The Luck of the Mounted Part 13

Wordlessly, the trio exchanged mystified glances. "See here; look, Nick!" Slavin grasped the livery-man's fat shoulder and looked grimly into the startled, rubicund face. "I'm a-goin' tu put a question tu yeh, an' 'member now. . . . I want yeh tu think harrd! . . . Now--whin Larry Blake came in tu saddle-up an' pull out last night was that ther sorrel o' Windy's still in th' stable--or not?"

"Eh?" gasped Lee at last, "I dunno! Me nor Lanky wasn't around when Larry pulled out. We was over t' th' hotel, Sarjint."

Slavin released the man's shoulder with a testy, balked gesture. "Yes!

enjoyin' th' racket an' dhrunk like th' rist, I guess! . . . 'Tis a foine sort av town-constable yez are!"

Nick Lee maintained his air of injured innocence. "I came round here 'bout midnight, anyways!" he protested. "I always do--jes' t' see 'f everythin's all right. That hawss was in then, I will swear--'cause I 'member his halter-shank'd come untied and I fixed it. Ev'rythin' in th'

garden was lovely 'cep' fur that 'd.a.m.ned hobo sneakin' round. He was gettin' a drink at th' trough an' I chased him. But he beat it up inta th' loft an'--I'm that scared of fire," he ended lamely, "I never lock up fur that."

Slavin nodded wisely. "Yes! I guess he made his getaway from yu'--easy.

Mighty long toime since yuh've bin able tu dhrag yeh're guts up that ladder--lit alone squeege thru' th' thrap-dhure. Bet Lanky does all th'

chorin'." He glanced around him impatiently, "But this here's all talk--it don't lead nowheres. Hullo! this is Gully's team, ain't it?"

He indicated a splendid pair of roans standing in a double stall nearby.

"Yes!" said Lee, "he pulled in las' night t' catch th' nine-thirty down t' Calgary. He ain't back yet."

"Fwas he--" Slavin checked himself abruptly--"fwhat toime did he get in here?"

"'Bout nine."

"Fwhat toime 'bout fwas ut whin this racket shtarted up betune Windy an'

Larry?"

"Oh, I dunno, Sarjint!--'bout nine, may be--as I say I--"

"Come on!" said the sergeant, abruptly, to his men, "let's go an' eat.

Luk afther thim ha.r.s.es good, Nick," he flung back in a kind tone.

Outside in the dark road they gathered together, bandying mystified conjecture in low tones. "'Tis no use arguin', bhoys," snapped Slavin at last, wearily, "we've got tu see Chuck Reed an' Bob Ingalls an' Brophy av th' hotel. Their wurrd goes--they're straight men. If they had Windy corralled all night, as Nick sez . . . fwhy! . . . that let's Windy out."

He was silent awhile, then: "That ha.r.s.e av Windy's," he burst out with an oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' pa.s.sin' rum 'bout all this.

There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' ha.r.s.e. Somebody in this G.o.d-forsaken burg must ha' used him tu du th' killin' wid. Well, let's get on."

Suddenly, as they neared the hotel, a veritable bedlam of sound fell upon their ears, apparently from inside that hostelry--men shouting, a dog barking, and above all the screeching, crazed voice of a drunken man.

The startled policemen dashed into the front entrance, through the office and across the pa.s.sage into the bar beyond, from whence the uproar proceeded.

"Help! Murder! Pleece!" some apparently high-strung individual was bawling. A ludicrous, but nevertheless dangerous, sight met their eyes.

A motley crowd, composed mainly of well-dressed pa.s.sengers from off the temporarily-stalled West-bound train and a sprinkling of townsfolk, were backed--hands up--into a corner of the bar by a big, hard-faced man clad in range attire who was menacing them with a long-barrelled revolver. He was dark-haired and swarthy, with sinister, glittering eyes. One red-headed, red-nosed individual had apparently resented parting with the drink that he had paid for; as in one decidedly-shaky elevated hand he still clutched his gla.s.s, its whiskey and water contents slopping down the neck of his nearest unfortunate neighbour.

"Mon!" he apologized, in tearful accents, "Ah juist canna help it!"

"Pitch up!" the "bad man" was shrieking, "Pitch up! yu' ----s!--That d----d Blake--that d----d Gully! Stealin' my hawss away'f me an' gittin'

me fined! I'll git back at somebody fur this! _Pleece_! yes!--yeh kin holler '_Pleece_!'--Let me get th' drop on th' red-coated, yelluh-laigged sons of ----! Ah-hh!"--His eyes glittered with his insane pa.s.sion, "Here they come! Now! watch th' ----s try an' arrest me!"

Fairly frothing at the mouth, the man, at that moment working himself into a frenzy, was plainly as dangerous as a mad dog. Drunk though he undoubtedly was, he did not stagger as he stepped to and fro with cat-like activity, his gun levelled at the policemen's heads. It was an ugly situation. Slavin and his men taken utterly by surprise hesitated, as well they might; for a single attempt to draw their sidearms might easily bring inglorious death upon one or another of them.

