The Luck of the Mounted by Ralph S. Kendall

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For some few minutes they canvassed the situation in tense whispers,
lying prone in the brush with their carbines covering their objective.

"Sh-sh!" hissed the doctor suddenly. "Hark!"

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and
listened intently. In the stillness they heard the unmistakable noise as
of a window being cautiously lifted. The sound came from the southern
end of the building.

Then they heard Redmond's voice ring out sharply from the bank: "No use,
Gully! I've got you covered! You can't make it from there! You'd
better give in, man."

There was an instant's silence, then--crack! came the crisp report of the
Luger. It was answered by the deep, reverberating bang! of a carbine,
and the crash of splintered glass and woodwork was followed by a boyish
laugh.

"Told you Reddy was there with the goods!" remarked Yorke, triumphantly,
to his superior, "don't suppose he got him though--Gully's too fly--he'd
duck into shelter the instant he'd fired. I'll bet he's doing some tall
thinking just now. Beggar's between the devil and the deep
sea--properly. He'll chuck up the sponge just now, you'll see."

"Eyah!" agreed Slavin, with an oath, "he's up against it. But Reddy down
there--I du not like th' idea av th' bhoy bein' all alone. Yorkey, yu'
shlink thru' th' brush an' down th' bank an' kape um company awhile. Th'
Docthor an' me'll kape th' front here covered."

A few minutes later, Yorke, after first challenging Redmond cautiously,
crept up beside his comrade below the sheltering river-bank.

"Did you get him?" he queried in a tense whisper.

"No, I don't think so," muttered Redmond disconsolately, "but--he d----d
near got me--look!"

He exhibited his Stetson hat. A clean bullet perforation showed in the
pinched-up top. "I could have got him--easy," he added, "when he first
opened the window. Wish I had, now--but you know what Burke said--about
getting him alive--I only loosed off after he'd thrown down on me. I was
scared for you and Burke, though! I could see you both backing up--after
he'd shot through the door."

Bang! A dull, muffled report detonated within the building. The ominous
echoes gradually died away, and the stillness of the night settled over
all once more.

The crouching policemen stared at each other strangely. "Hear that?"
ejaculated Redmond, with a startled oath, "By G----d! he's shot himself!
must have--it sounded muffled. . . . All over! I'll bet his brains--"

He broke off short and, shoving the barrel of his carbine over the edge
of the bank, he commenced to clamber up. "Wait a second! . . . Good
God, Red! don't do that!" snarled Yorke warningly. "He's as cunning as
a blasted _lobo_. May be it's only a tr--"

The entreaty died in his throat. Crack! A spurt of flame shot from the
opened window, and Redmond, with a gasping exclamation of rage and pain,
toppled backwards onto the shingle, his carbine clattering down beside
him. Fearful of relaxing his vigilance even at this crisis, the maddened
Yorke flung up his weapon and sent shot after shot crashing through the
open casement. All could hear the smashing, rending sounds of havoc his
bullets were creating within.

"Doctor!" he shouted. "Oh, Doctor! Come on round quick!" In a hoarse
aside he spat out feverishly, "Red! Red! my old son! . . . hit bad?
Where'd you get it?"

"Shoulder! Oh-h!" gasped poor Redmond, moaning and rolling on the
shingle in his agony, "Oh, Christ, it hurts!"

There came a crashing in the undergrowth on their right, and presently a
crouching form came creeping rapidly towards them under cover of the
sheltering bank. In a terse aside Yorke acquainted the doctor with the
details of his comrade's mischance, keeping a wary eye meanwhile on the
window. The ex-naval surgeon wasted no time in unnecessary question or
comment, but with the grim composure of an old campaigner swiftly
proceeded to render first aid to the wounded man.

"Right shoulder--low down!" he presently vouch-safed to the anxious
Yorke. "Trust it's missed the lung! . . . can't tell yet! . . . I must
get him away the best way I can. No! . . . don't move, Yorke! You keep
on your mark! I can pack him I think. I'll get him to the buckboard
somehow. This is going to be a long siege, I'm thinking. You'll be
getting reinforcements later. Slavin told me to send for them."

Bang! crash! The crisp sounds of splintering woodwork on the east side
of the shack denoted the fact of their quarry apparently attempting a
second escape from the front entrance. Unaided, the doctor cleverly
executed the professional fire-fighter's trick of raising, balancing on
the back, and carrying an unconscious human body. With an overwhelming
feeling of relief, not unmixed with admiration, at the other's gameness,
Yorke watched him stagger away in the gloom, bearing poor George upon his
bowed shoulders.

