The Luck of the Mounted by Ralph S. Kendall

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"How do you know the poor beggar was drunk?" queried the latter, a trifle
sulkily. "He may have been as sober as you or I."

"Shpeak for yehsilf!" retorted Slavin dryly, "Ah! this must be Docthor
Cox comin' now!"

A cutter containing two men was approaching them rapidly. Presently it
drew up alongside the group and a short, rotund gentleman, clad in furs,
sprang out and came swiftly, bag in hand. He was middle-aged, with a
gray moustache and kind, alert, dark eyes. Greeting the policemen
quietly, he turned to the broken body.

"Tchkk! good God!" He shook his head sadly. Redmond thought he had
never seen a medical man so unprofessionally shocked. Presently he
straightened up and turned to Slavin. "Can you identify him, Sergeant?"

That worthy nodded. "Eyah! 'tis Larry Blake, I'm thinking Docthor. Best
frisk him now an' see, I guess. Maybe he has letthers."

Hastily diving into his bag the coroner produced a pair of long keen
scissors and slit the short, frozen sheepskin coat. In the breast-pocket
of the coat underneath, amongst other miscellany two old letters rewarded
his search. He glanced at the superscriptions and handed them up to
Slavin.

"Larry Blake it is," he said. He felt the soggy, pulped head. "Skull's
stove right in. Any one of these smashes would have sufficed to kill
him." He clipped the hair around a ghastly gaping crevice at the base of
the head.

Suddenly he peered closely, uttered an exclamation, peered again and drew
back. "Sergeant!" he said sharply, "D'ye see that?--No need to ask you
what that is!" In an unbroken portion of the back of the skull he
indicated a small, circular orifice. The trio craned forward and made
minute examination. Slavin ejaculated an oath and glanced up at
Yorke--almost remorsefully.

"I take ut all back," he said. Meeting the coroner's blank, enquiring
stare he added: "Booze, Docthor--we thought ut might be. . . . Yeh know
Larry!"

The physician of Cow Run nodded understandingly. Slavin bent again and
made close scrutiny of the bullet-hole. "_Back_ av th' head, no powdher
marks!" He straightened up. "Docther, are ye thru? All right, thin!
Guess we'll book up an' start in."

Methodically they all produced note-books and entered the needful
particulars. The lanky individual who had driven the coroner out brought
forward a tarpaulin and spread it on the ground. With some difficulty
the over-shoed foot was disengaged from the imprisoning stirrup, the body
rolled in the tarpaulin and deposited in the rear of the doctor's cutter.
The saddle and bridle were flung into the Police cutter. They then
rolled the dead horse clear of the trail.

That night the coyotes held grim, snarling carnival.

Slavin turned to Redmond. "Ye've located th' place, eh?" The latter
nodded. "All right, thin, get mounted, th' tu av yez, an' lead on!"

Keeping needfully wide of the broad, claret-bespotted swath in the snow,
the party started trailing back. Yorke and George rode ahead. The
latter glanced around to make sure of being out of earshot of their
sergeant.

"We-ll of all the hardened old cases! . . . Slavin sure does crown 'em!"
he muttered to his comrade.

"Hardened!" Yorke laughed grimly. "You should have seen him up in the
Yukon! The man's been handling these rotten morgue cases 'till he'd
qualify for the Seine River Police. He's got so he ascribes well-nigh
everything now to 'dhrink an' th' divil.'" His face softened, "but I
know the real heart of old Burke under it all."

About two miles down the trail Redmond halted.

"Here it is!" he said. And he indicated an irregular, blood-soaked,
clawed-up patch in the snow where the sanguinary swath ended. They
dismounted. Slavin drawing up alongside the coroner's cutter handed over
his lines to the teamster.

"Now!" said he, "let's shtart in! . . . Ye must have 'shpotted this on
yeh way up, Docthor?" He pointed to the patch.

The latter nodded. "Yes! we thought it must have happened here."

For some few seconds, with one accord the party stared about them at
their surroundings. The frozen landscape at this point presented a
singularly lonely, desolate aspect. Flat, and for the greater part
absolutely bare of brush; save where from a small coulee some half mile
to the left of the trail the tops of a cotton-wood clump were visible.
Far to the right-hand, more than a mile away, stretched the first of the
shelving benches, where the high ground sloped away in irregular jumps,
as it were, to the river.

