The Luck of the Mounted by Ralph S. Kendall

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Suddenly, with the vicious instinct of Indian curs, three dogs which had
been sprawling in the shade of the dilapidated wagon-box sprang forward
simultaneously in a silent, savage dash at the horse's heels. The
nervous animal gave a violent jump, nearly unseating its rider, who
pitched forward onto the saddlehorn.

They heard his angry, startled oath, and saw him jerk his steed up and
whirl about, then, quick as conjuring, came a darting movement of his
right hand between the lapels of his coat and a pistol-barrel gleamed in
the sun.

The curs, by this time, were flying back to the shelter of the wagon-box,
but ere they reached it--crack! crack! crack! three shots rang out in
quick succession, and three lumps of quivering canine flesh sprawled
grotesquely on the prairie.

The startled spectators stared aghast. Startled--for, though all of them
there were more or less trained shots, such swift, deadly gunmanship as
this was utterly beyond their imaginations. Gully had made no pretence
at aiming. With a snapping action of his wrist he had seemed to
literally fling the shots at the retreating dogs. It was the practised
whirl and flip of the finished gun-man.

No less astounding was the uncanny legerdemain displayed in drawing from
and replacing the weapon in its place of concealment. The Indians,
attracted from the store by the sounds of shooting, began gabbling and
gesticulating affrightedly, but when MacDavid spoke to them sharply in
Cree they retreated inside again.

Some distance away, glaring at the dead dogs, the justice sat in his
saddle, and from beneath his huge moustache he spat a volley of most
un-magisterial oaths, delivered in a snarling, nasal tone foreign to the
ears of his listeners. A minute or so he remained thus, then his baleful
eyes met the steady, meaning stare of the motionless quartette and his
face changed to a blank, irresolute expression. He made a motion of
urging his horse forward, then, checking it abruptly, he wheeled about,
loping away in his original direction.

The trader was the first one to find his voice. "Well, my God!" he
ejaculated. "Did you ever see th' like o' that?"

His companions remained curiously silent. "Gully!" he continued, with
vibrating voice, "whoever'd a-thought that that drawlin' English dude
could shoot like that? . . . Fred Storey should have been here. . . ."
Still getting no response to his remarks he glanced up wonderingly. The
three policemen were staring strangely at each other, and something in
their expression startled him.

"Eh! Why! What's up?" he queried sharply.

Then Slavin spoke grimly. "Let's go luk at thim dogs," was all he
vouchsafed.

They stepped forward and inspected the carcasses critically. "Fifty
yards away, if he was a foot!" said Redmond, "and he dropped them in one!
two! three! . . ."

"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 ejaculated with an oath "I was forghettin' thim--come bhoys!
let's go luk for thim. Shpread out, or we may miss the place."

"Empty shells," 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 cluster 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 shell 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. "Hell!" he ejaculated 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 shells into his pocket and for a space 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, begod!" 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?" ejaculated Yorke incredulously. "Good God! somehow
the thing seems impossible . . . not the 'sheriff' business so much . . .
the other--Gully!--a J.P.--a man of his class 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' damnably 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 damned 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 fashion, and stared at their
troubled faces in turn. "See here; luk," he resumed solemnly, with
lowered voice, "honest tu God, 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 ejaculated. "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 fashion he thrust his huge fist between the buttons 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, begod, 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 hell of a trick of his--using Windy's
horse--while the two of them were scrapping--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 pass 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. 'Damn th' man! Damn 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 'Poppycock, all poppycock! . . . 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--gassin' 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 Cox 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 space 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
circumstances, 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.

"For some time past now I've been treating Gully for insomnia. Man first
came to me seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown through it.

"I prescribed him some pretty strong opiates--strong as I dare--and for a
time he seemed to get relief. But a couple of days ago he came around
and--my God! . . . Say! if I hadn't known him for a man who drinks very
little I'd have sworn he was in the D.T.'s."

The doctor's rotund figure stiffened slightly in his seat, and his genial
face hardened to a degree that was in itself a revelation to his
audience. Without any semblance of bravado he continued quietly, "I hope
I possess as much physical pluck as most men--I guess you fellows aren't
aware of it, but many years back I too wore the Queen's uniform--Surgeon
in the Navy. I served in that Alexandria affair, under Charlie Beresford.

"Well, as I was saying, . . . Gully came into my surgery that day,
raving like a madman. He's a big, powerful devil, as you know. I'll
confess I was a bit dubious about him--watched him pretty close for a few
minutes, for he acted as if he might start running amok. 'I can't
sleep!' he kept yelling at me, 'I can't sleep, I tell you! . . . That
dope you're giving me's no good. . . . Christ Almighty! give me a shot
of cocaine, Cox, or morphine, and get me a supply of the stuff and a
needle, will you? I'll pay you any amount!'