We have noted that on a previous occasion Redmond demonstrated his ability to think and act quickly. He upheld that reputation now. Like a flash he ducked behind Slavin's broad shoulders and backed into the pa.s.sage. Picking up at random the first missile available--to wit--an empty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the pa.s.sage to a door opening into the bar lower down. This practically brought him broadside-on to his man. A moment he peered and judged his distance then, drawing back his arm he flung the bottle with all his force. At McGill he had been a base-ball pitcher of some renown, so his aim was true. The bottle caught its objective full in the ear. With a scream of pain the man staggered forward and clutched with one hand at his head, his gun still in his grip sagging floorwards.

Instantly then, Yorke, who was the nearest, sprang at him like a tiger and, ranging one arm around his enemy's bull neck, strove with the other to wrest the gun from his grasp. It was a feat however, more easily imagined than accomplished--to disarm a powerful, active man. The tense fingers tightened immediately upon the weapon and resisted to their uttermost. Slavin and Redmond both had their side-arms drawn now, but they were afraid to use them, on Yorke's account. The combatants were whirling giddily to and fro, the muzzle of the gun describing every point of the compa.s.s.

Taking a risky chance, Slavin, watching his opportunity suddenly closed with the struggling men and, raising his arm brought the barrel of his heavy Colt's .45 smas.h.i.+ng down on the knuckles of the crazed man's gun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.

Bang! The c.o.c.ked hammer discharged one chamber--the bullet ricocheting off the bra.s.s bar-rail deflected through a cl.u.s.ter of gla.s.ses and bottles, smas.h.i.+ng them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters.

But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying gla.s.s, as badly-gashed faces immediately testified. It all happened in quicker time than it takes to relate.

"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown'

the ---- good and hard!"

Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but Slavin interposed a huge arm.

"Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' um bhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man's wrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"

The latter obeyed with alacrity, and stooping he picked up the fallen gun. He had an inkling of what was coming.

"Ah-hh!" Slavin gloated gutterally, as he whirled his victim giddily around and brought the man up facing him with a violent jerk--"Windy Moran, avick!"--softly and cruelly--"me wud-be c.o.c.k av a wan-ha.r.s.e dump!--me wud-be 'bad-man'! . . . Oh, yes! 'tis both shockin' an' brutil tu misthreat ye I know but--surely, surely yeh desarve somethin' for all this!" And he drew back his formidable right arm.

Smack! The terrific impact of that one, terrible open-handed slap nearly knocked his victim through the bar-room wall. The head rocked sideways and the big body turned completely round. Eyes rus.h.i.+ng water and one profile now resembling a slab of bloodied liver, the man reeled about in a circle as if bereft of sight.

"Oh-hh!--Ooh!--No-o!--Ah-hh!" The wild, moaning cry for quarter came gaspingly out of puffed, blood-foamed lips. But there was no mercy in Slavin. He looked round at the wrecked bar, the gla.s.s-slashed bleeding faces of his men and the rest of the saloon's occupants. He thought upon many things--how near ign.o.ble death many of them had been but a few minutes before--upon insult and threat flaunted at them by a drunken, ruffling braggadocio!--and he jerked the latter to him once more.

But his two subordinates jumped forward and made violent protest.

"Steady!" It was Yorke now who appealed for leniency--"Go easy, Burke!

for G.o.d's sake! You've handed him one good swipe--if he get's another like that he'll be all in--won't be able to talk. Let it go at that!"

The sergeant remained silent, breathing thickly and glaring at his prisoner with sinister, glittering eyes, and still retaining the latter's wrist in his iron grip. But eventually the force of Yorke's reasoning prevailed with him. Drawing out his hand-cuffs he snapped them on the man's wrists and haled him roughly out of the bar into the hotel office.

The crowd, recovering somewhat from their scare, would have followed, but he curtly ordered them back and closed the door.

"Brophy!" He beckoned the angry, frightened hotel-proprietor forward.

"Is Bob Ingalls and Chuck Reed still in town?"

"Sure!" replied the latter, "They was both in here 'bout half an hour ago, anyways."

Slavin turned to Yorke. "Go yu an' hunt up thim fellers an' bring thim here!" he ordered.

"Ravin'--clean bug-house! that's what he is!" wailed Brophy. "That bar o' mine! oh, Lord! Yu'll git it soaked to yu' this time, Windy, an'

don't yu' furgit it!"

The prisoner paid no attention to the landlord's revilings. Slumped down in a chair he had relapsed into a sort of sulky stupor, though he cringed visibly whenever Slavin bent on him his thoughtful, sinister gaze.

Presently Yorke returned, bringing with him two respectable-looking men, apparently ranchers, from their appearance.

Slavin nodded familiarly to them. "Ingalls!" he addressed one of them "I'm given tu undhershtand that yuh an' Chuck Reed there tuk charge av this feller--" he indicated the prisoner--"last night, whin he had that racket wid Larry Blake in th' bar? Fwhat was they rowin' over?"

"That hawss o' Blake's mostly," was Ingalls' laconic answer. "Course they was slingin' everythin' else they could dig down an' drag up, too."

He chewed thoughtfully a moment, "We had some time with 'em," he added.