The Luck of the Mounted Part 12

With stealthy, quickened steps Slavin made his way towards it. Tensely they watched him. In each man's mind now was a vague feeling of certainty of something, they knew not what. They saw him reach the boulder, walk round it and stoop, peering at its base for a few moments.

Then suddenly he straightened up and beckoned to them.

"Thread in file," he called out warningly. Yorke led, and, treading heedfully in each other's foot-marks, they reached the spot. Slavin silently pointed downwards. There, plainly discernible on the surface of the wind-packed, hard-crusted snow, were the corrugated imprints of overshoed feet--coming and going apparently in the direction of the previously mentioned coulee.

Redmond indicated two rounded impressions at the foot of the boulder, with two smaller ones behind. "Must have hunched himself on his knees behind, eh?" he queried in a low voice.

Slavin nodded. The rays of the westering sun coming from back of a cloud glinted on something in the snow, a few feet away from the tracks. It caught Yorke's eyes and with an exclamation he picked it up.

"_--gold, raw gold, the spent sh.e.l.l rolled--_"

he quoted. "Here you are, Burke!"

Slavin uttered a delighted oath as he examined the small, bottle-necked sh.e.l.l of the automatic variety. ".38 Luger!" he said. "A high-pressure 'gat' like that is oncommon hereabouts!" Pa.s.sing it on to the coroner he whistled softly. "My G.o.d! Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is ut that--even allowin' for th' moonlight--can pick a man off thru' th' head wid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan sh.e.l.l on'y? . . . 'Soapy Smith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!"

He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then, producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out the type-written sheets of foolscap therein. Placing the blank side of the sheet face-downwards upon the imprint he pressed down smartly. The result was a very fair impression of the footmark, which he immediately outlined in pencil.

A strange ominous silence fell upon the group. Deep in wild, whirling conjecture, each man gazed about him. The desolate, sinister aspect of their surroundings struck them with a sudden chill. Yorke voiced the general sentiment.

"My G.o.d!" he said in a low voice, "but it sure is dreary!"

With a final, self-satisfying survey at his "lay av things" Slavin stepped well to the side of the incriminating foot-prints. "Come on!" he said "get in file behint me! We will follow this up!"

Silently they obeyed and padded in his rear.

"D----d big feet, whoever owns 'em," remarked Redmond to Yorke.

Slavin heard him. "Ay!" he flung back grimly. "An' they will shtand on th' dhrop yet--thim same feet!"

The tracks returning in the direction of the coulee presented a vast contrast to the approaching imprints. Where the latter denoted an even, steady stride, the former ran in queer, irregular fas.h.i.+on--sometimes bunched together, and at others with wide s.p.a.ces between.

"'On th' double!'" remarked Slavin observantly.

"Must have got scairt!"

"Ah!" murmured the coroner, reflectively, "though the Bible doesn't expressly state so, I guess Cain, too, got on the 'double' as you call it--after he killed Abel."

They finally reached the coulee where the tracks, debouching from the steep edge, pa.s.sed along its rim and presently descended the more shallow end of the draw. Their leader eventually halted at the foot of a small cotton-wood tree where the human foot-prints ended. There in the snow they beheld a hoof-trampled s.p.a.ce, which, together with broken twigs, indicated a tethered horse.

This served for comment and speculation awhile.

The sergeant, producing a small tape measure dotted down careful measurements of the over-shoed imprints and their length of stride, also the size of the shod hoof-marks.

Redmond drew his attention to blood-stains in several of the latter.

"Shod with 'never-slip' calks, Sergeant!" he said. "Must have slipped somewhere and 'calked' himself on the 'coronet,' I guess?"

"Eyah!" muttered Slavin approvingly, "Th' 'nigh-hind' 'tis, note, bhoy! . . . 't'will serve good thrailin' that. Well, let's follow ut on!"

