The Luck of the Mounted Part 17

He claims he's only been in this country five years. Talks mostly about the Gold Coast, and Shanghai, and the Congo. A proper 'Bully Hayes' of a man he was there, too, I'll bet! He never says much about the States, though I did hear him talking to a Southerner once, and begad, it was funny! You could hardly tell their accents apart.

"Oh, he's not a bad chap to have for a J.P. It's mighty hard to get any local man to accept a J.P.'s commission, anyway. They're most of 'em scared of it getting them in bad with their neighbours. Gully--he doesn't care a d----n for any of 'em, though. He'll sit on any case.

It's a good thing to have a man who's absolutely independent, like that.

I sure have known some spineless rotters. No, we might have a worse J.P.

than Gully."

"Oh, I don't know," rejoined Redmond thoughtfully, "may be he's all right, but, somehow . . . the man's a kind of 'Doctor Fell' to me--has been--right from the first time I 'mugged' him. Chances are though, that it's only one of those false impressions a fellow gets. What's up?"

Yorke, shading his eyes from the cutting wind was staring ahead down the long vista of trail. "Talk of the Devil!" he muttered, "why! here the ---- comes!" Aloud, he called out to Slavin. "Oh, Burke! here comes Gully--riding like h.e.l.l, I know that Silver horse of his."

And, far-off as yet, but rapidly approaching them at a gallop, they beheld a rider.

"Sure is. .h.i.ttin' th' high spots," remarked the sergeant wonderingly, "fwhat th' divil's up now?"

Gradually the distance lessened between them and presently Gully, mounted upon a splendid, powerfully-built gray, checked his furious pace and reined in with an impatient jerk, a few lengths from the police team.

Redmond could not help noticing that Gully, for a heavy man, possessed a singularly-perfect seat in the saddle, riding with the sure, free, unconscious grace of an _habitue_ of the range. He was roughly dressed now, in overalls, short sheepskin coat, and "chaps."

He shouted a salutation to the trio, his usually immobile face transformed into an expression of scowling anxiety. "Hullo!" he boomed, his guttural ba.s.s sounding hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion, "You fellows didn't meet that d----d hobo on the trail, I suppose? . . . I'm looking for him--in the worst way!"

He flung out of saddle and strode alongside the cutter. "About two hours ago--'not more, I'll swear--I pulled out to take a ride around the cattle--like I usually do, every day. I left the beggar busy enough, bucking fire-wood. I wasn't away much over an hour, but when I got back I found he'd drifted--couldn't locate him anywhere.

"Then I remembered I'd left some money lying around--inside the drawer of a bureau in my bedroom--'bout a hundred, I guess--in one of these black-leather bill-folders. Sure enough, it's gone, too. d.a.m.nation!"

He leaned up against the cutter and mopped his streaming forehead. "I was a fool to ever attempt to help a man like that out," he concluded bitterly. "It serves me right!"

"Well," said Slavin, with an oath, "th' shtiff cannot have got far-away in that toime. I want um as bad as yuh, Mr. Gully. We were on th' way tu yu're place for um. See here; luk!"

Gully heard him out and whistled softly at the conclusion of the narrative. "Once collar this man, Sergeant," said he, "and--you've practically got your case. Make him talk?"--the low, guttural laugh was not good to hear--"Oh, yes! . . . I think between us we could accomplish that all right! . . . Yes-s!"

His voice died away in a murmur, a cruel glint flickered in his shadowy eyes, and for a s.p.a.ce he remained with folded arms and his head sunk in a sort of brooding reverie. Suddenly, with an effort, he seemed to arouse himself. "Oh, about that inquest, Sergeant," he queried casually, "what was the jury's finding? I was forgetting all about that."

"Eyah; on'y fwhat yuh might expect," replied the latter. "Death by shootin', at th' hand av some person unknown. I wired headquarthers right-away." He made a slightly impatient movement. "Well, we must get busy, Mr. Gully; this shtiff connot be far away. Not bein' on th'

thrail, betune us an' yu', means he's either beat ut shtraight south from yu're place an' over th' ice tu th' railway-thrack, or west a piece, an'

thin onto th' thrack. Yu'll niver find a hobo far away from th' line.

He'd niver go thrapsein' thru' th' snow tu th' high ground beyant. Yuh cud shpot him plain for miles--doin' that--comin' along."

"He's wearing old, worn-out boots," said Yorke, "got awful big feet, too, I remember. Of course this trail's too beaten up from end to end to be able to get a line on foot-prints. We might work slowly back to your place, though, Mr. Gully, and keep a lookout for any place where he may have struck south off the trail, as the Sergeant says."

It seemed the only thing to do. The party moved leisurely forward, Gully riding ahead of the cutter, Yorke and Redmond in its wake, as before, well-spread out on either side of the well-worn trail. Here, the snow was practically undisturbed, affording them every opportunity of discovering fresh foot-prints debouching from the main trail. It was rather exacting, monotonous work, necessitating cautious and leisurely progress; but they stuck to it doggedly until sometime later they rounded a bend in the river and came within sight of Gully's ranch, about a mile distant.

Presently that gentleman pulled up and swung out of saddle. "Half a minute," he said, "my saddle's slipping! I want to tighten my cinch."

The small cavalcade halted. Slavin's restless eyes roving over the expanse of unbroken snow on his left hand, suddenly dilated, and he uttered an eager exclamation, pointing downwards with outflung arm.

"Ah," said he grimly, "here we are, I'm thinkin'!" And he clambered hastily out of the cutter.

