CHAPTER XII
TOM DUCKS TROUBLE
To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that served for anoffice in the company store at Faraway, came a light-stepping youth intrim boots, scarlet jacket, and forage cap set at a jaunty angle.
"'Lo, Uncle Sam," he said, saluting gayly.
"'Lo, Johnnie Canuck. Where you been for a year and heaven knows howmany months?"
"Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who killed BuckskinJerry."
Tom took in Beresford's lean body, a gauntness of the boyish face,hollows under the eyes that had not been there when first they hadmet. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozenLone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guessthe dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books,without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It musthave been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken theCanadian's blithe joy in living.
"Get him?" the Montanan asked.
The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always broughtback those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up thetradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent.
"Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience thathad taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilizedexistence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have alook-see."
"At what? He ain't suspectin' any one at Faraway of stretchin',bendin', or bustin' the laws."
Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it that Faraway wasa cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs ofMontana became too active, there was usually an influx of populationat the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushednorth to safety.
"Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?"
"Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly.
The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." Hisknuckles rapped on the desk.
"If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy--"
"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.
"--you certainly ain't him. Onload your grief."
"The theme of my discourse is aborigines, their dispositions,animadversions, and propensities," explained the constable. "Accordingto the latest scientific hypotheses, the metempsychosis--"
Tom threw up his hands. "Help! Help! I never studied geology none.Don't know this hypotenuse you're pow-wowin' about any more'n my painthawss does. Come again in one syllables."
"Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more thanusual?"
The junior partner of C.N. Morse & Company considered. "Why, yes,seems to me I have--heap much swagger and noise, plenty rag-chewin'and tomahawk swingin'."
"Why?"
"Whiskey, likely."
"Where do they get it?"
Tom looked at the soldier quizzically. "Your guess is good as mine,"he drawled.
"I'm guessing West and Whaley."
Morse made no comment. Bully West had thrown in his fortune with DugWhaley, a gambler who had drifted from one mining camp to another andbeen washed by the tide of circumstance into the Northwest. Ostensiblythey supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities to thetribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they made their profitin whiskey smuggled across the plains.
"But to guess it and to prove it are different propositions. How amI going to hang it on them? I can't make a bally fool of myselfby prodding around in their bales and boxes. If I didn't findanything--and it'd be a long shot against me--West and his gang wouldstick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock would shootdown. No, I've got to make sure, jump 'em, and tie 'em up by findingthe goods on the wagons."
"Fat chance," speculated Tom.
"That's where you come in."
"Oh, I come in there, do I? I begin to hear Old Man Trouble knockin'at my door like you promised. Break it kinda easy. Am I to go up an'ask Bully West where he keeps his fire-water cached? Or what?"
"Yes. Only don't mention to him that you're asking. Your firm and histrade back and forth, don't they?"
"Forth, but not back. When they've got to have some goods--if it'sneck or nothing with them--they buy from us. We don't buy from them.You couldn't exactly call us neighborly."
Beresford explained. "West's just freighted in a cargo of goods. I canguarantee that if he brought any liquor with him--and I've good reasonto think he did--it hasn't been unloaded yet. To-morrow the wagonswill scatter. I can't follow all of 'em. If I cinch Mr. West, it's gotto be to-night."
"I see. You want me to give you my blessin'. I'll come through with afine big large one. Go to it, constable. Hogtie West with proof.Soak him good. Send him up for 'steen years. You got my sympathy an'approval, one for the grief you're liable to bump into, the other foryour good intentions."
The officer's grin had a touch of the proverbial Cheshire cat'smalice. "Glad you approve. But you keep that sympathy for yourself.I'm asking you to pull the chestnut out of the fire for me. You'dbetter look out or you'll burn your paw."
"Just remember I ain't promisin' a thing. I'm a respectable businessman now, and, as I said, duckin' trouble."
"Find out for me in which wagon the liquor is. That's all I ask."
"How can I find out? I'm no mind reader."
"Drift over casually and offer to buy goods. Poke around a bit. Keepcases on 'em. Notice the wagons they steer you away from."
Tom thought it over and shook his head. "No, I don't reckon I will."
"Any particular reason?"
"Don't look to me hardly like playin' the game. I'm ferninst Westevery turn of the road. He's crooked as a dog's hind laig. But itwouldn't be right square for me to spy on him. Different with you.That's what you're paid for. You're out to run him down any way youcan. He knows that. It's a game of hide an' go seek between you an'him. Best man wins."
The red-coat assented at once. "Right you are, I'll get some oneelse." He rose to go. "See you later maybe."
Tom nodded. "Sorry I can't oblige, but you see how it is."
"Quite. I oughtn't to have asked you."
Beresford strode briskly out of the store.
Through the window Morse saw him a moment later in whisperedconversation with Onistah. They were standing back of an outlyingshed, in such a position that they could not be seen from the road.