Part 18 (1/2)

”Is he dead?” Jimmy gasped.

”Not yet, I think,” said Stannard, and Deering, running up, pushed him back and got on his knees.

Using some effort, he lifted the man's head and partly turned him over.

The others saw a few drops of blood about a very small hole in the breast of his deerskin jacket.

”A blamed awkward spot!” Deering remarked and gave Jimmy a sympathetic glance. ”Your luck's surely bad, but get hold. We must carry him to the house.”

Stannard got down; he was cooler than Jimmy, but they heard an angry shout, and Deering jumped for the lamp. When he ran forward the others saw a young police-trooper crawl from the ditch. Stopping on the bank, he looked down into the mud, and Bob, a few yards off, studied him with a grim smile. Jimmy remarked that Okanagan had not a rifle.

”If you try to get your blasted gun, I'll sock my knife to you,” said Bob. ”Shove on in front and stop where the light is.”

The trooper advanced awkwardly. His Stetson hat was gone and his head was cut. When he saw the man on the ground he stopped.

”You've killed him,” he said. ”Put up your hands! You're my prisoners!”

Bob laughed.

”Cut it out! That talk may go at Regina; we've no use for it in the bush.”

”An order from the Royal North-West goes everywhere. Quit fooling with that knife. My duty is--”

”Oh, shucks!” said Bob, and turned to the others. ”The kid fell on his head and is rattled bad.”

”He's hurt; give him a drink, Stannard,” said Deering. ”We must help the other fellow. Lift his feet; I'll watch out for his head. Get hold, Bob.”

They carried the man to the house. When they put him down he did not move, but Jimmy thought he breathed. Deering pushed a folded coat under his neck and held Stannard's flask to his mouth. His lips were tight and the liquor ran down his skin.

”A bad job!” said Deering, who opened the man's jacket. ”All the same, his heart has not stopped.”

The packers from the barn were now pus.h.i.+ng about the door and he beckoned one.

”Take the best horse and start for the hotel. Get the clerk to wire for a doctor and bring him along as quick as you can make it.”

The packer went off and Deering asked the policeman: ”Who's your pal?”

”He's Douglas, the game-warden. Looks as if you'd killed him.”

”He's not dead yet,” Deering rejoined, and pulled out some cigarettes.

”He may die. I don't know, but we'll give him all the chances we can. In the meantime, take a smoke and tell us what you were doing at the clearing.”

The trooper lighted a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Somebody had fixed two candles on the logs and the light touched the faces of the group. All were quiet but Deering, and Jimmy noted with surprise that Stannard let him take control. Stannard's look was very thoughtful; Bob's was keen and grim. The trooper had obviously got a nasty knock. At the door the packers were half seen in the gloom, but Jimmy felt the unconscious man on the boards, so to speak, dominated the picture.

Although Jimmy himself was highly strung he was cool.

”My officer sent me to help the warden round you up for poaching on the reserve,” said the trooper. ”When we hit the clearing we saw you were out with the pit-light and Douglas reckoned we'd get Okanagan first; the rest of you were tourists and wouldn't bother us. Douglas calculated Okanagan knew the best stand for a shot and would go right there. His plan was to steal up and get him. I was to watch out and b.u.t.t in when I was wanted.”

”It didn't go like that!” Bob remarked. ”When you saw me by the ditch had I a gun?”

”So far as I could see you had not. You began to pull your knife.”