Dick Kent on Special Duty 27

Dick Kent on Special Duty 27

“Yes, I did do that. What was wrong about it? Tell me—what was wrong

about it? I didn’t commit no crime— It wasn’t a very bad thing to do—you

can’t make me believe that. Just sold a copy of something that was

written in that old book.”

 

“Reynold!” cried the old man. “Reynold!”

 

“Listen, dad, it wasn’t so terrible wrong. I didn’t touch anybody an’ I

didn’t steal nothing. All I did was to sell what was in that book to a

few men for just a few dollars.”

 

“To a few men!” gasped the corporal. “Who—beside Emery and MacGregor?”

 

“I sold one copy one day when Dewberry was here—before I gave him back

the book. I made a second copy, but I didn’t sell it for months

afterwards. Dad and I had a quarrel and I ran away. I played cards and I

lost money—all I had. I tried to sell the copy. I showed it to a few

men, but they laughed at me. Then one night, when I was at a road-house

a queer looking chap, named Crane, gave me ten dollars for it.”

 

“Are you sure his name wasn’t Creel? Stop and think a moment.”

 

“Creel! Creel! That’s it.” Reynold looked at the policeman in surprise.

“How did you know?”

 

“I found out,” answered Rand.

 

“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anything so very terrible,” Reynold ran on.

“I—”

 

“Can you repeat what you copied from the book?” Rand interrupted.

 

“No, not word for word. It was something about an old chest that

Dewberry had at his home at Peace River Crossing—full of money; about a

key that he carried around his neck.”

 

“Would you remember if I read it to you?”

 

“Yes, I would,” answered the boy.

 

Corporal Rand crossed the room, knelt down, and opened his saddle-pack.

A moment later he returned, carrying Dewberry’s diary, resumed his seat,

and began thumbing the pages. It was several minutes before he found the

right place. Then he read:

 

“May 13th, 1915. That chest is an obsession. Even out here in the

wilderness away from it, it seems to haunt me night and day. Sometimes I

call myself a doddering old fool. To buy it was a waste of money, an act

of folly. That were bad enough, but this thing I have been doing lately

is madness itself. In a thousand years, if God gave me that long to

live, I could never restore that chest to its original glory and

splendor. I’m sure that I haven’t put into it one infinitesimal part of

the wealth and treasure that he did. If he were living now, Ming would

laugh my diamonds and rubies and emeralds to scorn. I’m afraid he’d

spurn my gold too. Cheap stuff! Trash! Where I have thousands he had

millions. Folly to pit the Crystal Lode against the resources of an

empire. Yet here I am, walking about with the key around my neck, trying

to emulate an emperor.”

 

Corporal Rand closed the book.

 

“Is that what you copied?” he asked.

 

“Yes, that’s it,” answered Reynold.

 

“I wonder if you realize what you’ve done,” Rand spoke softly. “When you

sold those copies you signed Dewberry’s death warrant. You must have

known that one of those men, to whom you sold that information, would

try to obtain Dewberry’s treasure.”

 

“I didn’t think much about it,” the boy declared doggedly.

 

“Dewberry is dead. MacGregor murdered him. It’s your fault. MacGregor

never would have murdered him, if—if it hadn’t been for you. I want that

fact to sink in. You know now why I’ve come to get you.”

 

“I’ll be hanged,” blubbered the boy.

 

Rand walked over and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

 

“No—not that. We’ll do what we can for you. You have a wonderful father

and mother. For their sake—and for your own—we’ll be as lenient as

possible.”

 

The young man’s body shook with sobs.

 

“Hush! Hush!” whispered Carson, wiping away his own tears. “I think I

hear your mother coming.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXV

PIECING THE THREADS

 

 

Creel was the first to confess. Sitting in the office of the commandant,

in the presence of Inspector Cameron, Corporal Rand, Reynold Carson and

Dick, he poured out his story. Confronted by Carson, who identified him

as being one of the men to whom he had sold Dewberry’s secret, Creel saw

that only the truth could help him. His deep-set eyes glowed dully. He

moistened his lips.

 

“It’s true,” he began. “Frischette and me robbed Dewberry. Took his

money and his poke. For months, we’d been waiting our chance. Dewberry

stopped at the road-house several times, but nearly always it was during

the middle of the day. Usually he’d hit our place about noon and stay

not more than an hour. He preferred to go on and spend the night with

Meade, who was his friend.”

