Part 4 (2/2)
They were a well-matched pair; iron-nerved, both of them, the sort of men to face sudden death open-eyed and unafraid.
A full minute they glared at each other across the desk corner. Then Lessard, without moving a muscle or altering his steady gaze, spoke to Dobson.
”Call the orderly,” he said quietly.
Dobson, mouth agape, struck a little bell on the desk and the orderly stepped in from the outer room.
”Orderly, disarm Sergeant MacRae.”
Lessard uttered the command evenly, without a jarring note, his tone almost a duplicate of MacRae's. He was a good judge of men, that eagle-faced major; he knew that the slightest move with hostile intent would mean a smoking gun. MacRae would have shot him dead in his tracks if he'd tried to reach a weapon. But a man who is really game--which no one who knew him could deny MacRae--won't, _can't_ shoot down another unless that other shows _fight_; and a knowledge of that gun-fighters'
trait saved Major Lessard's hide from being thoroughly punctured that day.
The orderly, a rather shaky orderly if the truth be told (I think he must have listened through the keyhole!) stepped up to Mac.
”Give me your side-arms, sergeant,” he said, nervously.
MacRae looked from one to the other, and for a breath I was as nervous as the trooper. It was touch and go, just then, and if he'd gone the wrong way it's altogether likely that I'd have felt called upon to back his play, and there would have been a horrible mix-up in that two by four room. But he didn't. Just smiled, a sardonic sort of grimace, and unbuckled his belt and handed it over without a word. He'd begun to cool.
”Reduced to the ranks--thirty days in irons--solitary confinement!”
Lessard snapped the words out with a wolfish satisfaction.
”Keep a close mouth, Sarge,” MacRae spoke in Spanish with his eyes bent on the floor, ”and don't quit the country till I get out.” Then he turned at the orderly's command and marched out of the room.
When I again turned to Lessard he still stood at the end of the desk, industriously paring his fingernails. An amused smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth.
CHAPTER VIII.
LYN.
Whereas Lessard had acted the martinet with MacRae, he took another tack and became the very essence of affability toward me. (I'd have enjoyed punching his proud head, for all that; it was a dirty way to serve a man who had done his level best.)
”Rather unfortunate happening for you, Flood,” he began. ”I think, however, that we shall eventually get your money back.”
”I hope so,” I replied coolly. ”But I must say that it begins to look like a big undertaking.”
”Well, yes; it is,” he observed. ”Still, we have a pretty thorough system of keeping track of things like that. This is a big country, but you can count on the fingers of one hand the places where a man can spend money. Of course, you probably realize the difficulty of laying hands on men who know they are wanted, and act accordingly. We can't arrest on a description, because you wouldn't know the men if you saw them. Our only chance is to be on the lookout for free spenders. It's a certainty that they will be captured if they spend that money at any trading-post within our jurisdiction. I'll find out if the quartermaster knows the numbers and denomination of the bills. On the other hand, if they go south, cross the line, you know, we won't get much of a show at them. But we'll have to take chances on that.”
”I've done all I can do in that direction,” I said. ”I've sent word to La Pere.”
”You had better stay hereabout for a while,” he decided. ”You can put up at one of the troop-messes for a few days. I'll send a despatch to Whoop Up and MacLeod, and we'll see what turns up. Also I think I shall send a detail to bring in those bodies. The identification must be made complete. No doubt it will be a trial for Miss Rowan, but I think she would feel better to have her father buried here. By the way, you knew the Rowans in the States, I believe.”
”Was trail-boss three seasons for Hank Rowan and his partner,” I returned briefly. I didn't much like his offhand way of asking; not that it wasn't a perfectly legitimate query. But I couldn't get rid of the notion that he would hand me out the same dose he had given MacRae if only he had the power.
”Ah,” he remarked. ”Then perhaps you would like to go out and help bring in those bodies. It will save taking the Pend d' Oreille riders from their regular patrol, and we are having considerable trouble with whisky-runners these days.”
I agreed to go, and that terminated the conversation. I didn't mind going; in fact some sort of action appealed to me just then. I had no idea of going back to Benton right away, and sitting around Fort Walsh waiting for something to turn up was not my taste. It never struck me till I was outside the office that Lessard had pa.s.sed up the gold episode altogether; he hadn't said whether he would send any one to prognosticate around Writing-Stone or not. I wondered if he took any stock in Rutter's story, or thought it merely one of the queer turns a man's brain will sometimes take when he is dying. It had sounded off-color to me, at first; but I knew old Hans pretty well, and he always seemed to me a hard-headed, matter of fact sort of man, not at all the flighty kind of pilgrim that gets mixed in his mental processes when things go wrong. Besides, if there wasn't some powerful incentive, why that double killing, to say nothing of the incredible devilishness that accompanied it.
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