Part 20 (1/2)
”Or for you!”
”Shucks! You know I was sort of superintending and hadn't a gun.”
”I don't know,” said Stannard. ”You stated you had not a gun. In the meantime, I imagine Simpson is measuring distances and fixing angles, or something like that. I can't judge if he knows his job; perhaps you can.”
Bob's glance was a little keener. ”Huh!” he said scornfully, ”the kid's from the cities and can't read tracks. All the same, somebody shot Douglas, and if the police can't fix it on Leyland, they'll get after me.”
”I don't see where I can help. For one thing, Mr. Leyland is my friend.
Then all I can state is, I didn't see you carry a gun. On the whole, I don't think the police have much grounds to bother you.”
”Well, I don't take no chances; the police would sooner I was for it.
They can't claim Leyland meant to kill the warden, but they might claim I did. Gimme a hundred dollars and I'll quit.”
Stannard smiled. ”I have not got ten dollars; I gave Jimmy my wallet.
He's your employer.”
”Then, if I run up against Mr. Leyland, I'll know he carries a wad and I guess I can persuade him to see me out,” said Bob. ”Now I'm going to take all the grub I want. So long!”
He went off and Stannard shrugged; but a few moments afterwards he rested his back against the wall and shut his eyes, as if he were tired.
By and by Simpson returned and met Bob near the door. Bob carried a big pack, a cartridge belt, and a rifle.
”h.e.l.lo!” said Simpson. ”Another for the woods? Well, you got to drop that pack. You're not going.”
”You make me tired. _My_ gun's not broke,” Bob rejoined and shoved the muzzle against Simpson's chest. ”Get inside, sonny. Get in quick!”
The Royal North-West Police do not enlist slack-nerved men and Simpson's pluck was good. For all that, he was lightly built and was hurt, while Bob was big and muscular. When Simpson seized the rifle barrel Bob pushed hard on the b.u.t.t. The trooper staggered back, struck the doorpost, and plunged into the house. Bob laughed.
”Your job's to help cure your partner. Maybe he knows who shot him,” he remarked, and started across the clearing.
Simpson leaned against the wall and gasped. When he got his breath he turned to Stannard savagely. ”Where's your rifle?”
”In the corner behind you,” Stannard replied, and Simpson, seizing the rifle, jerked open the breech.
”My cartridge sh.e.l.ls won't fit.”
”It's possible,” said Stannard. ”I didn't engage to lend you ammunition, but if you go to the barn, you'll find a brown valise. Bring me the valise and I may find you a box of cartridges.”
”Do you reckon Bob is going to wait until I get all fixed?”
”That's another thing,” said Stannard pleasantly.
Simpson put down the rifle. ”In about a minute the fellow'll hit the timber and his sort don't leave much trail. Then you have not pulled out yet.”
”You imagine if you went after Bob and did not find him, you might not find me when you came back?”
”That's so,” Simpson agreed. ”Not long since I reckoned I'd got the gang. Now you're all that's left. The packers don't count.”
”Oh, well,” said Stannard, smiling. ”I'll agree to remain. I expect to pay a fine for poaching, although I didn't know I was on the reserve.