Dick Kent on Special Duty 14

Dick Kent on Special Duty 14

“You have been released on probation,” the policeman reminded her, not

unkindly. “Inspector Cameron has asked you to remain at home. What are

you doing here?”

 

The woman sniffed again, but did not answer. She turned her back and

began fumbling with the cinches of the saddle.

 

“You will return home at once,” Rand instructed her, endeavoring to keep

his temper.

 

She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, her face set and

determined.

 

“Why you say where I go?” she broke forth passionately. “What business

you have tell me go home? I go, I stay where I like. First, you keel my

man, then you put me in jail, then you say I no go where I wish. Police

pretty big fool, eh?”

 

“Mrs. MacGregor,” declared the corporal patiently, “we have been more

than kind to you. We released you from jail and placed you on probation.

All that we have asked is that you remain at home and be good, attend to

your own affairs. If you will do that, we will not put you back in jail

again.”

 

“Bah!” snorted MacGregor’s wife, sticking out her tongue and defying

him.

 

“You must promise to go back,” said Rand. “You must be good. You must

not try to anger the police. If you will go back this afternoon, I will

not mention this matter to the inspector. He shall know nothing about it

and will not ask me to put you back in jail.”

 

For a moment the policeman believed that he had won his point. Her

manner changed suddenly.

 

“My horse he is very tired.”

 

“I will take him in the stable for you and give him something to eat. He

can rest there for a few hours and then you can start back.”

 

The corporal advanced, pushed her gently aside, loosened the cinches and

swung the saddle from the back of the pinto mare. As he did so,

MacGregor’s wife withdrew a few paces. The policeman had his back to

her, and, therefore, did not see the swift movement of her right hand

toward her blouse. But he did see, when next he chanced to turn his

head, the small revolver nestling in her hand—pointed straight at his

head.

 

“I didn’t think you’d do a thing like that,” declared Rand,

reproachfully. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. Put it down.”

 

“You keel my man,” the young barbarian declared spitefully. “Now I keel

you.”

 

“That’s your privilege,” answered the policeman, quite unmoved. “But if

you do, you’ll hang for it. Be reasonable, and put down that gun.”

 

“Rat” MacGregor’s wife possessed the black, beady eyes of a snake. They

were unrelenting, wicked, revengeful. Her staring gaze never left the

policeman’s face. Eight feet away—it would not be possible to leap

suddenly forward and disarm her. His best chance was to endeavor to get

his own gun.

 

But how could he get his gun, when she was watching him like that? He

knew that if he moved his hand a single inch, her weapon would explode

in his face. Hers was no idle threat. She really intended to kill him!

 

There was a chance, very remote, of course, that Fontaine or Le Sueur

might come to his assistance. Look out of the window. See him and the

woman there.

 

“Look here,” said Rand, fighting for time, “I think you are making a

very serious mistake. You’ll have to answer for it in the end. Inspector

Cameron will be sure to get you. You can’t possibly escape. While there

is still time, you’d better put down that gun.”

 

“If I do,” her eyes glinted, “will you promise not put me in jail?”

 

The corporal did not hesitate.

 

“A while ago I could have given you my promise. But not now. It is too

late, madam.”

 

The policeman was afraid that he had sounded his own death-knell. Well,

he had told the truth, anyway. He had not lied to her. He had not

stained his honor or violated the code. He wondered why he could feel so

calm with those eyes blazing at him and the knowledge that he was about

to die. Calm!—when he could see that the index finger of her right hand

was beginning to press slowly but determinedly against the trigger.

 

“Time’s up!” thought Corporal Rand.

 

And then—like the sound that comes out of a dream—the opening of a door.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII

ON CREEL’S TRAIL

 

 

The search for Creel had taken the boys southward. They were not sure

that he had gone that way; it merely seemed the most likely direction.

He had taken the contents of his money-box and had decamped, leaving no

trail. Just before starting, they had found the empty chest in the room

which he had occupied.