His momentary lack of vigilance proved well-nigh his own undoing, also.
Crack! spat the Luger again from the window. His hat whirled from his
head, but he kept his presence of mind. It was not the first time by
many that Yorke had been under fire. Ducking down on the instant, he
moved swiftly three paces to his right, and then, finger on trigger, he
suddenly jerked upright and sent two more shots crashing through the
aperture.

"Mark-er!" he called out mockingly. "Signal a miss, mark-er! Ding-dong!
You'll get tired of it before we do, Gully! You'd better give up the
ghost, man!"

His grim sarcasm failing to draw further fire from his desperate
opponent, the senior constable reloaded wearily and settled down to what
promised to be a long, danger-fraught vigil.

CHAPTER XIV

He "went out," poor Gus, at the break o' day---
Oh!--his kindly ways, and his cheery face!
But . . . the Lord gave, and hath taken away,
Hark! sounds "The Last Post," Requiescat in Pace!
"THE LAST POST"

Slowly the night dragged through for the two grim, haggard sentinels.
Thrice during their vigil had their desperate quarry exercised his
marksmanship upon them with his deadly Luger. Seemingly only by a
miracle did they escape each time. The sergeant had his hat perforated
in similar fashion to his companions. Yorke had a shoulder-strap torn
from his stable-jacket. Adroitly shifting their positions each time he
fired, they greeted his shots with such withering blasts of carbine fire
that they finally silenced their enemy's battery. Throughout he had
remained as mute as a trapped wolf. Only an occasional cough indicated
that so far, apparently, he was unharmed and, like them, still grimly on
the alert.

Relief came to the two besiegers with the first streaks of dawn. Dr.
Cox, with almost superhuman efforts, had somehow managed to reach Lanky
Jones and the buckboard with the wounded Redmond. Swiftly conveying the
latter back to the detachment, the physician had immediately got in touch
with the night-operator at the station, and also MacDavid.

And now, guided by that old pioneer, Inspector Kilbride arrived upon the
scene with an armed party from the Post. They had been rushed up by a
special train, which had been flagged by MacDavid at the nearest
objective point to Gully's ranch.

Swiftly and warily they skirmished towards their objective. Half of the
party, under a sergeant, crept along below the sheltering river bank
where they soon joined the wearied, but still vigilant, Yorke. The rest,
under the inspector, making a wide detour of the ranch, gained the brush
on its eastern side. Among this last party were Hardy, McSporran and
McCullough. In extended order they glided through the thick scrub and,
reaching its fringe, flung themselves prone with their carbines held in
readiness.

The inspector gradually wormed himself up beside Slavin who, in a few
tense whispers, acquainted his superior with all details of the
situation. Full well, both men realized what a perilous spot it was, for
all concerned, on the eastern front of the shack. Straining their eyes
in the gray, ghostly gloom they could just discern an open casement.
Apparently it was from this well-sheltered embrasure that Gully had
previously attempted to pick off Slavin. With the coming of daylight
their position would be absolutely untenable in the face of further fire
from the enemy. On the other hand, if they retreated further into the
scrub they would lose sight of their objective altogether.

So much Kilbride intimated to the sergeant as they held whispered
consultation. Also, he imparted reassuring news anent Redmond. The
latter's injury, though serious, was not a mortal hurt, according to a
report from MacDavid, who had left the doctor watching his patient
closely at the detachment.

Suddenly, a few paces to the right of where they lay, came the sound of
one of the party stealthily clearing his throat. Poor fellow! his
momentary lack of caution proved to be his death warrant.

Crack! A spurt of flame leapt from the velvety-black square of casement.
The horrid, unforgetable cry of a man wounded unto death echoed the shot,
and the startled besiegers could hear their comrade threshing around
amongst the dead leaves in his agony.

"Steady, men! steady now! don't expose yourselves!" yelled the inspector.
"Fire at that window, while I get to this man!--keep me covered!"

His commands were eagerly obeyed. Sheltered by the roaring burst of
carbine fire he wriggled sideways in feverish haste and eventually gained
the stricken man. The latter's convulsive threshing of limbs had ceased
and an instant's examination convinced the inspector that Gully's random
shot had been fatal.

For awhile the besiegers poured in brisk volleys upon the door and
windows, until the inspector gave the command to "Cease Fire!"
Suddenly--mockingly--hard upon the last shot, the echoes of which had
barely died away, came again the vicious, whip-like crack of the Luger;
this time from the southern end of the shack. The long-drawn,
nerve-shattering scream of the first casualty was duplicated, and a
carbine volley crashed from the river bank.

