Читать книгу Sergeant Silk: The Prairie Scout - Robert Leighton - Страница 7

There were two boys in the household of Rattlesnake Ranch—Percy Rapson, who had come out from England to learn farming, and Dan Medlicott, the sixteen-year-old son of the ranch mistress. They were different in many ways, these two, as might be expected when one had been brought up in an English public school and the other had spent the whole of his life in the wilds of Western Canada. But there was one thing in which they were entirely alike: they both had a tremendous respect and admiration for Sergeant Silk.

He was their hero, and they were proud to count him also as their friend. They admired him especially because he was such a splendid horseman; he could manage any horse you liked to offer him, and could subdue even the wildest of bucking bronchos. He was a sure shot, too, with rifle and revolver, and an extraordinarily fine swimmer. He excelled in all the outdoor exercises that appeal to most boys, and as for pluck and endurance, he was a constant marvel.

Most of all, they respected him for his knowledge of woodcraft and his skill in scouting. He knew all the secrets of the plains, he could tell you the name of every flower and tree and bird and beast, and for following up a trail, for seeing and hearing and smelling and drawing correct conclusions from every little sign that any one else would pass by unnoticed, he was quite as clever as any Indian.

Naturally, his work as a member of the Mounted Police and his duty of going on lonely patrol over prairie and mountain, gave him plenty of opportunity for exercising these powers, and somehow he had the luck of being always at hand when there was any danger to be faced, or when a man of fearless courage and ready resource was wanted to carry out some perilous adventure.

"I don't believe Silk knows the meaning of real danger," said Percy Rapson one day when he and Dan Medlicott were discussing one of the sergeant's exploits that they had just heard of. "I wonder what he's got up his sleeve to-day. You may bet he's got something. He always has when he's more than usually quiet, as he is now."

"You might ask him," urged Dan. "He's out there on the verandah."

"It would look too inquisitive," objected Percy.

"Well, if you don't, I will," Dan resolved. "I'll go right now, while he's alone."

Sergeant Silk had called in at the homestead on his way along the trail to the depot of the North-West Mounted Police at Canmore, and had been induced by Mrs. Medlicott to stay to supper and give his pony a needed rest.

The meal was over, and he was now on the point of going round to saddle the mare and resume his lonely journey, lingering only, as it appeared, to smoke a pipe. But since coming out into the verandah he had, as his young friends had noticed, suddenly become unaccountably morose.

He was standing with his shoulder against a post of the verandah when Dan went out to him.

"Say, Sergeant," said Dan, making a successful grab at a mosquito that buzzed about his head, "you're gloomy, all of a sudden, aren't you? Anything gone wrong?"

Silk turned his calm, blue eyes upon the boy beside him.

"Can't say that anything has gone particularly wrong, Dannie," he answered slowly. "At least, not with myself. I'm just a bit puzzled, that's all, trying to figure out a problem that occurred to me this afternoon as I rode along through the forest trail." He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into the midst of the mosquitoes. "Dare say you could help me, some. Two heads are better than one, you know."

Dan Medlicott laughed his free, boyish laugh.

"I'm afraid mine isn't a whole lot of good alongside of yours," he said. "What's your difficulty?"

Sergeant Silk did not answer immediately. But presently he opened a button in the front of his brown canvas tunic, and, thrusting in his hand, drew forth something which looked like a long parcel, in wrappings of dirty white cloth.

Dan watched him unwinding the wrappings. They were ominously stained with ragged smears of a dull red colour.

"My!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "What have you got there? A dagger!"

"Looks so," Silk nodded as the cloth dropped to his feet. He laid the weapon across his left hand and held it for the boy's inspection. "What d'you think of it?" he asked.

Dan bent over it without touching it. The weapon had a long, slender, double-edged blade, which tapered to a very sharp point. The handle was of ivory, decorated with bands of tarnished silver, wrought in a curious Oriental design.

"What a wicked-looking weapon!" he declared, drawing back with a shudder.

Silk closed his fingers over the haft.

"Ever seen anything like it before!" he inquired.

Dan shook his head.

"Never."

"Neither have I," said the sergeant. "At least, not in Canada. It's the sort of thing you might come across in a museum. I'd say it was of Moorish workmanship. Dare say some Bedouin Arab once carried it in his waist-belt, riding across the desert, as we ride across the plains with our revolvers."

"You're going to keep it as a curiosity, I suppose?" Dan surmised. "Where did you pick it up? Buy it? Have it given you?"