"Best ye shtay fwhere ye all are," cautioned the sergeant, "'till I size
up th' lay av things a bit. I du not want th' thracks fouled up. H-mm!
let's see now!" He remained in deep, thoughtful silence a space.
"Thravellin' towards us," he muttered--"th' back av th' head!"

Hands clasped behind bent back, and with head thrust loweringly forward
from between his huge shoulders he paced slowly down the trail for some
hundred yards. That grim, intent face and the swaying gait reminded
Redmond of some huge bloodhound casting about for a scent.

Halting irresolutely a moment, Slavin presently faced about and returned.
"Wan harse on'y!" he vouchsafed to their silent looks of enquiry. "He
had not company. Must have been shot from lift or right av th' thrail."
He stared around him at the bare sweep of ground. "Now fwhere cud any
livin' man find cover here in th' full av th' moon, tu get th' range wid
a small arm? He wud show up agin' th' snow like th' ace av shpades an'
he thried."

Suddenly his jaw dropped and he stiffened. "Ah-hh!" His eyes rivetted
themselves on some object and his huge arm shot out. "Fwhat's yon?"

They all stared in the direction he indicated. Plastered with frosted
snow, until it was all but undiscernible against its white background,
lay an enormous boulder--a relic, perchance, of some vast pre-historic
upheaval. It was situated at an oblique angle to the trail, about a
hundred yards distant.

With stealthy, quickened steps Slavin made his way towards it. Tensely
they watched him. In each man's mind now was a vague feeling of
certainty of something, they knew not what. They saw him reach the
boulder, walk round it and stoop, peering at its base for a few moments.
Then suddenly he straightened up and beckoned to them.

"Thread in file," he called out warningly. Yorke led, and, treading
heedfully in each other's foot-marks, they reached the spot. Slavin
silently pointed downwards. There, plainly discernible on the surface of
the wind-packed, hard-crusted snow, were the corrugated imprints of
overshoed feet--coming and going apparently in the direction of the
previously mentioned coulee.

Redmond indicated two rounded impressions at the foot of the boulder,
with two smaller ones behind. "Must have hunched himself on his knees
behind, eh?" he queried in a low voice.

Slavin nodded. The rays of the westering sun coming from back of a cloud
glinted on something in the snow, a few feet away from the tracks. It
caught Yorke's eyes and with an exclamation he picked it up.

"_--gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled--_"

he quoted. "Here you are, Burke!"

Slavin uttered a delighted oath as he examined the small, bottle-necked
shell of the automatic variety. ".38 Luger!" he said. "A high-pressure
'gat' like that is oncommon hereabouts!" Passing it on to the coroner he
whistled softly. "My God! Fwhativer sort av a gun-artist is ut
that--even allowin' for th' moonlight--can pick a man off thru' th' head
wid a revolver at this distance? . . . an' wan shell on'y? . . . 'Soapy
Smith' himself cu'dn't have beat this!"

He proceeded to sift some fine, crisp snow in one of the imprints, then,
producing an old letter from his pocket, he flattened out the
type-written sheets of foolscap therein. Placing the blank side of the
sheet face-downwards upon the imprint he pressed down smartly. The
result was a very fair impression of the footmark, which he immediately
outlined in pencil.

A strange ominous silence fell upon the group. Deep in wild, whirling
conjecture, each man gazed about him. The desolate, sinister aspect of
their surroundings struck them with a sudden chill. Yorke voiced the
general sentiment.

"My God!" he said in a low voice, "but it sure is dreary!"

With a final, self-satisfying survey at his "lay av things" Slavin
stepped well to the side of the incriminating foot-prints. "Come on!" he
said "get in file behint me! We will follow this up!"

Silently they obeyed and padded in his rear.

"D----d big feet, whoever owns 'em," remarked Redmond to Yorke.

Slavin heard him. "Ay!" he flung back grimly. "An' they will shtand on
th' dhrop yet--thim same feet!"

The tracks returning in the direction of the coulee presented a vast
contrast to the approaching imprints. Where the latter denoted an even,
steady stride, the former ran in queer, irregular fashion--sometimes
bunched together, and at others with wide spaces between.

"'On th' double!'" remarked Slavin observantly.