Then up from the attacking party swelled an exceeding bitter, angry cry;
the grim, deadly exasperation of men goaded to the point of recklessly
attempting ruthless reprisal upon their hidden enemy. With a total
disregard of personal safety many of them sprang up out of cover, as if
to charge upon their hated objective.

"As you were! Back, men! back!" rang out the deep, imperious voice of
Kilbride. The stern command checked the onrush of maddened men. "D'you
hear me?" he thundered, "Take cover again immediately--everyone. . . .
I'll give the word when to rush him, and that's not yet."

It said much for the discipline of the Force that his commands were
obeyed, albeit in somewhat mutinous fashion. The inspector turned to
Slavin with fell eyes. "Christ!" he said, "there's two men gone! I
won't chance any more lives in this fashion! I'll give him ten minutes
to surrender and if he don't give up the ghost then . . . . I'll do what
an emergency like this calls for--what I came prepared to do, if
necessary. Sergeant! take charge of this side until further orders; I'm
going down the bank to the other party awhile."

He stole away through the brush and presently they all heard his
stentorian tones ring out from the river bank. "Gully! oh, Gully! It's
Inspector Kilbride speaking. I'll give you ten minutes to come out and
give yourself up. If you don't--well! . . . I've got a charge of
dynamite here . . . and a fuse, and I'll blow you and your shack to hell,
my man. It's up to you--now!"

There was no response to the inspector's ultimatum. Amidst dead silence
the prescribed time slowly passed. Fifteen minutes--then, a gasping
murmur of excitement arose from those on the eastern front, as in the
rapidly whitening dawn they saw Kilbride suddenly reappear around the
northern and blank end of the building. For some few moments they
watched his actions in awe-struck, breathless silence as, with bent back,
he busied himself with his dangerous task.

Presently he straightened up. "Now! Look out, everybody!" he bawled.
He struck a match and applied it to something that immediately began to
splutter, and then he retreated a safe distance northward. All eyes were
glued, as if fascinated, to the deadly, sputtering fuse. Soon came the
dull, muffled roar of an explosion. The walls of the building sagged
outwards, the roof caved in, and the whole structure seemed to collapse
like a pack of cards, amid a cloud of dust.

For some few seconds the party gazed fearfully at the work of
destruction; then a loud cheer went up, and with one accord all dashed
forward, filled with eager, morbid curiosity as to what they might find
buried beneath the ruins.

Suddenly, midway between the brush and their objective they checked their
onrush and halted, staring in speechless amazement. Pushing his way up,
apparently from some hole beneath a pile of debris, appeared the figure
of a huge man.

In their excitement the attackers had overlooked the possibility of a
cellar existing below the stone foundation of the dwelling. At this
juncture the party from the river bank was rapidly approaching the ruins
from its western side. The posse was in a dilemma. Neither party dare
fire at its quarry between them for fear of hitting each other.

Gully apparently either did not realize the situation or did not care.
With face convulsed with passion, beyond all semblance to a human being,
he crouched and rushed the party on the eastern side of his wrecked home,
firing as he came. Badly hit, several of his assailants were speedily
_hor de combat_, among them, Hardy and McCullough. The whole incident
happened in quicker time than it takes to relate.

Then, from out the startled crowd there sprang a man. It was Slavin.
His hour had come. There was something appalling in the spectacle of the
two gigantic men rushing thus upon each other. Suddenly, Gully tripped
over a log and fell headlong, his deadly gun flying from his grasp. With
a sort of uncanny, cat-like agility he scrambled to his feet and strove
to recover his weapon. He was a fraction of a second too late. A kick
from Slavin sent it whirling several yards away, and the next moment the
opponents were upon each other.

At the first onslaught the issue of the combat seemed doubtful. The
ex-sheriff was no wrestler like Slavin, but he speedily demonstrated that
he was a boxer, as well as a gun-man. Cleverly eluding the grasp of his
powerful assailant for the moment, twice he rocked Slavin's head back
with fearful left and right swings to the jaw. With a bestial rumbling
in his throat, the sergeant countered with a pile-driving punch to the
other's heart; then, ducking his head to avoid further punishment, he
grappled with the murderer. Roaring inarticulately in their Berserker
rage, the pair bore a closer resemblance to a bear and a gorilla than men.

