  Toma had never seen Corporal Rand in a rage before. The corporal’s face was flushed with anger and his expressive blue eyes snapped. As yet the young Indian had received no explanation of how the policeman and his two friends had been made prisoners. He had been too busy to question them. Besides they had been in no condition to talk. The first intelligible word from any of them had been: “Water!” None of the three could stand. Locked in that hot stifling room, their suffering had been terrible. For more than an hour Toma had administered to them, chafing their limbs, bringing them water, making them more comfortable. After that, he had been compelled to hurry back to the kitchen to prepare a meal for them. Cared for in this fashion, their recovery had been rapid. Soon all, except Le Sueur, were able to stand and to limp about the room. It was then that Toma noticed the policeman’s anger. His lips were pressed together tightly, his hands were clinched. The nails of his fingers dug into his palms. “How it happen you get tie up in that room?” Toma asked, his sober dark eyes gravely regarding the policeman. “Burnnel and Emery.” The answer came short and terse, with no attempt at elaboration. “How they do that?” “I had them locked up here,” Rand pointed to the room, “when that woman came.” He paused, while a slow flush of shame mounted to his bronzed forehead. “It was she, MacGregor’s wife, who did it, Toma. Came riding into the corral, just as I was preparing to start. I led my horse back into the stable and went over to question her. You see,” Rand explained, “I knew her—‘Rat’ MacGregor’s wife. Wondered why she had come here, Toma. Surmised, of course, that she was up to some mischief. But I was wholly unprepared for her treachery.” The corporal paused again and the flush deepened. “What she do?” inquired Toma. The policeman’s mouth set in a straight hard line. “Pulled a gun on me without warning and without provocation. I didn’t have a chance. I knew she’d use it. Fontaine and Le Sueur came out of the house and she got the drop on them too. Marched us back to the road-house and forced us to release Emery and Burnnel. “As soon as Emery and Burnnel were released, they took charge. We were thrown into the room, bound, gagged, and the door was locked.” The corporal paused again, moistening his dry lips. “But that isn’t all, Toma. I have still to tell you about—about Inverness. My horse! In my position, lying on the floor, I had a view through the window, and those fiends,” Corporal Rand choked, “brought Inverness around and shot him before my very eyes. After that I saw them drag him away. They came back again and I caught a glimpse of them as they rode off: Burnnel astride Sandy’s horse, and Emery riding Dick’s, the woman bringing up the rear on her own pony.” Toma’s face had grown dark with suppressed emotion. “Bad thing they shoot your horse, corporal.” The deep lines about the policeman’s mouth tightened. The pupils of his eyes were like two steel points, hard, glittering. It was not difficult to see what most aroused his ire. Rand could accept, without complaining, the indignities offered to his own person. Not so, regarding his horse. He loved the animal. Through weary, lonesome days on patrol, it had been his only friend and companion. A strange attachment had grown up between them. Almost any time, Rand would gladly have sacrificed his own life to save that of the fiery little steed. The wilful, deliberate shooting of this horse was the cause of the corporal’s anger. In his heart, he had sworn revenge. “You see, Toma,” his voice was strangely calm, “he meant a lot to me—Inverness. I—I hated to see him go. Poor old fellow! I could see his pleading look, when they brought him over opposite the window, and he looked in and saw me.” Unbidden, a tear came into the corporal’s steely eye and trickled down his cheek. He rose from his chair and strode to the door. “Why they shoot your horse like that?” Toma wanted to know. “To insure their escape,” the policeman answered, not turning his head. “If I were released, it would be necessary to follow on foot.” He turned quickly upon Toma. “How did it happen,” he asked, “that you came on alone? Where are Dick and Sandy?” “Burnnel and Emery get them jus’ like they get you. Almost get me, too, but I jump away from them. I come on here because I think mebbe you go back an’ help.” “You did well, Toma. Where did this happen?” “Near the place where keep ’em house that free trader.” “Meade?” The Indian nodded. “That isn’t far from here,” said Rand. “We’ll start at once.” In admiration, Toma drew in his breath. Well he knew the agony the policeman must endure from his limbs, still swollen, as the result of that terrible ordeal. Notwithstanding this, he proposed to start out as if nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty miles back along the trail to Meade’s Ferry. Twenty miles with legs like that! Twenty miles through the stifling heat of that summer’s day—and over a rough trail! “You think you do that?” he asked, his mouth agape. “I can do it,” declared Rand simply. And not long afterward they were on the trail, the policeman walking with a pronounced limp, yet