"Found it," returned the soldier policeman, puffing slowly at his pipe. "Found it 'way back in the forest. What I'm trying to figure out is the problem of who left it there, yesterday, see?"

"Yesterday?" repeated Dan, in wonder at this precision as to time.

"Yes. You see, there's no rust on it. It's too clean and bright to have been there more than a few hours. Besides——"

"Those red stains on the cloth wrappings——" Dan interrupted. "What are they?"

Silk glanced behind him through the open window of the room, where Maple Leaf, the kitchen girl, was clearing the supper table. Maple Leaf was an Indian, and she had sharp ears. He lowered his voice as he resumed in response to his companion's inquiry—

"Not much need to ask what they are. Of course, they're blood. You see, I found the dagger sticking in the trunk of a soft maple tree. The long blade had been driven clean through a man's chest, between the ribs, pinning him against the tree. Who killed him, and why, I have yet to find out. One sure thing is that, whoever it was, he hated his victim so badly, so vindictively, that he wanted him to stay there where he was, fastened with his back against the tree, while the knife should hold him."

"Who was the victim—the dead man?" Dan asked abruptly. "You knew him?"

Silk nodded. There were not many inhabitants of the province of Alberta whom he did not know, at least by sight.

"Oh, yes!" he responded. "It was a French half-breed, Henri Jolicœur, of Hilton's Jump—the same who won the cup at Regina races last spring, beating Flying Feather, the Iroquois Indian."

Dan Medlicott looked up sharply.

"Those two have always been rivals in horsemanship," he reminded the sergeant. "I shouldn't wonder a bit if it was that same Indian who killed poor Henri, out of revenge."

Sergeant Silk shook his head.

"It wasn't an Indian who did it," he decided. "No Indian would have left so valuable a weapon behind. An Indian would have robbed his victim of everything that was worth stealing, and would probably have taken his scalp. He would almost certainly have appropriated the poor chap's horse. No; it wasn't an Indian."

Dan Medlicott then asked—

"Would a white man—a Canadian—have been any more likely to leave the dagger behind as evidence against himself?"

"I don't feel sure that a white man would use such a weapon in any case," returned Silk. "He'd be much more likely to use his revolver, openly. But, even allowing that the criminal may have been a white Canadian, the dagger may not have been his own. It may have been the property of some one else, who had nothing to do with this crime, and his leaving it behind would provide a convenient false clue, drawing suspicion away from himself."

"Yes, I see," admitted Dan. And, after a pause, he added: "I expect they had a struggle—a fight—back there in the forest?"

"No. There was no struggle," Silk argued. "It was done stealthily, suddenly."

Dan Medlicott did not ask for an explanation of this theory; but he waited, knowing that one would come.

"I've figured it out this way," the sergeant presently resumed. "The two men met each other on the forest trail and decided to make camp together. They hobbled their ponies, and went on foot in among the trees to fix up their camping place. They made a fire beside a stream, boiled some water, and made tea. I saw the ashes of their fire, the tea leaves, and some bacon rind. I found a crust of bread, with teeth marks on it. They were very even teeth; not the teeth of Henri Jolicœur, which were crooked and broken."

"They seem to have been friendly enough, anyway," remarked Dan, "eating together and meaning to camp together."

"Yes," acknowledged the sergeant, "but, at the same time, there was treachery in the mind of one of them. When they had finished eating they went aside from the fire and sat together on a bank under the maple tree, where they remained for a long time, smoking cigarettes. Henri never suspected what was coming. But the other knew. He was nervous, very nervous."

"Eh?" interrupted Dan Medlicott. "Nervous? How on earth did you make such a discovery as that?"

Silk took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the tobacco ash on the rail of the verandah.

"Well," he answered. "For one thing, it was shown by the fact that, having spoilt a cigarette paper, he tore it up into little bits. For another thing, he used quite a heap of matches to keep his cigarettes alight, and he chewed the ends of his cigarettes to tatters. He was restless, too, always moving, cutting the dry grass and ferns with his spurs, and digging his heels into the parched ground. They were high heels, like those of a cowboy's boots."

"An Indian would have worn moccasins, and no spurs," said Dan.

"Why, cert'nly," assented his companion. "It's clear he wasn't an Indian. I'm inclined to think he was a half-breed, the same as Henri himself. Still, I'm puzzled."

"I don't wonder," nodded Dan. "You don't seem to have got any clue that's of much value, except the weapon. What has become of Henri's horse? It wasn't stolen, you say."

