body back in its original position. Then he picked up the fur coat that had been flung aside. Yes. There was the bullet hole. Then he picked up an old-patterned gun that had been flungdown with the body. He dropped it into his coat pocket, and turned on the girl.
“You saw?” he asked sharply.
“It’s the Wolf’s gun. No one but him ever used it.”
“You saw?” Fyles repeated, with a still sharper inflection.
Annette raised her big eyes and looked into the strong face of the questioner. There was an infinitesimal flicker of her eyelids.
“You mean I saw him—fire?”
“Just that.”
The answer came fiercely and at once.
“Yes!” she cried.
“The Wolf?”
“Yes.”
The girl’s eyes were steady enough now. They were hard, and cold, and cruelly fierce.
She turned again to the frozen body, and the lantern set queer shadows moving in the crevices of the cave. Fyles was on the point of questioning her presence at the moment of the murder. But he refrained.
“You stand pat for your story?” he asked.
His voice echoed loudly. The girl’s head went up.
“Sure.”
“To the Wolf’s face?”
There was a pause before the girl answered him.Her eyes were again on the dead body. Fyles waited. Then he urged her roughly.
“Well?”
Again came Annette’s upward fling of the head. Now angry defiance looked back at him.
“Yes! Where you like! When you like!”
“Good.” Fyles nodded. “We’re through here for now. We’ll get along back. I’m going to arrest the Wolf after you’ve told your story—to his face.”
The lantern moved. The policeman missed nothing. He was watching, watching. The lantern moved a second time and the girl’s other hand gestured sharply.
“You’ll protect me from them?”
“Them?”
“Yes. Father—as well as the Wolf.”
“Your father?”
A mirthless laugh broke from the girl.
“Yes. You don’t know Pideau. This still was his whole fortune. I’ve put you, the p’lice, wise to it.”
Fyles nodded.
“I see,” he said. “You need have no fear. I’ll see you safe. The Wolf will be at police quarters to-morrow night, after dark. So will you. You get me? Till then there’ll be no word—to anyone. It’s up to you. We’ll fix it at six o’clock to-morrow night. It’ll be dark then.”
Annette’s gaze again sought the dead man, as though the sight of the remains of the father of herchild afforded her support. Fyles saw her swallow as if her throat were parching.
“And then?” she asked in a low tone.
“Why, your evidence will be needed in Calford.”
“In Calford? Why?”
The girl’s sharpness told of a sudden fear which the name of Calford inspired.
“It’s your evidence that’ll have to send him to the rope. You saw him shoot Sinclair, your man, the father of your child, to death?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll give that evidence in Calford.”
Years of experience lay behind the gaze which never for a moment left the girl’s face. Fyles was striving to fathom her savage soul. But he remained baffled.
Suddenly Annette swung around on him and her voice was moaning.
“My kid’ll have no father,” she cried. “I tell you my kid’ll have no father. Say—— Yes. The rope’ll get him if I ken pass it. We were raised together. The Wolf an’ me. Kids. Play kids. He made me do as he said, an’—an’ I didn’t mind. We fought together. An’ played, too. An’ we were mostly ready to fight anyone who butted in. An’—he’s killed my man. The father of my kid. Yes, I’ll go to Calford. But Pideau’ll kill me fer it.”
“No. You can cut that notion right out. I’vetold you. You’ll be safe.” Fyles moved to go. “Come right along. I’m going back. Before we make Buffalo Coulee you’ll go your way, and I mine. And remember. Six to-morrow night.”
There were no lights to be seen in Buffalo Coulee when the brown mare neared the police quarters again. The township was buried in sleep.
Fyles should have been well satisfied with his night’s work. He looked like bringing to a swift conclusion the work he had been sent to perform. A return to his own comfortable quarters in the Calford barracks looked to be a matter of the near future, with another flattering entry of good work accomplished, on his police record. But he was not satisfied. He was far from satisfied.
He had seen the frozen corpse of his murdered comrade. He had discovered the source of the flood of poisonous liquor that was pouring from his district across the United States border, and causing an element of friction between the authorities of the two countries. He had had clear demonstration of the manner of the murder, and the murderer’s provocation. Annette’s story seemed without flaw.
But he was not satisfied. As he turned into his quarters, and off-saddled his mare, he was thinking of the murderer’s gun. He was thinking of Annette’s witness of the murder, the subject of which he wasreserving for to-morrow night. And then, too, he was thinking of the girl herself, and of that elusive something about her of which he could not free his mind.
And as he passed into his sleeping quarters and prepared for his blankets, he once more repeated to himself the warning that had first leaped to his mind. The whole thing was “too easy—too darned easy.”