keeping abreast of his more agile companion. Mosquitos drove around them in clouds. The hot breath of the sun-steeped earth rose up about them. It was tedious work, a gruelling, unpleasant experience. Yet the corporal did not complain. When he spoke at all, it was to joke or jest, to comment lightly upon some phase of their journey. And with each passing minute, his limp grew more pronounced. He was hobbling now upon swollen, blistered feet. “We better stop rest,” Toma advised him. “No,” said Rand, clenching his teeth, “we’ll go on. It can’t be much farther now. Just a few miles more.” So they went on again, a weary, perspiring pair. Though Toma suffered no particular physical discomfort, he endured mental torture as he watched the policeman keep pace with him. He could have cried out with thankfulness, when at last, through an opening in the trees, he discerned the low, rambling structure, which served the double purpose of store and road-house. A short time later they entered the building itself and were greeted by the kindly free trader. “Glad to see you, corporal. The boys were expecting you.” “Where are they now?” “They’ve gone on.” “And Burnnel and Emery?” “The boys are camping on their trail.” Corporal Rand looked very much surprised and turned upon Toma. “I thought you said that the boys had been taken prisoners?” “Yes,” nodded Toma. “Well, how can that be?” “I can explain it all,” Meade laughed. “Dick and Sandy were taken prisoners, all right, but were released a few minutes later. They slept out last night in the open, returning here shortly after the three set out—Burnnel, Emery and the squaw.” “How did the boys travel?” Rand asked. “I lent them two ponies.” “Got any more?” “Not another one, corporal. I have only the two. One is mine and the other belongs to my son, Frederick. But where is your own horse, corporal?” Thus reminded of his loss, Rand’s face became grim again. “They shot it. Back at Frenchie’s road-house. That’s why I’ve come on foot.” “And you’re almost crippled,” said Meade, who had observed the policeman’s limp. “I can manage somehow.” “Not until you’ve doctored up those feet,” Meade declared kindly. Rand flung himself down in an easy chair, motioning to Toma also to be seated. “You’d better rest while you can, Toma. We’ll go on again in a few minutes.” Meade had grown thoughtful. “I’ve an idea,” he announced at length, “that I can get two horses for you over at Bonner’s Lake from a half-breed there. This man has a herd of ponies he keeps for Spring and Autumn freighting. They’re feeding on the range now and I’m sure he’ll accommodate me.” Meade smiled, puffing stoutly on his pipe. “I’ll send my son, Frederick, over there,” he resumed. “In the meantime, you can rest here. He won’t be long.” The kind offer was accepted. In truth, the corporal’s limbs were so badly swollen from the effects of the thongs and the hard trek immediately after being released by Toma, that he doubted very much whether he could walk more than a few miles more, anyway. “I won’t forget your kindness,” the policeman thanked him. “It’s very good of you.” “Not at all! Not at all!” Meade hastened to assure him. “I’d do that much for the Royal Mounted any time. I’ve heard about the case you’re working on, corporal, and I’m anxious to have you succeed. Dewberry was a friend of mine.” Rand looked up quickly. “That’s interesting. So few men really knew Dewberry. Queer character, from what I’ve heard.” “A splendid man,” Meade declared reverently. “A generous and fine man!” “While your son, Frederick, is away after the horses, I wonder if you’ll tell me what you know of him. It has been very difficult to gather any information concerning him. It might help a lot in this case if you’d give me a clear insight into his character. There are a number of things I can’t explain.” Frederick was called and sent after the ponies. Then Meade sat down and began telling about his friend, the mysterious Dewberry. It was a story very similar to the one he had told Dick and Sandy. Rand listened without once interrupting, and Toma also paid close attention until, growing drowsy, he fell asleep in his chair. When he awoke again, Meade was still talking, but now occasionally the policeman plied him with a question. Toma yawned, rose to his feet and stalked over to a window. Looking out, he was surprised to see the free trader’s son already returning with the horses. “They come,” announced Toma. “The ponies are here.” Corporal Rand smiled and nodded at Toma, but—a thing the young Indian could not understand—seemed more interested in the conversation than in the arrival of the ponies. Nevertheless, a moment later Rand rose and hobbled to the door. Meade followed him. They went out ahead of Toma, and, as they did so, the policeman remarked: “Your talk has been a revelation. I’m beginning to see a little light.” Long afterward, when he and the corporal were out on the trail, Toma studied over that statement. What did Rand mean by that? Hadn’t he always seen the light? Then he shook his head and gave up in despair. For Corporal Rand, as Toma was well aware, had never had trouble with his vision. |
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