  Before the lunch hour on the following day, Corporal Rand and his two prisoners returned to Frischette’s road-house, only to discover that Creel and the three boys were gone. However, Fontaine had a letter, which he pressed into the policeman’s hands. It was from Dick, a short note, scrawled hastily over the discolored surface of a torn piece of wrapping paper:
Rand looked up, after perusing the short missive, and pursed his lips. Then he made a swift calculation. If Dick and his two chums had contrived to pick up Creel’s trail, and had travelled steadily in one direction, they were not more than twenty or thirty miles away at that precise moment. They were on foot, while he had the choice of three tough, sturdy horses. It would be possible to overtake them and assist in the search. He wondered if it would be advisable to leave Burnnel and Emery locked up in a room at the road-house, awaiting his return. He thought the matter over carefully. He hated to risk the chance of losing his prisoners, yet it was very important that Creel should not escape. The recluse, as the boys had ascertained a few days before, had been associated with Frischette in a number of robberies, including that of Dewberry. Dewberry’s poke had been in the possession of Creel until the coming of Burnnel and Emery. No doubt, Creel knew all about the murder as well. In any case, he was too dangerous a character to be permitted to run at large. The policeman roundly upbraided himself for his negligence in failing to instruct the boys about keeping close watch over the man during his own recent absence. After much thinking, pro and con, the corporal came to a decision. He would go. Fontaine would watch over the prisoners. Just as soon as he, Rand, could feed and water his horse and get something to eat himself, he would immediately take the trail south—for that undoubtedly was the direction in which the wily old recluse had gone. Having made his plans, the policeman proceeded to put them into execution. He cared for his horse, had lunch, gave Fontaine final instructions, and, just before starting out, locked Burnnel and Emery in the room, which formerly had been the private chamber of the road-house keeper himself. He led out his horse, saddled and bridled, and was in the very act of mounting, when a sound came from the opposite side of the road-house. It caused him to hesitate, one foot already in the stirrup, then presently, with an exclamation of surprise, to withdraw that foot and place it firmly on the ground again. A half-breed woman, quite young, sitting gracefully on a pinto pony, guided by a rope bridle, came around the corner of the house and drew up, less than twenty feet from the spot where the corporal stood. Seeing a woman there, was not what had interested Rand so much as the fact that he had immediately recognized her. It was “Rat” MacGregor’s wife! If he had suddenly been brought face to face with her like this at any other place except here, at Frischette’s road-house, he would have thought nothing of it, would have continued about his business, untroubled by a single suspicion. But here it was different. What was the woman doing here? Surely it was for no good purpose. Her coming had induced a perplexing train of thought in the corporal’s mind, and had made necessary a complete revision of his plans. Shaking his head, he led his horse back into the stable and advanced to question the woman. Removing his hat, he bowed politely. “Madam is a long way from home,” he remarked. “May I ask which way you are going?” “Rat” MacGregor’s wife threw back her head haughtily. “Police! Bah!” she sniffed. “You have been released on probation,” the policeman reminded her, not unkindly. “Inspector Cameron has asked you to remain at home. What are you doing here?” The woman sniffed again, but did not answer. She turned her back and began fumbling with the cinches of the saddle. “You will return home at once,” Rand instructed her, endeavoring to keep his temper. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, her face set and determined. “Why you say where I go?” she broke forth passionately. “What business you have tell me go home? I go, I stay where I like. First, you keel my man, then you put me in jail, then you say I no go where I wish. Police pretty big fool, eh?” “Mrs. MacGregor,” declared the corporal patiently, “we have been more than kind to you. We released you from jail and placed you on probation. All that we have asked is that you remain at home and be good, attend to your own affairs. If you will do that, we will not put you back in jail again.” “Bah!” snorted MacGregor’s wife, sticking out her tongue and defying him. “You must promise to go back,” said Rand. “You must be good. You must not try to anger the police. If you will go back this afternoon, I will not mention this matter to the inspector. He shall know nothing about it and will not ask me to put you back in jail.” For a moment the policeman believed that he had won his point. Her manner changed suddenly. “My horse he is very tired.” “I will take him in the stable for you and give him something to eat. He can rest there for a few hours and then you can start back.” The corporal advanced, pushed her gently aside, loosened the cinches and swung the saddle from the back of the pinto mare. As he did so, MacGregor’s wife withdrew a few paces. The policeman had his back to her, and, therefore, did not see the swift movement of her right hand toward her blouse. But he did see, when next he chanced to turn his head, the small revolver nestling in her hand—pointed straight at his head. “I didn’t think you’d do a thing like that,” declared Rand, reproachfully. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. Put it down.” “You keel my man,” the young barbarian declared spitefully. “Now I keel you.” “That’s your privilege,” answered the policeman, quite unmoved. “But if you do, you’ll hang for it. Be reasonable, and put down that gun.” “Rat” MacGregor’s wife possessed the black, beady eyes of a snake. They were unrelenting, wicked, revengeful. Her staring gaze never left the policeman’s face. Eight feet away—it would not be possible to leap suddenly forward and disarm her. His best chance was to endeavor to get his own gun. But how could he get his gun, when she was watching him like that? He knew that if he moved his hand a single inch, her weapon would explode in his face. Hers was no idle threat. She really intended to kill him! There was a chance, very remote, of course, that Fontaine or Le Sueur might come to his assistance. Look out of the window. See him and the woman there. “Look here,” said Rand, fighting for time, “I think you are making a very serious mistake. You’ll have to answer for it in the end. Inspector Cameron will be sure to get you. You can’t possibly escape. While there is still time, you’d better put down that gun.” “If I do,” her eyes glinted, “will you promise not put me in jail?” The corporal did not hesitate. “A while ago I could have given you my promise. But not now. It is too late, madam.” The policeman was afraid that he had sounded his own death-knell. Well, he had told the truth, anyway. He had not lied to her. He had not stained his honor or violated the code. He wondered why he could feel so calm with those eyes blazing at him and the knowledge that he was about to die. Calm!—when he could see that the index finger of her right hand was beginning to press slowly but determinedly against the trigger. “Time’s up!” thought Corporal Rand. And then—like the sound that comes out of a dream—the opening of a door. |
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