Yorke and Redmond, dismounting swiftly, stepped forward with him and examined minutely the unmistakably fresh imprints of large-sized feet angling off from the trail towards the bank of the frozen river.

"Hob-nailed boots!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Yorke. "Guess that must be him, all right, Mr. Gully?"

The latter bent and scrutinized the imprints. "Sure must be," he rejoined, with conviction. "A man walking out on the range is a curiosity. I can't think how I could have missed them--coming along.

But I guess I was so mad, and in such a devil of a hurry I didn't notice much. I made sure of catching up to him somewhere on the trail."

Slavin beckoned to Redmond and, much to that young gentleman's chagrin, bade him hold the lines of the restless team, while he (Slavin), along with Yorke and Gully, started forwards trailing the footprints. Arriving at the river's edge they slid down the bank and followed the tracks over the snow-covered ice to the centre of the river. Here was open water for some distance; the powerful current at this point keeping open a ten-foot wide steaming fissure. The tracks hugged its edge to a point about four hundred yards westward, where the fissure closed up again and enabled them to cross to the opposite bank. Clambering up this their quest led them across a long stretch of comparatively level ground to the fenced-in railway-track.

Ducking under the lower strand of wire they reached the line. At the foot of the graded road-bed, Slavin, who was ahead, halted suddenly and uttered an oath. Stooping down he picked up something and, turning round to his companions exhibited his find. It was a small, black-leather bill-folder--empty.

Gully regarded his lost property with smouldering eyes, and he uttered a ghastly imprecation. "Yes, that's it," he said simply, "beggar's boned the bills and chucked this away for fear of incriminating evidence--in case he was nabbed again, I suppose. The bills were mostly in fives and tens--Standard Bank--I remember."

They climbed up onto the track to determine whether the foot-prints turned east or west; but further quest here proved useless, on account of its being a snow-beaten section-hand trail.

Slavin balked again, swore in fluent and horrible fashion. For a s.p.a.ce he remained in brooding thought, then he turned abruptly to his companions.

"Come on," he jerked out savagely, "let's get back."

In silence they retraced their steps and eventually reached their horses.

Here the sergeant issued curt orders to his men.

"'Tis onlikely th' shtiff can have got very far away--in th' toime Mr.

Gully tells us," he said, "an' he cannot shtay out in th' opin for long this weather. Get yu're ha.r.s.es over th' ice, bhoys, an' make th' thrack.

Ye'll find an' openin' in th' fence somewheres. Thin shplit, an' hug th'

line--west, yu', Yorkey--as far as Coalmore--yu', Ridmond--back tu Cow Run. Yez know fwhat tu du. Pa.s.s up nothin'--culverts, bridges, section-huts--anywhere's th' shtiff may be hidin'. If yez du not dhrop onto um betune thim tu places--shtay fwhere yez are an' search all freights. 'Phone th' agent at Davidsburg if yez want tu get me. I'm away from there now--to wire east an' west. Thin--I'm goin' tu ride freight awhile, up an' down th' thrack. I can get Clem Wilson tu luk afther T an' B. We must get this man, bhoys."

"Look here, Sergeant," broke in Gully good-naturedly, "as this is partly on my account I feel it's up to me to try and do what little I can do to help you in this case. There's not much doing at the ranch just now, so, if you've no objection, I'll put Silver along with your team and come with you. As you say--we've simply got to get this fellow, somehow."

"Thank ye, Mr. Gully," responded Slavin gratefully, "betune th' bunch av us we shud nail th' shtiff all right."

"Should!" agreed the magistrate, enigmatically, "'stiff's' the word for him." He glanced up at the lowering sky. "Hullo! It's beginning to snow again--you found those tracks just in time, Sergeant."

Six days elapsed. Six days of fruitless, monotonous work. The evening of the seventh found the trio disconsolately reunited in their detachment. Their quest had failed. Slavin, not sparing himself, had worked Yorke and Redmond to the limits of their endurance, and they, fully realizing the importance of their objective, had responded loyally.

Gully, apparently betraying a keen interest in the case, had gone out of his way to a.s.sist them--both on the railroad and in scouring the country-side. They were absolutely and utterly played out, and their nerves were jangled and snappy. No possible hiding-place had been overlooked--yet the hobo--d.i.c.k Drinkwater--the one man who undoubtedly held the key to the mysterious murder of Larry Blake--had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.

The horses cared for, and supper over, Yorke and Redmond lay back on their cots and _blague'd_ each other wearily anent their mutual ill-luck.

Slavin, critically conning over a lengthy crime-report on the case that he had prepared for headquarters, flung his composition on the table and leant back dejectedly in his chair.

"Hoboes?" quoth he, darkly, and tongue-clucked in dismal fashion. "Eyah!

I just fancy I can hear th' ould man dishcoursin' tu Kilbride av th'

merry, int'restin' ways an' habits av th' genus--hobo--whin he get's this report av mine. . . . Like he did wan day whin he was doin' show-man round th' cells wid a bunch av ould geezers av 'humanytaruns.' I mind I was Actin' Provo' in charge av th' Gyard-room at th1 toime."

He sighed deeply, folded up the report and thrust it into an official envelope. "Well, bhoys," he concluded, "we have done all that men can'--for th' toime bein' anyways."

Yorke laughed somewhat mirthlessly and gazed dreamily up at his pictures.

"Sure have," he agreed languidly; "from now on, though, I guess we'll just have to take a leaf out of Micawber's book--'wait for something to turn up,' eh, Reddy, my old son?"

There was no answer. That young worthy, utterly exhausted, had drifted into the arms of Morpheus.