"Naturally, I refused, I'm not the man to go laying myself open to
anything like that. Well! Good God! The next minute the man came for
me like a lunatic--clutching out at me with those great hands of his and
with the most murderous expression on his face you can imagine. I backed
away to the medicine cabinet and caught hold of a pestle and told him I'd
brain him with it if he touched me. I threatened I'd lay an information
against him for assault, and that seemed to quiet him down. He began to
expostulate then, and eventually broke down and apologised to me--in the
most abject fashion. Begged me to overlook his loss of control, and all
that. Of course I let up on him then. A local scandal between two men
in our position wouldn't do at all. I gave him a d----d good calling
down, though, and finally advised him to go away somewhere for a complete
rest and change. But he wouldn't agree to that--seemed worried over his
ranch. Said he'd worked up a pretty good outfit and couldn't think of
leaving his stock in somebody else's hands at this time of the
year--couldn't afford it in fact. Anyway--that's his look-out. But, as
a matter of fact, if that man doesn't take my advice, why . . . he's
going to collapse. I know the symptoms only too well. That's the curse
of men living alone on these homesteads--brooding, and worrying their
heads off. It seems to get them all eventually in--"

Breaking off abruptly he glanced at his watch. "Getting late!" he
ejaculated, jumping up, "I must be getting on to that case."

"Docthor!" said Slavin, reflectively, "'tis a shtrange story ye've been
tellin' us. Ye'll be comin' back this way, I suppose--lather in th' day?"

The physician nodded.

"I'd like fur ye tu dhrop in agin, thin," continued the sergeant slowly,
"if ye have toime? There's a little matther I wud like tu dishcuss wid
yu'--'tis 'bout that same man."

Doctor Cox glanced sharply at the speaker's earnest, sombre face. A
certain sinister earnestness underlay the simple words, and it startled
him.

"Very good, Sergeant!" he agreed, "I'll call in on my way back. Well!
good-by, all of you, for the time being!"

They followed him outside and watched the rig depart on its journey
westward. It was Redmond who broke the long silence.

"Well, sacred Billy! What do you know about that?" he ejaculated tensely.

And the trio turned and looked upon each other strangely, their faces
registering mutual wonderment and conviction.

"Sleep?" murmured Yorke, "No, by gum! . . . no more could Macbeth, with
King Duncan and Banquo on his chest o' nights! . . . Well, that settles
it!"

But Slavin made a gesture of dissent. "As you were, bhoys!" was his
sober mandate. "Sleeplishness's no actual proof . . . but it's a
pointer. Th' iron's getthin' warrm--eyah! d----d warrm! . . . but we
cannot shtrike yet."

CHAPTER XII

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear soft his bones over the stones!
Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!
"THE PAUPER'S DRIVE."

They ate dinner more or less in silence. Slavin had relapsed into one of
his fits of morose taciturnity. At the conclusion of the meal, Yorke and
Redmond drew a bench outside, and for awhile sat in the sun, smoking.

"He's got 'Charley-on-his-back' properly to-day," remarked the
sophisticated Yorke, with a sidelong jerk of his head, "old beggar's best
left alone, begad! when he' get's those fits on him." He sniffed the
fresh air and gazed longingly out over the sunlit, peaceful landscape,
flooded with a warm, sleepy, golden haze of summer. "Lord! but it's a
peach of a day" he continued, "say, gossip mine, did you think to get
that fishing-tackle at Martin's this morning?"

George nodded affirmatively. Yorke rose and stepped indoors. "Say,
Burke," he said persuasively, "there's not much doing this
afternoon--how's chances for me and Reddy going down to the Bend for a
bit? The water looks pretty good just now. You'll want to have a lone
chin with the Doctor, anyway, no use us sticking around."

The sergeant, engrossed in a crime-report, acceded gruffly to the
request. "Run thim harses in first, tho'!" he flung after his
subordinate, "an' du not yu' men get tu far away down-shtream, in case I
might want yez."

"That's 'Jake,'" was Redmond's comment, a moment later, "no use trying
fly-fishing to-day, though, Yorkey--too bright. We'd better fish deep.
Here, you get the rods all fixed up, and catch some grasshoppers, and
I'll chase out in the pasture and run the horses in."

Some half an hour later found them trudging down the long slope below the
detachment that led to the nearest point of the Bow River. Here the
river described a sharp bend southward for some distance, ere resuming
its easterly course. Arriving thither, they fished for awhile in
blissful content; their minds for the time-being devoid of aught save the
sport of Old Izaak. Picking likely spots for deep casts, they meandered
slowly down-stream, keeping about twenty yards apart. At intervals,
their piscatorial efforts were rewarded with success. Four fine
"two-pounders" of the "Cut-Throat" species had fallen to Yorke's
rod--three to Redmond's. Then, for a time the fish ceased to bite.

"Here!" said Yorke suddenly. "I'm getting fed up with this! I can't get
a touch. There's a big hole farther down, just up above Gully's place.
Let's try it! He and I pulled some good 'uns out of there, last year."