 

The sun, shining in through the window, bothered the old recluse and he

hitched back his chair. Not until he became comfortable again did he

resume:

 

“Our chance come finally. Dewberry, delayed in a storm, drifted in one

afternoon late—about four o’clock. He hadn’t time to make Meade’s that

night. It was a cold day and miserable. A blizzard out. You could

scarcely see ahead o’ you. I was surprised when Frischette come over and

notified me that Dewberry was there. I hadn’t expected to stir out of my

cabin. I didn’t want to walk back through the storm with him, but

Frischette said it was the best time for our plan, that we’d have to

strike that night if we ever intended to. After while I agreed and we

walked over and I hid in Frischette’s room.

 

“Neither one of us had any idea that that man MacGregor was playing the

same sort o’ game as us. He was stopping at Frenchie’s that night, along

with a lot of others, and, of course, we thought nothing of it. You see,

we was sure that we was the only ones ‘in’ on the secret. We had got the

dope from the kid and had made our plans.”

 

“Was a part of your plan to kill Dewberry?” Inspector Cameron

interrupted.

 

Creel nodded.

 

“Wasn’t any other way our plan would work out. We simply had to do it.

We was compelled to put Dewberry out of the way, else he’d sound the

alarm and prevent us from getting into his cabin at Peace River

Crossing.

 

“About nine o’clock Frischette come into the room where I was, bringing

my supper. Then the two of us sat there talking. We had decided that it

wasn’t much use to try to do anything until along about midnight. So we

waited there in the dark. When the bunk-hall began to get a little quiet

we stopped talking ourselves for fear we might keep someone awake. It

was exactly twelve by my watch, when we stole out of that room.”

 

Creel paused reflectively, his eyes half closed. He remained motionless

and silent so long that Dick began to wonder if the man had lost his

power of speech. Suddenly he sat up straight in his chair and continued:

 

“We was both in our stocking-feet and we moved as quiet as ghosts

between the rows of sleepers. Nobody could have heard us. Men was

snoring all around us. It was dark in the room, almost black, but we

knew exactly where to go. All the details had been planned out in

advance. Yet, as I said before, we hadn’t figured on MacGregor, and on

that account we nearly got tripped up. We didn’t know nothing about him

until we was directly over him.”

 

Again Cameron interrupted: “Directly over him? What do you mean? Had you

made a mistake and gone to MacGregor’s bunk instead?”

 

“No! No!” the old recluse spoke impatiently. “He was on his knees,

stooping over Dewberry, with the poke and money in his hands. Dewberry

was dead!

 

“MacGregor hadn’t even heard us come up. I was carrying a knife in my

right hand and I pushed it against his throat. I whispered that if he

made a sound I’d kill him. In fact, I thought I would anyway. I was so

frightened I could hardly stand on my feet. But if I was frightened,

MacGregor was worse than that. He was frozen like a block of ice. I

don’t think he had more than strength enough to hand over the poke and

the roll of bills. After that we took him back into the kitchen and told

him we would give him his life if he’d promise to leave the place at

once and make no effort to get back the poke.”

 

“He was glad of the chance, I guess,” a smile twisted Creel’s lips. “We

were pretty sure that we’d never see him again. We weren’t afraid that

he’d squeal, because he was the one that had committed the murder. Our

hands was clean. Things had worked out better than we could have planned

ourselves.”

 

“You didn’t worry?” asked Cameron.

 

“Yes, we did worry—some. We knew that MacGregor wouldn’t say a word

about us unless he was placed under arrest for the murder. We didn’t

think you was going to get him, and you wouldn’t either if it hadn’t

been for Fontaine. We had no idea that Fontaine knew anything about

MacGregor until he blabbed out that he had seen MacGregor dope a drink

he was mixing for the prospector. We could have killed the kid for that,

but if we had, you’d have known right away that we was the ones that had

done it and was implicated in some way in the other murder. There wasn’t

a thing for us to do but just sit and wait.

 

“We didn’t have to wait very long either. MacGregor gets himself killed

in a scrap with the police. And lo and behold!—the ‘Rat’s’ wife won’t

talk. She wouldn’t tell you a thing and she knew _everything_. You can

bet MacGregor told his wife all about us. But why didn’t she squeal? She

could have got revenge on us good and proper. She had us right where she

wanted us. When she wouldn’t give evidence, we knew what was in that

lady’s mind then and there: _She was planning to get back that poke!_”

 

“Have you any more to say for yourself?” asked the inspector, following

a long interval of silence.

 

“No, sir, not a thing.”

 

“If you don’t mind,” said Rand, addressing his superior, “I’d like to ask him a question.”