 

Being a fugitive from justice, and with a considerable amount of money

in his possession, the natural deduction was that he was making his way

out to Edmonton. His chance of escaping was good. He had at least six

hours’ start. He was not known to be a criminal. Almost anywhere he

would have passed unchallenged. As yet, the police had had no

opportunity to telegraph ahead in an effort to secure his apprehension.

 

The boys had discussed his probable route, deciding that he would go by

way of Peace River Crossing. Boats of the Hudson’s Bay Company plied up

and down the river during the spring and summer months, and it was only

reasonable to suppose that he would secure passage on one of these,

ascend the river to Peace River Crossing, where he could purchase a

ticket to go by rail to Edmonton.

 

All this, of course, was mere conjecture. They had no real assurance

that it was the route that the old recluse would take. For all they

knew, he might still be in hiding somewhere in the vicinity of the

road-house. The only way to determine whether or not he was on his way

south, was to set out along the trail, making inquiries wherever

possible.

 

Dwellings were few and far between. Sixteen miles due south of

Frischette’s, they arrived at Meade’s Ferry, where there was a

road-house and small trading-post, conducted by Hampton Meade, a kindly

veteran of the North. Here Fortune befriended them. They learned that

their assumption had been correct. Creel had spent the night there.

 

“And he left early this morning,” Meade’s son, a handsome young man of

about Dick’s own age, informed them. “Queer old beggar, isn’t he?”

 

Dick nodded.

 

“Did he leave here on foot?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Dick considered for a moment thoughtfully.

 

“Would it be possible to obtain a horse or two? Are there any here? We

had our own ponies when we arrived at Frischette’s stopping-place. We

turned them out to graze and they have disappeared. If you have any, I

will pay you handsomely.”

 

“There are two ponies,” answered the young man,“—one of them mine, the

other, father’s. You may have the use of them.”

 

The boys were overjoyed at this unexpected stroke of luck. It would be

necessary, of course, for one of them to remain at Meade’s, while the

other two went on after Creel. They drew straws. It fell to Sandy’s lot

to wait at the road-house until his two chums returned.

 

“I don’t expect we’ll be away very long,” declared Dick a short time

later, as he and Toma mounted the two borrowed steeds. “We ought to be

back before night.”

 

Creel had a few hours start of them, but he was walking. With light

hearts, feeling confident of success, the boys cantered away. Soon the

miles wound away behind them. They pressed their ponies forward, urging

them to their greatest speed. Time passed quickly. They had now begun to

scan the trail ahead, in the expectation of seeing the queer, shambling

figure of the old recluse. They galloped past a party of Indians, then

two prospectors, trudging along, weighted down by heavy shoulder-packs,

and finally drew up at a wayside cabin, inhabited by a half-breed

trapper. Dick questioned him:

 

“Did an old man stop here not so very long ago? Walked with a stoop,

face covered with a heavy beard, hair straggling in his eyes. Did you

see him?”

 

“_Oui_, m’sieur. I see him two, three hour ago. Him ver’ fine fellow.

Plenty money. I have nice horse. He buy et.”

 

Dick had not expected this. The news had come as a shock. He blinked.

 

“Rotten luck!” he exclaimed irritably.

 

“What you say, m’sieur?”

 

Dick did not answer. He was making a rough calculation. They had already

come fifteen or sixteen miles at top speed. No longer were their ponies

fresh. Creel had the advantage. It would be absolutely impossible to

overtake him now. Apparently, Toma held the same opinion.

 

“No use go on now,” he declared grimly.

 

Dick turned to the half-breed.

 

“You haven’t any more fresh horses?”

 

The half-breed looked surprised.

 

“Know where we can get any?” Dick persisted.

 

“Not many ponies ’round here,” explained the trapper. “Why you no like

those pony there?”

 

“Tired out,” answered Dick. “And we want to go fast.”

 

He relaxed in the saddle, and just then an idea came to him.

 

“How far is it from here to Fort Wonderly?”

 

“’Bout twelve mile.”

 

Dick thanked the half-breed, motioned to Toma, and they set off again.

 

“Well,” announced Dick, “we’re going over to the fort.”

 

“Why you go there?” Toma stared blankly. “Fort Wonderly off trail. Creel him no go that way. I no understand why you do that.”