"Must have got scairt!"

"Ah!" murmured the coroner, reflectively, "though the Bible doesn't
expressly state so, I guess Cain, too, got on the 'double' as you call
it--after he killed Abel."

They finally reached the coulee where the tracks, debouching from the
steep edge, passed along its rim and presently descended the more shallow
end of the draw. Their leader eventually halted at the foot of a small
cotton-wood tree where the human foot-prints ended. There in the snow
they beheld a hoof-trampled space, which, together with broken twigs,
indicated a tethered horse.

This served for comment and speculation awhile.

The sergeant, producing a small tape measure dotted down careful
measurements of the over-shoed imprints and their length of stride, also
the size of the shod hoof-marks.

Redmond drew his attention to blood-stains in several of the latter.
"Shod with 'never-slip' calks, Sergeant!" he said. "Must have slipped
somewhere and 'calked' himself on the 'coronet,' I guess?"

"Eyah!" muttered Slavin approvingly, "Th' 'nigh-hind' 'tis, note,
bhoy! . . . 't'will serve good thrailin' that. Well, let's follow ut on!"

Wearily his companions plodded on in his wake. The tracks, after
following the draw for a short distance, suddenly wound up a steep,
narrow path on the left side of the coulee. Reaching the surface of the
level ground, they circled until they struck into the main trail east
again, about a mile below where the party had left their horses. Here,
merged amongst countless others on the well-travelled highway, they
became more difficult to trace, though occasionally the faint
blood-stains proclaimed their identity.

Slavin pulled up. "Luks as if he'd shtruck back tu Cow Run again," he
said with conviction. "Must have come from there, tu--thracks was goin'
and comin' an' ye noticed, fwhin we climbed out av th' coulee back there.
We must luk for a harse wid th' nigh-hind badly 'calked.' Yorkey! yu'
get back an' tell that Lanky Jones feller tu come on. Hitch yez own
harses behint our cutter an' take th' lines." He squinted at the sun and
pulled out his watch. "'Tis four o'clock, begob! Twill turn bitther
cowld whin th' sun goes down."

The coroner smiled knowingly. "Talking about 'calks'!" he remarked; and
diving into the deep recesses of his fur coat he produced a
comfortable-looking leather-encased flask. "A little 'calk' all round
won't hurt us after that tramp, Sergeant!" he observed kindly.

Their transport presently arriving, they proceeded on their way to Cow
Run, Yorke and Redmond watching carefully for any tracks debouching from
the main trail. Occasionally they dismounted to verify the incriminating
hoof-prints which still continued eastward. In this fashion they finally
drew to the level of the river, where the trail forked; one arm of it
following more or less the winding course of the Bow River back westward.
At this junction they searched narrowly until they found unmistakable
indication of the blood-tinged tracks still heading in the direction of
Cow Run.

"What was that case of yours, Yorkey?" enquired Redmond. "You know--what
Slavin was talking about?"

"Mix-up over that horse," replied Yorke laconically, "disputed ownership.
A chap named Moran tried to run a bluff over Larry that he'd lost the
horse as a colt. They got to scrapping and I ran 'em both up before
Gully, the J. P. here. Moran got fined twenty dollars and costs for
assaulting Blake. Say! look at that sky! Isn't it great?"

They turned in their saddles and looked westward. Clean-cut against a
pale yellow-ochre background and enveloped in a deep purple bloom, the
mighty peaks of the distant "Rockies" upreared their eternal snow-capped
glory in a salute to departing day. Above, where the opaline-tinted
horizon shaded imperceptibly into the deep ultramarine of evening, lay
glowing streamers of vivid crimson cloud-bank edged with the gleaming
gold of the sunset's after-glow.

It was a soul-filling sight. Against it the sordid contrast of the
sinister business in hand smote them like a blow from an unseen hand, as
they resumed their monotonous scanning of the trail on its either side.

Yorke presently voiced the impression in both their hearts. "My God'" he
murmured "the bitter irony of it! 'Peace on Earth, goodwill towards
men' . . . and this!--what?"