Once in that terrible grip, however, Gully, big and powerful man though
he was, had not the slightest chance with a wrestler of Slavin's ability.
Shifting rapidly from one cruel hold to another the huge Irishman
presently whirled his antagonist up over his hip and sent him crashing to
the ground, face downwards. Then, kneeling upon the neck of his
struggling and blaspheming victim, he held him down until handcuffs
finally imprisoned the enormous wrists, and leg-irons the ankles.

The grim, long-protracted duel was over at last. But at lamentable cost.
Two men killed outright, and five badly wounded had been the deadly toll
exacted by Gully in his last, desperate stand.

The rays of the early morning shone upon a strange and solemn scene.
Gully, guarded by two constables, was seated upon the stone foundation
that marked the site of his wrecked dwelling. Head in hands, sunk in a
sort of stupor, his attitude portrayed that of a man from whom all
earthly hope had fled. Some distance away lay the wounded men, being
roughly, but sympathetically attended to by their comrades. All were
awaiting now the arrival of the coroner, and also the means of
transportation which the inspector had ordered MacDavid to requisition
for them.

Presently came those who reverently bore the dead upon
hastily-constructed stretchers. Silently Inspector Kilbride indicated a
spot near the fringe of brush; and there, side by side, they laid them
down, covering the bodies with a blanket dragged from the debris of the
shattered dwelling.

Bare-headed, the rest of the party gathered around their officer. Long
and sadly Kilbride gazed down upon the still forms outlined under their
covering. Twice he essayed to speak, but each time his voice failed him.

"Men!" he said at last huskily, as if to himself. "Men! is this what I
have brought you into? . . . Is this--"

He choked, and was silent awhile; then; "Oh!" cried he suddenly, "God
knows! . . . under the circumstances I used the best judgment I--"

But Slavin broke in and laid a tremulous hand on his superior's shoulder.
"No! no! Sorr! . . . hush! for th' love av Christ! . . . Ye must not--"
the soft Hibernian brogue sank to a gentle hush--"niver fear . . . for
thim that's died doin' their juty! . . . 'Tis th' Peace, Sorr--th' Peace
everlastin' . . . for Hornsby an' Wade. They were good men. . . ."

Yorke bent down and, drawing back a fold of the blanket, exposed two
still white faces. In the centre of Hornsby's forehead all beheld
Gully's terrible sign-manual. Wade had been shot through the throat.

"Hornsby!" gasped Yorke brokenly, "poor old Gus Hornsby!" . . . He
turned a tired, drawn face up to Slavin's. "He was with us in the Yukon,
Burke. Remember how we used to rag him when he first came to us as a
cheechaco buck? But the poor beggar never used to get sore over it . . .
always seemed sort of . . . patient . . . and happy . . . no matter how
we joshed him. . . ."

Gently he replaced the blanket, stared stupidly a moment at the grim,
haggard face of his sergeant, then he burst out crying and wandered away
from the sad scene.

CHAPTER XV

That very night, while gentle sleep
The people's eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
"THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM"

Slowly the memorable June day had drawn to a close, and now darkness had
set in and the moon shone brightly down upon the old detachment of
Davidsburg. It had been a strenuous day for Inspector Kilbride and his
subordinates, as many details of the eventful case had to be arranged ere
they could leave with their prisoner on the night's train for the Post.

The inspector's first care, naturally, had been the slow and careful
conveyance of the wounded men (Redmond included)--and the dead--down to
the special train which still awaited them on the Davidsburg siding. The
bulk of the party departed with them, the officer retaining Slavin,
Yorke, and McSporran. A coroner's inquest, held that afternoon upon the
remains of the unfortunate hobo, Drinkwater, had resulted in a verdict of
"wilful murder" being returned against Ruthven Gully. Two days later, at
the Post, similar verdicts were rendered in the cases of poor Hornsby and
Wade.

Throughout the day Gully had remained in a sort of sullen, brooding
stupor. But now, with the coming of night, he seemed to grow
restless--pacing within the narrow confines of his cell like unto a
trapped wolf, his leg-shackles clanking at every turn. Seated outside
the barred door, McSporran maintained a close and vigilant guard. It
wanted four hours yet until train time and inside the living-room the
inspector, Slavin, and Yorke were beguiling the interval in low-voiced
conversation.

"Strange thing, Sergeant," remarked Kilbride musingly, "I can't place him
now, but I'll swear I've seen this man, Gully, before; somewhere back of
beyond, I guess. I've been in some queer holes and corners on this globe
in my time--long before I ever took on the Force. Seems he has, too,
from what you and Yorke have told me. D----d strange! . . . I've got a
fairly good memory for faces but--"

He broke off and looked enquiringly at McSporran, who had silently
entered just then. "What is it, McSporran?"

