The Luck of the Mounted Part 20

"Slap through the head, too!" muttered Yorke. "Burke!"--he added suddenly. Slavin met his eye with a steady, meaning stare; then, at something he read in his subordinate's face, the sergeant's deep-set orbs dilated strangely and he swung on his heel.

"Aye!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with an oath "I was forghettin' thim--come bhoys!

let's go luk for thim. Shpread out, or we may miss the place."

"Empty sh.e.l.ls," explained Yorke to the others, "automatic ejection--you remember, Reddy! We may find them."

Keeping a short distance apart, they sauntered forward, trying to recall the spot Gully had shot from. For awhile, with bent heads, they circled slowly about each other, carefully scrutinizing the short turf.

Presently the trader uttered a low exclamation. "Here's th' place!" he said, pointing downwards. The others joined him and they all gazed at the cl.u.s.ter of deeply-indented hoof-marks, indicating where the horse had propped and whirled about.

"Aha!" said Redmond, suddenly.

"Got ut?" queried Slavin.

For answer George dropped a small discharged sh.e.l.l into the other's outstretched palm. The sergeant made swift examination. A shocking blasphemy escaped him, and for an instant he jerked back his arm as if to fling the article away, then, recovering himself with an effort, he handed it to Yorke, who peered in turn.

The latter made a wry face. "h.e.l.l!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed disgustedly, "it's a 'Savage' this--thirty-two at that!" He lowered his voice. "The other was a thirty-eight Luger--what?"

"Time an' agin," Slavin was declaiming in impotent rage and with upraised fist,--"Time an' ag'in--have we shtruck a lead on this blasted case--on'y tu find ut peter out agin. . . . Oh! how long, O Lord? how long? . . ."

MacDavid stopped in turn. "Here's th' other two, Sarjint," he said.

Slavin dropped the sh.e.l.ls into his pocket and for a s.p.a.ce he remained in deep thought. Then he turned to the trader.

"Morley," he said quietly, "yu're not a talker, I know, but--anyways! . . . I ask ye now . . . ye'll oblige me by shpakin' av this tu no man--yet awhiles. . . . I have me raysons--onnershtand?"

The eyes of the two men met, and question and answer were silently exchanged in that one significant look.

MacDavid nodded brief acquiescence to the others request. "Aye!" he replied reflectively, "I think I do--now. . . ."

The sergeant turned to his men. "Come on, bhoy!" he said. "Let's beat ut home. I'm gettin' hungry."

They bid the trader adieu, and trudged away in the direction of the detachment. They had covered some quarter of a mile in silence when Slavin, who was in the lead, suddenly halted and whirled on his subordinates with a mirthless laugh.

"Windy Moran, beG.o.d!" he burst out, "mind fwhat he said that day 'bout Gully an' that dep'ty sheriff bizness? . . . not so----'Windy' afther all, I'm thinkin', eh?"

For some few seconds they stared at him, aghast. They had forgotten Moran.

"Say, Burke, though?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Yorke incredulously. "Good G.o.d! somehow the thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . .

the other--Gully!--a J.P.--a man of his cla.s.s and standing! . . . Why!

whatever motive--"

"He may have two guns," broke in Redmond.

"Eyah," agreed Slavin, grimly, "he may. . . . A Luger's a mighty diff'runt kind av a gun tu other authomatics . . . an' th' man that shot Larry Blake ain't likely tu be fule enough tu risk packin' ut around--for a chance tu thrip um up some day."

For awhile the trio cogitated in silence; each man striving desperately to arrive at some logical solution to the extraordinary problem that now faced them.

"Bhoys!" said Slavin presently, "there's no doubt there is . . .

somethin' d.a.m.nably wrong 'bout all this. But, all th' same, fact remains, ye cannot shtart in makin' th' Force a laughin' stock by charrgin' a man av Gully's position wid murdher--widout mighty shtrong evidence tu back ut. An' sizin' things up--fwhat have we got, afther all, . . . right now . . . tu shwear out a warrant on? . . . Nothin', really, 'cept that he's shown us he's a bad man wid a gun! A d.a.m.ned bad break that was, tho', an' I'll bet he's sorry for that same, tu. Mind how he kept on thravellin', widout comin' back tu shpake wid us?"

He shook his head slowly, in sinister fas.h.i.+on, and stared at their troubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, with lowered voice, "honest tu G.o.d, in me own mind I du believe he is th' man that done ut." He paused--"but provin' ut's a diff'runt matther. We must foller this up an' get some shtronger evidence yet--behfure we make th' break."

Suddenly he uttered a hollow chuckle. "Kilbride!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Mind his josh that day--'bout it might be me, or Gully?--an how Gully laughed, tu, wid th' hand of um like this?"

Napoleonic fas.h.i.+on he thrust his huge fist between the b.u.t.tons of his stable-jacket.