Wearily his companions plodded on in his wake. The tracks, after following the draw for a short distance, suddenly wound up a steep, narrow path on the left side of the coulee. Reaching the surface of the level ground, they circled until they struck into the main trail east again, about a mile below where the party had left their horses. Here, merged amongst countless others on the well-travelled highway, they became more difficult to trace, though occasionally the faint blood-stains proclaimed their ident.i.ty.

Slavin pulled up. "Luks as if he'd shtruck back tu Cow Run again," he said with conviction. "Must have come from there, tu--thracks was goin'

and comin' an' ye noticed, fwhin we climbed out av th' coulee back there.

We must luk for a ha.r.s.e wid th' nigh-hind badly 'calked.' Yorkey! yu'

get back an' tell that Lanky Jones feller tu come on. Hitch yez own ha.r.s.es behint our cutter an' take th' lines." He squinted at the sun and pulled out his watch. "'Tis four o'clock, begob! Twill turn bitther cowld whin th' sun goes down."

The coroner smiled knowingly. "Talking about 'calks'!" he remarked; and diving into the deep recesses of his fur coat he produced a comfortable-looking leather-encased flask. "A little 'calk' all round won't hurt us after that tramp, Sergeant!" he observed kindly.

Their transport presently arriving, they proceeded on their way to Cow Run, Yorke and Redmond watching carefully for any tracks debouching from the main trail. Occasionally they dismounted to verify the incriminating hoof-prints which still continued eastward. In this fas.h.i.+on they finally drew to the level of the river, where the trail forked; one arm of it following more or less the winding course of the Bow River back westward.

At this junction they searched narrowly until they found unmistakable indication of the blood-tinged tracks still heading in the direction of Cow Run.

"What was that case of yours, Yorkey?" enquired Redmond. "You know--what Slavin was talking about?"

"Mix-up over that horse," replied Yorke laconically, "disputed owners.h.i.+p.

A chap named Moran tried to run a bluff over Larry that he'd lost the horse as a colt. They got to sc.r.a.pping and I ran 'em both up before Gully, the J. P. here. Moran got fined twenty dollars and costs for a.s.saulting Blake. Say! look at that sky! Isn't it great?"

They turned in their saddles and looked westward. Clean-cut against a pale yellow-ochre background and enveloped in a deep purple bloom, the mighty peaks of the distant "Rockies" upreared their eternal snow-capped glory in a salute to departing day. Above, where the opaline-tinted horizon shaded imperceptibly into the deep ultramarine of evening, lay glowing streamers of vivid crimson cloud-bank edged with the gleaming gold of the sunset's after-glow.

It was a soul-filling sight. Against it the sordid contrast of the sinister business in hand smote them like a blow from an unseen hand, as they resumed their monotonous scanning of the trail on its either side.

Yorke presently voiced the impression in both their hearts. "My G.o.d'" he murmured "the bitter irony of it! 'Peace on Earth, goodwill towards men' . . . and this!--what?"

CHAPTER VII

_Oh! Bad Bill Brough, a way-back tough Raised h.e.l.l when he struck town; With gun-in-fist met Sergeant Twist-- It sure was some show-down_.

BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST

Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditions the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party negotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the rear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come to be accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arranging details with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefully searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to the livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care of their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a pa.s.sable understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and short of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled--or was supposed to fill--the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. A sort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that he also could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circ.u.mstances"; having but recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the d.i.c.kensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and collectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it was satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not struck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.

"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther 'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' h.e.l.l over in the hotel th' las' two days. He got to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake--over that hawss. Bob Ingalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry to beat it back to his ranch--which he did. Windy--they got him to bed, an'

kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still over ther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."

He rubbed his hands in gleeful antic.i.p.ation, gloating deeply in his throat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now--'bout that ther hobo, Sargint--"

"Aw! d.a.m.n th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me Windy's ha.r.s.e. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know all 'bout that later."

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air, indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg--and found what they sought for.

For there--where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the "coronet"--was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the shoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him tie it up again.