DENIS STEWART was unutterably weary, both physically and mentally.
He had been on a tremendous strain for the past three days, and the sleep which he had gained had been fitful and at odd intervals. He had drawn heavily on his splendid physique, and as he waited for Ballard’s coming he realized that he could not endure another physical struggle. Nor did he intend to.
“If I can’t down him by sheer will power, I’m gone,” he thought wearily. “If I add a bit of target practice, I may pull through—but it may not come to that.”
No false hopes were his. He knew the temper of those settlers, and knew that they would be savagely determined to get hold of Cowley. He was there to prevent their doing so—that was all.
Another shout sounded, closer this time, and another. Denis realized that they were trailing Cowley, having found the creek entrance and evidently being without knowledge of what lay ahead. He sat quietly, gazing through the open doorway at the sunny clearing, and waited.
There was a note in those shouts which he did not like, a menacing, bloodhound note which spelled danger. This was a man hunt, firing the hunters’ blood with ferocity, demanding a victim, knowing neither reason nor mercy. And at the end of the trail sat Denis, his blue eyes cold as ice.
Then he sighted the hunters.
They appeared in a group, running, and halted abruptly at the edge of the clearing as they scanned the cabin. One of the men, that same “Ed” who had on the previous evening pierced through Denis’ similarity to his brother, had left his arm in a sling, but held a revolver in his right hand.
That silent cabin evidently puzzled them, and they were not sure whether they had run Cowley to earth, or whether he had taken horse and fled. They discussed matters; then, at a gesture from Ballard, the other three scattered and took to cover along the edge of the clearing. Ballard himself, rifle under his arm, stepped out and walked toward the shack, his eyes flitting over it searchingly.
“If Cowley was here with his rifle, Ballard would be a dead man—and knows it,” thought Denis admiringly. “There’s one brave man, at all events!”
Ballard evinced no hesitation, though he must have known that he was taking his life in his hand by that open advance. He strode across the clearing, and paused at the doorway, too dazzled by the sunlight to make out objects within.
“Come in, Ballard!” spoke up Denis quietly. “Come in; this is Stewart speaking. But leave your men where they are.”
Ballard stared in blank astonishment, as his eyes finally made out the figure of Denis sitting on the bunk opposite the door. With one swift glance around the otherwise empty room, he stepped inside and eyed Denis.
“Well, for the love of Mike!” he ejaculated slowly. “Thought you had vamosed down the river last night.”
“No,” smiled Denis. “I borrowed one of your canoes and left it on the shore, half a mile below here. You’ll find it waiting.”
“Hang the canoe!” snapped the other. “Where’s Cowley? We want that cuss.”
“That’s really too bad,” returned Denis pleasantly, keeping his finger on the trigger of the rifle across his lap. “You won’t find him.”
“Eh?” Ballard’s face set savagely. “Has he cleared out o’ here?”
“Not exactly. By the way, there’s some coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”
Ballard was puzzled by this cool reception. With a bare nod, he crossed to the stove and poured out some of the bitter black coffee, swallowing it at a gulp. Then he set down the cup, his eyes fastened on the barred door.
“What’s behind that door, Stewart?”
Denis shifted his rifle a trifle.
“Hold your rifle just as it is, Ballard!” he said, his voice biting like a whip. “Cowley is behind that door.”
The settler stiffened. His eyes went to Denis in keen surmise, noted the rifle trained on him, and rested on the eyes of Denis. The two looked at each other steadily, neither wavering. But Ballard did not lift his rifle.
“Look a’ here, Stewart; we’d better have a little talk. I want to know where you stand, and I want to know mighty quick.”
“I’m not standing at present,” and Denis smiled. “I’m sitting on Cowley’s bunk. Meanwhile, you have the floor, and I’m ready to listen. Shoot ahead!”
“I’ll do it,” nodded Ballard, his face hard and inflexible. “You know what we come here for, and why. Mebbe you don’t know what happened at the foot o’ the lake this mornin’, do ye?”
“I do,” assented Denis quietly. “I believe you shot at Cowley.”
“Uh-huh. And the skunk put a bullet into Ed’s shoulder, curse him! Now we aim to life him in a rope necklace, where he belongs, and we don’t aim to be interfered with, none whatever. I hope you get me.”
Denis smiled again—that same deceptive smile.
“I understand you perfectly well, Ballard. You intend to commit murder by hanging Cowley. Cowley may deserve it, of course, but I’d hate to see you four men getting into court on a murder charge.”
Ballard stared at him.
“Out with it, Stewart—what’s your position? You ain’t figgering on playin’ any low-down tricks, are you?”
“Quite the contrary, Ballard. I came here this morning and arrested Smoking Duck, a half-breed. I then arrested Cowley, when he returned from meeting you. The two are in the next room together. Cowley has been making white whisky up here, or what passes for whisky with the Indians, and has been trading it for peltries.”
“Making whisky?” ejaculated Ballard. “You sure?”
“You’d better take a look at what’s left of the still and whisky around in back. As I told you last night, I’m representing my brother, Big Ben. Also, I’m representing the law. That’s exactly where I stand, Ballard.”