"No. The fellow was too cunning to risk being discovered in possession of his victim's broncho. He left it hobbled in the forest, where I found it. It's there now, in charge of one of my men—Trooper Collins."

Silk had wrapped the dagger in its windings of dirty cloth, and now he thrust it back under the cover of his tunic.

"Will you do me a favour, Dannie?" he asked, as he went down the steps.

"I'll do anything you wish," returned Dan, accompanying him along the garden path. "What do you want me to do?"

"To ride to Hilton's Jump to-night," said Silk, "and break the news to Marie Jolicœur about what has happened to her son. And perhaps while you are there in the half-breeds' village you might be able to discover who were Henri's enemies. I can trust you to be discreet."

Dan said nothing of this affair to Percy Rapson, leaving Percy to guess what he liked concerning his reason for going out on horseback after Silk had said good-night and ridden off alone along the trail.

On the next morning Sergeant Silk was back again at Rattlesnake Ranch, on the same chestnut mare. He had had no sleep, but if he was fatigued the fact was not betrayed in his appearance, for his eyes were as brightly alert as always. He had shaved. His dark moustache had its usual curl, and his brown canvas uniform—even to the shine on his long boots and the gleam of newly-polished brass in buttons and cartridges—was as tidy as if he were going on parade.

Dan Medlicott met him as he approached the homestead.

"I see you did not fail to go to Hilton's Jump last night," the sergeant smiled.

Dan looked at him queerly.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Silk glanced down at the feet of Dan's pony.

"By the mud on your broncho's fetlocks," he answered. "You took the short cut by the edge of the marsh, and you didn't give yourself time to groom your plug this morning. Well, have you any news? Did you see Marie Jolicœur?"

"Yes. She was in an awful state about it. Henri was her only support. Of course, she wanted to know everything, and I told her as much as I could. When I spoke about the dagger and described it, she screamed and rushed excitedly to a corner cupboard and flung it open and brought out an old leather scabbard, which she dropped on the table. It was empty, but I saw in a moment that it was ornamented with the same sort of silver bands as those on the handle of the dagger you showed me."

"Ah!" cried Silk. "That is significant. It means that it was with his own weapon that Henri Jolicœur was killed."

"Yes," Dan agreed. "His mother saw him handling the dagger, day before yesterday, but she didn't know he'd taken it out with him."

"I see," nodded the sergeant. "It was probably snatched from his belt—and used—while he stood up beside the maple tree. In that case it isn't of much further use as a clue. Did you discover the name of his enemy? He must, after all, have been afraid of being attacked."

"It seems he had several enemies," said Dan Medlicott. "There was Dick Transom for one, who hated him like poison, and Emile Guyot for another, who owed him a grudge on account of some gambling affair."

"It wasn't Transom," promptly decided Sergeant Silk. "Dick Transom has lost one of his front teeth. And it wasn't Emile Guyot, for he is in prison at Moose Jaw. Any others?"

"Henri's mother believes it was Flying Feather," Dan went on. "They had a bad quarrel just after the races in the spring. But I assured her that it wasn't an Indian who did it. The only other enemies of Henri's that she could think of were Pierre Roche and Adolf Simon, both of them half-breeds; but she didn't reckon it could be either of them who took her son's life."

Silk repeated the two names thoughtfully as he turned to remount.

"Pierre Roche?—Adolf Simon? Let's see! Yes. Thank you, Dan; I was right about two heads being better than one. You have put me on a new scent. I hope you haven't mentioned either of these men to any one else?"

"Not I," Dan assured him, adding, as the soldier policeman leapt into his saddle: "Aren't you coming into the house to have some breakfast?"

Silk shook his head.

"I am on duty," he answered. "I am off to Pincher's Creek. That is where Adolf Simon and Pierre Roche usually hang out."

"Then it's one of them that you suspect?" said Dan.

"I did not say so," smiled Silk, touching his pony's side with his spurred heel.

He rode through the stifling heat of the summer noon across the parched prairie and among the winding valleys of the foothills, arriving at Pincher's Creek in the early evening, covered with dust, but with his well-cared-for broncho as free from fatigue as he was himself.

No one guessed what he had come for. The ranchers and cowboys supposed that his purpose was only to make one of his periodical patrol visits to inquire into any complaints that they might have to make, and to see that the settlers' homesteads were guarded against fire, as the law required them to be.

Silk made the tour of the far-stretching corn-fields, where the men were at work harvesting the ripe grain, and when the labours in the fields were over and he had taken supper with the ranch-master's family, he strolled down to the bunkhouse, where most of the hands fed and slept. He entered very casually, and was greeted as a friend.