"Yes, by gad!" said Yorke reflectively. "I sure do, now. And I'll bet he had his right hand on his gun, too! Force of habit, I guess, if he's an ex-deputy-sheriff. From what little he's dropped he's sure knocked around some, I know. Hard to say where, and what the beggar hasn't been in his time. This accounts for him being so blooming close about the Western States. It's always struck me as being queer, that, because, say, look at the slick way he rides and ropes! He's never picked that up in five years over on this Side--and that's all he claims he's been in Canada."

"Besides" chimed in Redmond, eagerly, "that yarn of his about that hobo swiping his dough, Sergeant! 'Frame-up,' p'raps, . . . gave it to him and told him to beat it? . . ."

"Aw, rot!" said Yorke, disgustedly. He sniffed, with his peculiar mannerism, "that's dime-novel stuff, Red. D'ye think he'd be fool enough to risk that, with the chances of the fellow being picked up any minute and squealing on him?" He was silent a moment. "Rum thing, though," he murmured, "the way that hobo did beat us to it."

"'Some lokil man,' sez Kilbride," remarked Slavin musingly. "Just th'

last one ye'd think av suspectin'. An' Gully, beG.o.d, sittin' right there! . . . talk 'bout nerve! . . ."

"But, good heavens!" burst out Yorke. "Whoever would have suspected him?" He laughed a trifle bitterly. "It's all very well for us to turn round now and say 'what fools we've been,' and all that. If we'd have been the smart, 'never-make-a-mistake' Alecks, like we're depicted in books, why, of course we'd have 'deducted' this right-away, I suppose?

Oh, Ichabod! Ichabod! An Englishman, too, by gad! I'll forswear my nationality."

"Whatever could he have on Larry, though?" was Redmond's bewildered query. "Say, that sure was a h.e.l.l of a trick of his--using Windy's horse--while the two of them were sc.r.a.pping--trying to frame it up on him!"

"Eyah," soliliquised the sergeant sagely. "'Twill all come out in th'

wash. Whin cliver, edjucated knockabouts like Gully du go bad; begob, they make th' very wurrst kind av criminals. They kin pa.s.s things off wid th' high hand an' kape their nerve betther'n th' roughnecks--ivry toime.

"Think av that terribul murdherer, Deeming--an' thim tu docthors--Pritchard an' Palmer, colludge men, all av thim. An' not on'y men, but wimmin, tu. 'Member Mrs. Maybrick? All movin' in th' hoighth av society!"

He was silent a moment, then his face fell. "I must take a run inta th'

Post an' see th' O.C. 'bout this," he resumed. "Tis an exthornary case.

There's just a possibility we may be all wrong--jumphin' at conclusions tu much. Th' ould man! . . . I think I can see th' face av um. He'll shling his pen across th' Ord'ly-room. 'd.a.m.n th' man! d.a.m.n th' man!'

he'll cry. 'Go you now an' apprehend um on suspicion thin! Fwhy shud I kape a dog an' du me own barkin'?' An' thin he'll think betther av ut an'

chunt 'Poppyc.o.c.k, all poppyc.o.c.k! . . . As you were, Sarjint'--an' thin he'll call in Kilbride. Eh! fwhat yez laughin' at, yeh fules?" he queried irritably.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the expression on their superior's cadaverous face just then--its droll mixture of apprehension and perplexity was more than Yorke and Redmond could stand. Awhile they rocked up against each other--a trifle hysterically; it was the reaction to nerves worked up to a pitch of intense excitement.

"Yez gigglin' idjuts!" growled Slavin. "Come on, let's get home! No use us shtandin here longer--ga.s.sin' like a bunch av ould washer-wimmin full av gin an' throuble."

In silence they trudged on to the detachment. "'Ome, sweet 'ome! be it never so 'umble!" quoth Yorke, as they reached their destination, "Hullo!

who's this coming along?" Shading his eyes with his hand he gazed down the trail. "Looks like Doctor c.o.x and Lanky."

The trio stared at the approaching buckboard which contained two occupants. "Sure is," said Redmond, "out to some case west of here, I suppose."

They hailed the physician cheerily, as presently he drew up to the detachment. "Fwhere away, Docthor?" queried Slavin. "Will ye not shtop an' take dinner wid us, yu' an' Lanky? 'Tis rarely we see yez in these parts now."

"Eh, sorry!" remarked that gentleman, climbing out of the rig and stretching his cramped limbs, "got to get on to Horton's, though. One of their children's sick. Thanks, all the same, Sergeant." Glancing round at his teamster he continued in lowered tones, "There's a little matter I'd like to speak to you fellows about."

"Sure!" agreed Slavin, quickly. "Come inside thin, Docthor."

The party entered the detachment and, seating themselves, gazed enquiringly at their visitor. For a s.p.a.ce he surveyed them reflectively, a perturbed expression upon his usually genial countenance. His first words startled them.

"It's about your J.P., Mr. Gully," he began. "This incident, mind, is closed absolutely--as far as he and I are concerned; but, under the circ.u.mstances, which to say the least struck me as being mighty peculiar, I--well! . . . I don't think it's any breach of medical etiquette on my part telling you about it.