Eventually they reached their objective. At this point the force of the
current had gradually, with the years, scooped out a large, semicircular
portion of the shelving bank. Also, a spit of gravel-bar, jutting far
out into the water, had stranded a small boom of logs and drift-wood; the
whole constituting a veritable breakwater that only a charge of dynamite
could have shifted. In the shelter of this and the hollowed-out bank, a
huge, slow eddy of water had formed, apparently of great depth.

As Yorke had advertised it--it did look like a likely kind of a hole for
big trout. "You wouldn't think it," said he now, "but there's twenty
feet of water in that pot hole." He put down his rod and slowly began to
fill his pipe. "You can have first shot at it, Red," he remarked, "I'll
be the unselfish big brother. You ought to land a good 'un out of there.
Aha! what'd I tell you?"

Redmond's gut "leader" had barely sunk below the surface when he felt the
thrilling, jarring strike of an unmistakably heavy fish. The tried,
splendid "green-heart" rod he was using described a pulsating arc under
the strain. He turned to Yorke gleefully. "By gum! old thing, I've sure
got one this time," he said, "bet you he's ten pound if he's an ounce.
Hope the line'll hold!"

Simultaneously they uttered an excited exclamation, as a huge, silvery
body darted to the surface, threshed the water for the fraction of a
second, and then dived.

"Look out!" cried Yorke. "Give him line, Red, give him line! Play him
careful now, or you'll lose him!"

The reel screeched, as Redmond let the fish run. Then--without
warning--the line slacked and the rod straightened. George, giving vent
to a dismayed oath, reeled in until the line tautened again, and the
point of the rod dipped.

"What's up?" queried Yorke, "he's still on, isn't he?"

"Yes," growled Redmond miserably, "feels as if I'm snagged though. He's
there right enough--I can feel him jumping. Damnation! That's the worst
of stringing three hooks on your leader. One of 'em's snagged on
something below, I guess. Here! hold the rod a minute, Yorkey!"

The latter complied. George unbuttoned and threw off his stable-jacket
and began taking off his boots. Yorke contemplated his comrade's actions
in speechless amazement. "Why, what the devil?--" he began--

"I'm not going to lose that fish," mumbled Redmond sulkily, as he threw
off his clothes, "I'll get him by gum! if I have to dive to the depths of
Hell."

"Say, now! don't be a fool!" cried Yorke, "that water's like ice, man!
You'll get cramped, and then the two of us'll drown. We-ll, of all the
idiots!--"

George, by this time stripped to the buff, crept gingerly to the edge of
the shelving bank. In his right hand he grasped--opened--a small
pen-knife. "Aw, quit it!" he retorted rudely, "I'll only be under a
minute--hold the line taut--straight up and down, Yorkey, so's I can see
where to dive."

He drew a deep breath, and then, with the poise of a practised swimmer,
dived--cutting the water with barely a splash. For the space of a
half-minute Yorke stared apprehensively at the swirling eddy, beneath
which the other had vanished. The line still remained taut. Then he
gave a gasp of relief, as Redmond's head re-appeared, and that young
gentleman swam to the side. Extending a hand, the senior constable
lugged his comrade to terra firma.

"That's good!" he ejaculated fervently. "D----n the fish, anyway! I
guess you couldn't make--" He broke off abruptly, and remained staring
at the dripping George with startled eyes. The latter's face registered
unutterable horror, and he shook as with the ague. Speech seemed beyond
him. He could only mouth and point back to the gloomy depths whence he
had just emerged.

"Here!" cried Yorke, with an oath, "whatever is the matter, Reddy? Man!
you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

Then his own face blanched, as the shivering George bubbled incoherently,
"B-b-body! b-b-body! My God, Yorkey! th-there's a s-s-stiff d-down
th-there! Ugh! I d-d-dived right onto it!"

For a brief space they remained staring at each other; then, a strange
light of understanding broke over Yorke's face, and he made a snatch at
Redmond's clothes. "Come!" he jerked out briskly. "Get 'em on quick,
Red, else you'll catch your death of cold--never mind about drying
yourself--you can change when you get back."

In shivering silence his comrade commenced to struggle into his
underclothes and "fatigue-slacks." Yorke snapped the line and reeled in
the slack. "Stiff!" he kept ejaculating "stiff! Yes, by gad! and I can
make a pretty good guess who that stiff is! . . . Burke'll have all the
evidence he wants--now. You beat it, Reddy, as soon as you're fit and
get him. A run'll warm you up. The grappling-irons are back of the
stable. And say! tell him to bring a good long rope. Lord, I hope
Doctor Cox hasn't left yet. I'll stay here, Reddy. Hurry up!"

An hour or so later, a morbidly expectant group gathered on the
river-bank. Redmond, luckily, had reached the detachment just prior to
the coroner's departure, and that gentleman now comprised one of a party.
Slavin had hitched his team to a cotton-wood clump nearby, and was now
busily rigging the double set of three-pronged grappling-irons. When all
was ready, he motioned to his companions to stand back, and then, with a
preliminary whirl or two, flung the irons into the pool, some distance
ahead of the spot indicated by Redmond.

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