CHAPTER VII

_Oh! Bad Bill Brough, a way-back tough
Raised hell when he struck town;
With gun-in-fist met Sergeant Twist--
It sure was some show-down_.
BALLAD OF SERGEANT TWIST

Cow Run was reached in the gathering dusk. Seen under winter conditions
the drab little town looked dreary and uninviting enough as the party
negotiated its main street. A frame-built hotel, a livery-stable, a
small church, a school-house, a line of false-fronted stores, and some
three-score dwellings failed to arouse in George an enthusiastic desire
to become a permanent resident of Cow Run.

The corpse they deposited temporarily in an empty shack situated in the
rear of the doctor's residence. From long usage this place had come to
be accepted as the common morgue of the district. After arranging
details with the coroner anent the morrow's inquest, and carefully
searching the dead man, the sergeant and his two subordinates repaired to
the livery-stable to put up their horses.

Nicholas Lee, the keeper of this establishment greeted them with wheezy
cordiality, apportioned to them stable-room and guaranteed especial care
of their horses. In appearance that worthy would have made a passable
understudy for the elder Weller, being red-faced, generous of girth and
short of breath. In addition to his regular calling he filled--or was
supposed to fill--the office of "town constable" and pound-keeper. A
sort of village "Dogberry." Incidentally it might be mentioned that he
also could have laid claim to be a "wictim of circumstances"; having but
recently contracted much the same sort of hymeneal bargain as did the
Dickensian character. The sympathy of Cow Run, individually and
collectively, was extended to him on this account.

From his somewhat garrulous recital of the day's events it was
satisfactorily evident to his hearers that wind of the murder had not
struck Cow Run as yet. For obvious reasons Slavin had enjoined strict
secrecy upon Lanky Jones, Lee's stable-hand.

"Ar!" wheezed Lee. "It's a good job yu' fellers is come. That ther
'Windy Moran's' bin raisin' hell over in the hotel th' las' two days. He
got to fightin' ag'in las' night with Larry Blake--over that hawss. Bob
Ingalls an' Chuck Reed an' th' bunch dragged 'em apart an' tol' Larry to
beat it back to his ranch--which he did. Windy--they got him to bed, an'
kep' him ther all night, as he swore he'd shoot Larry. He's still over
ther, nasty-drunk an' shootin' off what he's goin' t' do."

He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation, gloating deeply in his
throat: "Stirrin' times! ar! stirrin' times! . . . Now--'bout that ther
hobo, Sargint--"

"Aw! damn th' hobo!" exploded Slavin impatiently. "Here, Nick! show me
Windy's harse. Fwhat? Niver yeh mind fwhat for . . . now! Yu'll know
all 'bout that later."

His native curiosity balked, the old gossip, with a slightly injured air,
indicating a big sorrel saddle-horse standing in a stall opposite the
Police team. Slavin backed the animal out. It seemed to be lame. With
fierce eagerness they examined its "nigh-hind" leg--and found what they
sought for.

For there--where the hair joins the hoof, technically known as the
"coronet"--was a deep, jagged wound, such as is caused usually by a horse
slipping and jabbing itself with sharp-pointed shoe-calks. The hoof
itself was stained a dull red where the blood had run down. Slavin
picked up a fore-foot and exhibited to them the round-pointed, screwed-in
calks, commonly known as "neverslips." He took the measurements of the
shoe and glanced at his note-book.

Finally, with a significant gesture and amidst dead silence, he thrust
the book back in his pocket. Handing over the horse to Lee he bade him
tie it up again.

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 'damned 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 harses 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 harse av Windy's," he burst out with an
oath, "I thought 't'was a cinch. Somethin' passin' rum 'bout all this.
There's abs'lutely no mistake 'bout th' harse. Somebody in this
god-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 passage 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 passengers 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 glass, 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 passion, "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
passage. Picking up at random the first missile available--to wit--an
empty soda-water bottle, he tip-toed swiftly along the passage 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 compass.

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 smashing down on the knuckles of the crazed man's
gun-hand. Instantaneously the latter's weapon dropped to the floor.

Bang! The cocked hammer discharged one chamber--the bullet ricocheting
off the brass bar-rail deflected through a cluster of glasses and
bottles, smashing them and a long saloon-mirror into a myriad splinters.
But few of the company there escaped the deadly flying glass, 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 cock av a wan-harse
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 rushing water and one
profile now resembling a slab of bloodied liver, the man reeled about in
a circle as if bereft of sight.

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