Dick Kent on Special Duty 2
In doubt, Rand questioned the boy closely. At first, he did not believe
Fontaine was telling the truth. Then it became apparent, following a
severe cross-examination, that Fontaine had really seen what he had
described—was wholly innocent of guile. The description of the
furtive-eyed man, his mannerisms, his clothing, the way he walked, had
quickly brought a picture to Rand’s mind. There was no possibility of
any mistake here. It was MacGregor, “Rat” MacGregor, of the Willow Lake
country.
Soberly, the mounted policeman pondered his problem. If “Rat” MacGregor
was the murderer, as the cards seemed to indicate, why, with so much
money in his possession, had he set out on a trail which led farther
into the wilderness? By all the rules of common sense, a person of
MacGregor’s caliber would have lost no time in getting back to the gay
“outside.”[1] It was inevitable. The desire within him would have been
stronger than the will to resist. A powerful influence indeed, that
would pull a man north when wealth was burning his pockets.
Ten days later, Rand found MacGregor in a small cabin below the Finley
River. First he had seen a man and woman together, then two scrambling
forms, a door closed hastily, and presently a gray puff of smoke from a
window near the front of the house. The bullet whistled over his head,
struck harmlessly in the brush behind him. A second cut into a drift to
his right. A third, lilting of death, grazed his shoulder, causing him
to sit down very suddenly.
Thereafter, Rand moved slowly and painfully. This time he advanced
toward the cabin more cautiously. Fifty feet from his objective, he
threw himself down behind a snow-covered log, lit his pipe and dully
pondered what he ought to do next. For several hours MacGregor continued
to blaze away intermittently from the window. After that darkness came
and an interval of silence. The cold had grown more intense, more
bitter. By degrees, a peculiar numbness had settled over the policeman’s
shoulders and along his wounded side.
A moment later, he struggled to his knees, then rose deliberately and
walked ahead in the direction of the cabin. In front of the door he
paused, every sense alert. No sound issued from within; nor could he see
even a faint glimmer of light. Somewhere inside, Rat MacGregor—true to
his name—skulked in the dark—and his wife with him.
The faint outline of a block of wood, lying in the snow at his feet,
drew his attention. Acting upon a sudden angry impulse, he stooped
forward, picked it up, and raised it high above his head. It catapulted
from his powerful arms, striking the window with a resounding crash. A
woman screamed. Her terrified cry rang out through the deep hush that
ensued and, accompanying its last wailing note, MacGregor’s guns
spoke—two fiery flashes, not unlike the red tongue of a serpent—darting
out into the gloom.
Shoulders hunched, Rand struck the door with a furious impact, and the
bolts gave way. As he fell forward into the room, one hand clutched his
gun. Again MacGregor fired; this time wildly, foolishly, for the flash
of his revolver indicated only too well his position, and Rand had him
almost before the sound of the other’s weapon had become smothered in
the deep stillness of the room.
CHAPTER II
THE PRICE OF FOLLY
MacGregor’s resistance had cost him his life. Ten minutes later, in the
flickering glow of a wax candle, the mounted policeman looked down at
the prone and lifeless form.
“Well,” he said, turning suddenly upon the girl, a rather pretty French
half-breed, “where is the money?”
The half-breed grunted and looked sarcastically, indignantly at Rand.
“No have money. No take money. Why you keel my man?” she wailed
tearfully. “Mounted police! Bah!”
“Easy,” cautioned Rand. “Where’s that money?” He drew up to his full
height. “Better answer me quickly now or I’ll take you along too.”
“No money,” insisted the girl. “He no catch ’em money that time. Beeg
prospector wake up. No chance then. My man he come away.”
“Rot!” declared the policeman. “Your man killed Dewberry. Robbed him.
Nobody else.”
“Leesen!” MacGregor’s wife plucked at his sleeve. “You think wrong this
time. You make heem beeg mistake. My man no rob, no keel—nothing! I
prove you find no money here. My man heem try rob, but no get nothing.
Otherwise, we go south—Edmonton. No can go without money.”
Although Rand was certain that the half-breed lied, a careful and
painstaking search of the premises failed to reveal the hiding place of
Dewberry’s gold. Baffled, he was forced on the day following to place
the girl under arrest and set out for detachment headquarters, two
hundred miles away. There he filled in his report, turned the prisoner
over to Inspector Cameron for further questioning.
But to no avail. Invariably the same answer, repeated over and over
again:
“My man heem no rob, no keel. No take beeg prospector’s money. Mounted
police! Bah!”
From that point it became a baffling case indeed. Corporal Rand, to whom
it had been assigned, still believed, in the months that followed, that
MacGregor had committed the murder. But where was the money and the
poke? Did the girl really know where Dewberry’s gold was? If the theft
had actually been committed by MacGregor, why had he broken precedent
and remained in the North.
At Frischette’s stopping-place, two miles east of the Big Smoky River,
Rand heard again Fontaine’s story of the drugged drink, together with
such other information as the two Frenchmen could supply. Both were of
the opinion that MacGregor, and no one else, had planned and executed
the crime. Frischette’s voice came droning in his ears:
“Zat girl she know well enough where money ees. Not crazy zat girl; ver’
clever, ver’ clever.” His low chuckling laugh gradually grew boisterous.
“What you think, Corporal, zat girl foolish enough to tell ze mounted
police ever’thing. Mebbe after while she go south too.”
Preoccupied as he was, Rand caught the significance of that last
statement.
“Are _you_ going south, Frischette?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“Yesterday I sell my beezness. I haf done ver’ well here, corporal.”
Then his voice sank to a confidential whisper. “In ze las’ two, tree,
four year I make much money—ver’ much money. Now you wish me ze good
luck, corporal.”
“Good luck,” said Rand, his brow wrinkling. “Yes. By the way, whom did
you sell to?”
Frischette hesitated, his little eyes gleaming queerly.
“I no sell exactly. I haf too much already—too much money. Fontaine ees
a good boy, monsieur. You understand—a good boy. He learn queek. He
deserve much from me. For a few hundred I sell heem my beeg beezness.”
Still thinking deeply, Corporal Rand walked outside and sat on a rough
bench in the warm spring sun. Why had MacGregor failed to go south if he
had really robbed Dewberry of his gold. Men with money travelled south
invariably. There was no other rule. It had seldom been broken. Why,
Frischette himself, who had made a lot of money during his stay in the
North, now contemplated going south to spend it.
With a sudden exclamation, Rand jumped to his feet. No! The rule had
never been broken. MacGregor probably killed, but he never robbed
Dewberry. He wondered if the man who had robbed Dewberry was inside.
“Frischette,” said the mounted policeman a moment later, “I wish to ask
a favor of you.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You are going south?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“How soon?”
“In ver’ few days, corporal. Why you ask.”
“Because I may need your help. I am going to ask you to remain here for
a while. I shall ask you to stay here until I have recovered Dewberry’s
gold.”
Rand watched the other closely. The eyes of the road-house keeper
narrowed slightly—but that was all.
“Et ees as you say, monsieur.”
Then Frischette turned and walked back into the kitchen.
CHAPTER III
THREE NEW RECRUITS
One bright spring morning Corporal Rand arrived at Fort Good Faith. It
was somewhat off his regular route, but he had a purpose in mind. There
were three young men there he very much wished to see. One of them was
Dick Kent, the second, Sandy MacClaren, a nephew of the factor, and the
third, a young Indian, named Toma. On many occasions previously the
three boys had given unsparingly of their services. The police needed
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