"Gully, Sirr!" responded the constable, saluting. "He wad wish tu speak
wi' ye, Sirr."

The inspector's face hardened, and his steely eyes glittered strangely as
he heard the news. For a brief space he remained, chin in hand, in deep
thought; then rising, he sauntered slowly over to the prisoner's cell.

"What is it you want, Gully?" he said quietly.

"Kilbride--Inspector!" came the great rumbling bass through the bars.
"If you keep me cooped up in this pen much longer . . . I tell
you! . . . you'll have me slinging loose in the head--altogether!" He
uttered a mirthless, wolf-like bark of a laugh. "My ears are keener than
your memory--I heard you speaking just now. Listen!--" a curiously
wistful note crept into his deep tones, for the inspector had made an
angry, impatient gesture--"Listen, Kilbride! . . . I'm gone up--I know
it--therefore, if I sing my 'swan song' now or later, it can matter
little one way or the other; and I would rather sing it to you and Slavin
and Yorke there than to anyone else. Before I am through, you all
may--shall we say--p'raps judge me a trifle less harshly than you do now.
Regard this as . . . practically the last request of a man who is as good
as dying . . . that--I be allowed to sit amongst you once more . . . and
talk, and talk, and ta--"

His voice broke, and he left the sentence unfinished. For some few
seconds the inspector remained motionless, with bent head, just
looking--and looking--in deep, reflective silence at the doomed man who
importuned him.

"Am I to understand that you wish to make a statement, Gully?" he said,
in even, passionless tones. "Remember!--you've been charged and warned,
man--whatever you say'll be used in evidence against you at your trial."

The other, hesitating a moment, swallowed nervously in his agitation.

"Yes," he said huskily, "I know--but that's all right! . . . As I said
before--it can make little or no difference . . . in my case. . . ."

Turning, Kilbride silently motioned to McSporran to unlock the cell-door.

The huge manacled prisoner emerged, and shuffled awkwardly towards the
inner room, closely attended by his armed escort.

Slavin and Yorke, seated together at one end of the table, arose as Gully
entered. Standing curiously still, as if carved in stone, their bitter
eyes alone betraying their emotions, silently they gazed at the huge,
gaunt, unkempt figure that came shambling towards them.

Gully halted and stared long and fixedly at the relentless faces of the
two men whose grim, dogged vigilance had led to his undoing. Over his
blood-streaked, haggard face there swept the peculiar ruthless smile
which they knew so well; and he raised his manacled hands in a semblance
of a salute.

"_Morituri te salufant_!" he muttered in his harsh, growling bass--the
speech nevertheless of an educated man.

"Eh, fwhat?" queried Slavin vaguely. The classical allusion was lost on
him, but Kilbride and Yorke exchanged a grim, meaning smile as they
recalled the ancient formula of the Roman arena. McSporran pushed
forward a chair, into which Gully dropped heavily. Chin cupped in hands,
and elbows resting on knees he remained for a space in an attitude of
profound thought. The inspector, resuming his chair at the table,
motioned his subordinates to be seated, and reached forward for some
writing materials.

"All right, now, Gully!" he began, in a hard, metallic tone. "What is it
you wish to say?" All waited expectantly.

Apparently with an effort Gully roused himself out of the deep reverie
into which be had sunk, and for a space he gazed with blood-shot eyes
into the calm, stern face of his questioner. Then, with a sort of dreamy
sighing ejaculation, he roused himself and, leaning back in his chair,
began the following remarkable story. He spoke in a recklessly earnest
manner and with a sort of deadly composure that startled and impressed
his hearers in no little degree.

"Listen, Inspector," he said. "A good deal of the story I'm going to
tell you has no bearing on the--the--the--case in hand. There's no use
in you taking all this down. I understand procedure"--he smiled
wanly--"therefore, with your permission I'll go ahead, and you can
construct a brief statement on your own lines afterwards, which I will
sign."

Kilbride bowed his head in assent to the other's request.

"The name I bear now," began the prisoner,--"'Ruthven Gully'--is my real
name, though knocking around the world like I've been since I was a kid
of sixteen, and the many queer propositions I've been up against in my
time, why--I've found it expedient to use various aliases.

"For instance"--he eyed the inspector keenly--"I wasn't known as 'Gully'
that time Cronje nailed us all at Doornkop, Kilbride, in
'ninety-six. . . ."

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