The other looked steadily at him.
“There’s four of us, all told, and one o’ you,” he rejoined slowly. “D’you mean to say you’re goin’ to stop us takin’ Cowley?”
“Exactly,” nodded Denis.
“Mebbe you figger on releasin’ Cowley and the ’breed to take a hand?”
“They are my prisoners, Ballard. They remain my prisoners—in that room. I have promised them protection from your lynching party, and intend to keep my promise.”
“Then all I can say is, you’re a durned fool,” exploded Ballard angrily. “We’re goin’ to get Cowley, hear me? If you start any foolin’ like you talk about, we’ll pile into you and make you wish you was somewhere else——”
“Don’t forget, I’m representing the law here,” interposed Denis.
The settler spat scornfully.
“Law—thunder! You ain’t representin’ nothin’, no more’n I am! Just ’cause your brother is Trooper Stewart don’t give you no license to parade around in them clothes, does it? Not much. You ain’t no soldier at all; you’re just an ordinary man like me, and a blamed fool to boot. Are you goin’ to get out the way or not?”
Denis smiled again.
“I’m very sorry, but I must refuseyour invitation to move, Mr. Ballard. Please observe that this rifle of mine is cocked, and is trained on your left knee. Now step outside and tell your friends what you’ve heard.”
Without a word more the settler turned and departed scornfully. Striding a dozen feet from the shack door, he waved an arm.
“Come on in, boys!”
The other three appeared, and Ballard went to meet them. Denis watched their meeting and saw that Ballard was evidently describing what he had found in the cabin. The other three men broke into strident laughter—and that was a bad sign.
Denis rose and walked to the door, pausing just outside. All four turned to gaze at him, and he held up a hand.
“Just a moment, my friends,” he called pleasantly. “Do you see that stump, twenty feet to your right?”
The stump which he indicated was small, and from one side a jagged splinter of wood stood up for six inches. It was white spruce, plain to see, only a hundred feet from the shack.
“Just watch that stump for a moment,” went on Denis.
Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, he sighted at the splinter and pressed the trigger—seemingly without an instant’s hesitation. At the crack the splinter seemed to blow away into nothing.
“Thank you for your kind attention,” smiled Denis. “That’s all.”
A moment’s silence greeted this display of shooting ability. Denis turned and went back to the bunk, seating himself as before, facing the door.
The four men conferred together. Then, with another laugh, they marched forward to the shack, Ballard in the lead. Denis waited until they came close to the doorway, then he lifted his rifle.
“One moment, please, gentlemen!”
They halted. Ed, the wounded man, called in rough but earnest tones:
“None o’ the old stuff, Stewart! ‘We know darned well you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot us, so don’t try no bluff. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“An’ we know you ain’t no soldier, so cut it out,” added another.
“All that is perfectly true,” Denis smiled. “Take a look at my rifle—you see where it is pointing?”
They squinted in at him, Ballard leaning over. Denis was pointing his rifle at the doorsill.
“What you say is quite correct,” he went on steadily. “I wouldn’t shoot you down at all. But I am equally correct in saying that you won’t get Cowley unless you shootmedown—which I don’t think you’ll do by a good deal. I have several cartridges in this rifle, perfectly good ones, and you’ve seen that I know how to shoot.
“Of course, you can rush me. Very likely you will. But let me impress on you just one thing. I can fire at least two shots before you reach me, and then I have a revolver for quick work. The first man of you who sets his foot on that door threshold will get a bullet in it—in his foot. It’ll make a nasty wound, too. Step right along, Ballard! You’ll have to murder me to get Cowley, you know. Step up, gentlemen!”
No one accepted the invitation.
The seated figure of Denis, the rifle leveled and waiting, gave them pause. By his steady voice and cold blue eye they knew that he was in deathly earnest. The first to step on the threshold would probably be crippled for life.
“Hurry up!” snapped Denis suddenly. “Ballard, you’re the prime mover of this lynching expedition, so step along with you! If you don’t choose to chance it, put a bullet into me. You set out to do murder, so here’s your opportunity. Step out, Ballard!”
“Don’t ye do it!” cried one of themen hastily. “Hemeansit—look at his face! Don’t ye do it!”
Most certainly Denis meant it, and his resolution was reflected in his battered face. Under the blaze of his cold eyes the four men paused, irresolute.
Then, with an oath, Ballard shoved forward, throwing up his rifle.
“You shoot me an’ you get a bullet!” he cried.
“Step up!” said Denis coldly.
The settler heaved forward, but his face was whiter than that of Denis, and sweat was on his brow. With a quick motion he raised his right foot over the threshold, brought it down, and then poised it an inch from the floor.
“Touch the floor!” said Denis. “I’m ready.”
Ballard heaved his shoulders forward, straining, as if some invisible wall were holding him back; then—he turned and stepped away.
“Go to thunder!” he snapped. “Come on home, boys. I guess Stewart is competent to get that skunk into jail without us helpin’.”
Denis lay back weakly in the bunk and watched them go.