  Soon after the departure of Corporal Rand, Burnnel and Emery, the boys sat in the big, cheerful room of Frischette’s road-house and discussed the latest episode in the chain of mysterious events. “I never expected to encounter anything like this,” Sandy was saying. “Honestly, Dick, it gives me the shivers just to think about it. If I were called upon to express an opinion, I’d say that the farther we get into this case, the more muddled and difficult everything appears to be. For one thing, whoever would have guessed that this sudden tragedy would have overtaken Frischette. What is the reason for it? Do you really believe the story about the suicide?” “It sounds plausible, the way they tell it, but to be perfectly frank, I think it’s a deliberate lie. Why should Frischette take his own life? It would be rather difficult to supply a motive.” “That’s what I think. But if he didn’t take his life, how—I mean, what happened?” “Simple enough. Burnnel and Emery met Frischette on the trail, discovered that he had the poke and murdered him. Then, having committed the crime, they became afraid. In order to save their own necks, they devised a scheme so that it will appear that the Frenchman had taken his own life. They probably arranged the body to bear out the story, placing a revolver in Frischette’s hand. They emptied the poke, hid its contents, and then came back here, intending, as they both openly admitted, to get in touch with the police.” “Well, that is a lot more plausible than the suicide story. Do you think that Corporal Rand was taken in by it?” “No; not in the least. They won’t be able to fool him for a minute. When they return here tonight, I’ll be willing to wager every cent I have that Burnnel and Emery are still under arrest.” “I won’t take your bet,” said Sandy. “That’s my belief too.” Imagine their surprise, therefore, less than four hours later, to witness the return of Corporal Rand and to perceive that he was unaccompanied. Burnnel and Emery were not with him. The horses which had borne the two prospectors to the scene of the tragedy, trotted behind the policeman’s horse at the end of a lead-rope, saddled but unmounted. It seemed incredible to the boys that Rand, usually so careful and cautious in matters of this kind, should permit the two miscreants to slip out of his hands. It was not like him. What could be the reason for it? They could hardly wait for the policeman to dismount. “I found everything,” said Rand a few minutes later, “just as Burnnel and Emery told us. It is unquestionably a case of suicide. Everything pointed to it. The revolver gripped in Frischette’s hand, the position of the body and the wound in his forehead. But what caused him to commit such a rash act, is a problem which we may never solve.” While the corporal was speaking, Dick could scarcely contain himself. On two or three different occasions he started to interrupt the policeman. At the very first opportunity he broke forth: “Corporal Rand,” he began earnestly, “you have made your investigations and, no doubt, are in a better position than we are to form an opinion. But has it occurred to you that there is something unusually mysterious about the whole affair. Sandy and I were talking it over just before you came in. And no matter from what angle we look at it, we can draw but one conclusion.” “And what is that?” Rand was smiling. “That Burnnel and Emery killed Frischette, afterward making it appear that the road-house keeper took his own life.” Corporal Rand moved over to where Dick stood and patted that young man on the back good-naturedly. “Splendid! You’ve both shown that you know how to use your heads. And now, I’ll make an admission: That was exactly my own estimate of the case up to a few hours ago. To use a well known expression, the thing looked like a ‘frame-up,’ very carefully planned by Monsieurs Burnnel and Emery. I could have sworn that they were guilty. I was absolutely sure—as sure as I am that I’m standing here—that Frischette had not committed suicide at all, but had been murdered. There was pretty strong circumstantial evidence to bear out this belief. The two men had gone to Creel to obtain the poke, and had secured it, only to lose it again through your intervention.” The corporal paused, clearing his throat. “Then Frischette got it from you. Now, I ask you, what would be more likely than that the two prospectors and Frischette should meet each other, that Emery and Burnnel should learn that the Frenchman had come into possession of the poke and eventually murder him in order to get it. As I have said, that was the reasonable and logical deduction, and you can imagine my astonishment to discover, almost beyond the shadow of a doubt, that such a deduction was entirely wrong. Motive or no motive, the Frenchman took his own life. I have proof of that.” “What is your proof?” asked Sandy. “Well, I made a search of the body and found something that both Burnnel and Emery had overlooked, a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. I know his handwriting and I am positive that the note is not a forgery.” “What did it say?” Dick asked breathlessly. By way of answering, Corporal Rand produced a wallet and extracted from it a small, soiled slip of paper, handing it over to the boys to read. For a moment they found difficulty in deciphering the sprawling, almost illegible script. But presently Dick read aloud:
Dick’s hand shook as he handed the paper back to the policeman. “I’m not convinced yet,” he declared. “But here’s the evidence—the proof right here.” Rand patted the slip of paper. “It might be explained,” Dick pointed out. “What!” The corporal looked startled. “How do you know that Emery and Burnnel did not force Frischette to write that note before they murdered him?” Rand did a peculiar thing. He stared at Dick for a moment in absolute silence, then turned without a word and walked back into the stable and led out his horse. Not until he had sprung into the saddle did he trust himself to speak. “I’m going back. I ought to be jerked back there by the nape of my neck. What have I been dreaming of? Dick, I’ll take off my hat to you. It’s a fortunate thing that one of us, at least, has not been wholly deprived of the faculty of sober reasoning.” He smiled grimly. “If this ever got to Cameron’s ears, I’d be fined six months’ pay.” “But I may be wrong,” Dick flushed at the other’s compliment. “Right or wrong, we can’t afford to take any chances. In any event, I’m going back before Emery and Burnnel slip out of my hands.” And, in an incredibly short space of time, he was gone. A turn in the woodland path shut him from view. But, even long after he had gone, Dick and Sandy stood looking down the trail, across which laggard twilight had flung its darkling banners. Sandy broke into an amused chuckle. “That’s one on the corporal. He won’t be in a very pleasant frame of mind for the remainder of the evening, will he?” Dick scowled. “You must remember, Sandy, that we all make mistakes. Rand’s oversight is excusable. He’s been working on this case day and night for the last six months. He’s tired out, and sometimes so sleepy that he can hardly stick in the saddle.” “Yes, that’s right.” The laugh died on the young Scotchman’s lips. “He’s had a lot to contend with. And perhaps he hasn’t made a mistake after all. Frischette may have committed suicide. The note might not have been forced from him. Who can say?” “Yes,” said Dick, “who can say? Why don’t you put on your thinking cap, Sandy, and find a motive for Frischette’s act?” “That’s a bargain. We’ll find the motive. We’ll go over the details carefully in our minds and try to come to some conclusion.” Sandy grinned. “And tomorrow morning we’ll compare notes.” They were interrupted at this juncture by the appearance of Toma. They could see at once, from that young man’s expression, that something unusual had happened. His face, sober at all times, was unusually gray and depressed. As he came forward quickly, he kept glancing from one to the other interrogatively. “Have you seen ’em fellow Creel?” he asked anxiously. “Why, no, Toma,” Dick answered. “What makes you ask that?” “Little while ago,” the young Indian enlightened them, “I think mebbe I change bandage on that fellow’s head. I look everywhere. I no find.” “Come to think about it,” Sandy made the assertion, “I haven’t seen him myself since lunch.” Toma’s face darkened. “I ’fraid mebbe he run away.” |
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