Sergeant Silk the Prairie Scout Part 10

He rode boldly out to meet them, halting in the middle of the trail and raising his carbine.

"Who goes?" he cried. "Pull up, or I fire!"

The two masked riders dragged their horses round and made off by the way they had come. They were in the full light. Silk fired two shots in quick succession. One of the horses staggered, went down on its knees, and rolled over. The other dashed on. Silk fired again, then put spurs to his broncho and rode off in pursuit, with Medlicott following.

"Look to the one that's fallen!" he cried.

Percy Rapson rode out also, to help Medlicott. The man who had been thrown had broken a leg and could not move. Medlicott quickly disarmed him and left him in charge of Percy, who stood over him until the two policemen returned with their captive riding between them.

"This chap's plug is done for, Sergeant," Percy reported.

"I'm sorry for that," Silk regretted. "Help him to mount yours and lead him to the wagon. I must see to that broken leg of his. We shall stop here until daybreak."

Their two prisoners were led into the circle of light made by the camp fire. The one with the broken limb was put to lie on a blanket until he could be properly attended to. The other was secured against escape by means of a trail rope, which was bound about his wrists and ankles.

Percy Rapson watched this operation with interest, admiring the skill with which Sergeant Silk tied the knots and combined absolute security with freedom to move. It was not until the last knot was tied that the man's mask was removed.

"That's him, sure enough!" declared Percy when the outlaw's face was revealed. "That's the chap who tried to swindle you, Sergeant--Nick Cutler--Nick-By-Night!"

The prisoner was writhing curiously, bending forward, and staring towards the wagon. Sergeant Silk turned to see what he was looking at so intently, and beheld Miss Grey standing in the firelight, wrapped about in a rich fur coat.

"I am sorry to have disturbed you," Silk said to her apologetically.

"But, you see, we have caught your highwayman. Say, you had better get back into the wagon and finish your sleep."

She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed in blank amazement upon his prisoner's face. Silk moved aside and she made a step forward, pointing a trembling hand at the man writhing in his ropes.

"Jim!" she cried. "Jim!"

The captured outlaw drew back as if from a blow.

"Kitty!" he faltered. "Kitty! You--_here?_"

The girl waved her hand to dismiss him from her sight, then turned to the tall soldier policeman who stood near her, betraying no surprise at the strange recognition.

"It's all right, Sergeant," she murmured brokenly. "You have found my brother for me, as you said you would."

CHAPTER VII

LOCOMOTIVE 99

The millionaire was seated close to the open window of the luxurious Pullman car that waited in Macleod Station. He was looking across the platform at a tall man in a red tunic.

"Fine, handsome chaps, these North-West Mounted Police," he remarked to his fellow-pa.s.senger. "Look, Colonel, look at that one on the platform!

Quite a picture of soldierly bearing; fit to be an officer in the Guards so far as outward appearance goes! Just a trifle too tidy, perhaps; too consciously elegant; too much as if he were intended as an ornament rather than for serious active service. There's not a crease or a flaw in his scarlet tunic, see! Hat set on at the right angle, not a strap out of place or a b.u.t.ton that doesn't s.h.i.+ne enough to dazzle your eyes.

Even the way he carries his overcoat and holds his carbine in the crook of his arm makes one think he'd studied the effect in front of a looking-gla.s.s. Indeed, the only departure from military precision that I can detect is his wearing his chin-strap at the back of his head instead of in the regulation manner."

There was no response to these criticisms, and the millionaire went on after taking one or two puffs at his very large cigar--

"Do you suppose, now, Colonel, that he could do any serious business with that service revolver of his? You'd think by the cartridges in his bandolier that it was intended for use. And do you suppose that a dandy such as he is could do any real good in a scrimmage?"

The pa.s.senger on the other side of the dining-table sipped at his cup of black coffee.

"I don't only suppose, Sir George," he answered slowly, glancing out through the open window. "I happen to know. The man you're looking at isn't always dressed as if he had just come out of a bandbox to parade his elegance and his good figure on a railroad platform. I have seen him looking very different, riding out on the lone patrol. If he is clean and tidy now, it is because he hates slovenliness of any kind, and, perhaps, too, because he likes to hide the fact that the one purpose of his existence is to do his duty with efficiency. You ask if he could do any serious business with his revolver. My dear Sir George, that chap is considered the best shot in all Canada. He is that, just as surely as he is the best all-round scout, the best rider, and the bravest man in the Dominion. I could tell you a lot about him, but I see by the twinkle in his eye that he knows we are talking of him, and he hates to be noticed.

Ah, he's coming this way."

Sir George produced his box of cigars as the soldier policeman strode across the platform towards the waiting cars. The Colonel rose from his seat and leant his elbows on the frame of the window.

"How d'you do, Sergeant Silk?" he said in greeting, extending his hand.

"Say, it seems queer to see you on foot and not in the saddle. You're off duty, I suppose?"

"No, Colonel," returned Silk, "not exactly. My broncho is in the horse box at the rear. I'm going on by this train."

"Have a cigar, Sergeant," urged Sir George.

Silk took one, biting off the end with his sharp, even teeth, as cleanly as if he had cut it with a knife.

"Won't you come in along with us?" the millionaire invited.

Silk shook his head.

"No, thank you, sir. I go third-cla.s.s, and I may have to jump off between stations." He glanced at the Colonel. "I'm going west to see if I can find out something of the affair that happened along the line last night," he explained. "Perhaps you heard of it? No? Well, you see, the 7.42 was held up by a gang of train robbers, who managed to board her while she was side-tracked, waiting for the limited express to pa.s.s. The engine-driver was killed in the scuffle, and the conductor was badly hurt. I'm going as far as Hill Crest to have a word with the conductor, if he is well enough to be examined."

"It is to be hoped there's no danger of those train thieves paying us a visit to-night," said the millionaire anxiously. "I should hardly have expected to meet such gentry in Canada."

Sergeant Silk shook his head and smiled as he struck a match to light his cigar.

"They were caught, sir," he said, enjoying the aroma. "We happened--my broncho and I--to drop on them as they were escaping with the swag; and they are here in Macleod, safe under lock and key."

"What?" exclaimed the millionaire. "A gang of armed desperadoes, you say, caught--arrested--by you and your horse alone?"

Silk dropped the extinguished match and carefully trod it under foot.

Experienced prairie rider as he was, he was always cautious about fire.

"You've got to allow something for my being in uniform," he smiled.

"Law-breakers out here have a wholesome dread of the Mounted Police."

Touching the wide brim of his hat with a forefinger, he turned away, striding along the platform with a military clink of spurs.

He went towards the front of the waiting train, where the engine had just been coupled and was being oiled up for the run along the branch line from Macleod to Crow's Nest Pa.s.s. The district superintendent stood by and was reprimanding the engine-driver, who had evidently been making some complaint about his job.

"What's the matter with you that you register for rest?" the superintendent wanted to know. "You know we're short handed, Ted Chennell bein' killed. You've got ter take Ted's place. You've only been at work twenty hours. There's Tom Morden has been on his engine twenty-eight hours, and Tom ain't askin' for rest yet. Say, some of you fellows ought to get a job clerkin' in a drug store. This yer train's got to go. You're the only available man to take her, and that's straight."

Sergeant Silk puffed for a few moments at his cigar before speaking.

"Seems to me, Mr. Garside," he remarked casually, "that Halkett and his engine are about on a par. They're both promising candidates for hospital."