At first he gave his attentions to the white men, but presently he approached a group of Indians and half-breeds. Amongst the latter he had seen Adolf Simon, one of the men against whom his suspicions were directed. Adolf was now seated at the end of a bench, rolling a cigarette, while he chattered volubly in Canadian French to his companions.

"Say, Adolf, are you making that fag for me?" Silk inquired.

The half-breed looked up and smiled, showing his white and even teeth under a small, black moustache.

"Oh! but yes, if m'sieur will accept," he answered gaily, as he delicately held forth the cigarette ready to be licked. "Voilà!"

Sergeant Silk took it and ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of the paper, smoothing it down neatly and nipping off the shreds of tobacco which protruded from the ends. He crumpled the fragments between a finger and thumb and sniffed at them critically.

"Ah! you no like such tabac," said Adolf. "It ees no good for mek de cigarette; only good for pipe, eh?"

"I dare say it smokes all right," nodded Silk, striking a match.

He was not concerned whether the tobacco were good or bad. What he wished to discover was whether it was the same quality as the tobacco in the cigarettes smoked by Henri Jolicœur and his enemy at the foot of the maple tree in Grey Wolf Forest. He quickly assured himself that it was different. It was darker and coarser. He noticed also that the paper used by Adolf was yellow instead of white.

As he lighted the cigarette Silk glanced down at Adolf's feet. They were clad in very much worn moccasins. Already he had decided that Adolf Simon was not the criminal of whom he was in search. Nevertheless, he put his judgment to the proof. Watching the half-breed's face, he casually asked—

"Say, Adolf, have you seen anything of your friend Henri Jolicœur, lately?"

Adolf's countenance betrayed no agitation at this abrupt mention of a name which would certainly have disturbed his conscience had he been guilty.

"Henri Jolicœur?" he repeated, pausing in rolling another cigarette. "He is no friend of mine. I tink you mek meestek, Sergeant. Once—long tam since—we was bons camarades, but since two, tree month we 'ave nevaire speak. We 'ave not meet. Dere is no occasion, you un'erstand."

"In that case," returned the soldier policeman, "it is needless for me to ask you anything about him. I shall probably get all the information I require from Pierre Roche. Pierre is on the ranch here, isn't he."

Adolf sent a very long, slow jet of tobacco smoke into the air and watched it fade.

"Not since four day," he responded, meeting Silk's keen scrutiny. "He 'ave mek heemself absent on private affair."

Presently, when Silk went out of the bunkhouse, Adolf followed him at a distance and overtook him as he came within sight of the lighted windows of the homestead.

"Pardon, Sergeant," he began mysteriously. "Why you come here, nosing round? I tink you come for de special police duty, eh? Is not dat so?"

"It is possible," admitted Silk. "But is there anything wonderful in that? Why are you anxious about my being here—on special police duty?"

Adolf shrugged his shoulders.

"You spek of Henri Jolicœur, of Pierre Roche," he went on. "You savee dey was enemy, hating each oder lak de poison—what? You 'ave discover som'ting."

Sergeant Silk stood facing the half-breed looking into his dark, alert eyes, wondering if he were to be trusted.

"Why, cert'nly," he nodded. "I have discovered something. I have discovered the dead body of Henri Jolicœur in Grey Wolf Forest."

"So?" ejaculated Adolf, with less surprise than might have been expected. "Tiens! tiens! And you 'ave come for try mek de arrest of Pierre Roche? Dat is ver' queek, certainly. You 'ave lose no tam. But dere is no use you come 'ere. He no come back to Pincher's Creek. It ees de las' place he come to."

"You appear to have no doubt of his guilt, anyway, Adolf," observed Silk.

"But what would you?" rejoined the half-breed. "Was it not hees intention? Many tam I hear heem say he will tek de life of Henri Jolicœur. Yes, many tam. And now he 'ave tek it! Well, M'sieu', it will be ver' interesting suppose you catch heem. You are clever tracker, Sergeant Silk. You catch many criminal. But you no catch Pierre Roche. It is impossible, absolutely. You nevaire catch heem—nevaire. He 'ave too many friend. He ees too cunning—cunning as de fox."

"There can be no harm in trying," Silk smiled. "Canada is a large country, and there are many places where a hunted criminal may hide successfully—for a while. But Pierre Roche will not escape."

"We shall see," laughed Adolf, turning on his heel.