CHAPTER XIV
SCARLET-COATS IN ACTION
When Bully West discovered that such part of the cargo of wet goodsas was in wagon number two had disappeared and along with it the fourmule-skinners, his mind jumped to an instant conclusion. That ithappened to be the wrong one was natural enough to his sulky,suspicious mind.
"Goddlemighty, they've double-crossed us," he swore to his partner,with an explosion of accompanying profanity. "Figure on cleanin' up onthe goods an' cuttin' back to the States. Tha's what they aim to do.Before I can head 'em off. Me, I'll show 'em they can't play monkeytricks on Bully West."
This explanation did not satisfy Whaley. The straight black line ofthe brows above the cold eyes met in frowning thought.
"I've got a hunch you're barkin' up the wrong tree," he lisped with ashrug of shoulders.
Voice and gesture were surprising in that they were expressions ofthis personality totally unexpected. Both were almost womanlike intheir delicacy. They suggested the purr and soft padding of a cat, anodd contradiction to the white, bloodless face with the inky brows.The eyes of "Poker" Whaley could throw fear into the most recklessbull-whacker on the border. They held fascinating and sinisterpossibilities of evil.
"Soon see. We'll hit the trail right away after them," Bully replied.
Whaley's thin lip curled. He looked at West as though he read tothe bottom of that shallow mind and meant to make the most of hisknowledge.
"Yes," he murmured, as though to himself. "Some one ought to stay withthe rest of the outfit, but I reckon I'd better go along. Likely youcouldn't handle all of 'em if they showed fight."
West's answer was a roar of outraged vanity. "Me! Not round up themtame sheep. I'll drive 'em back with their tongues hangin' out.Understand?"
At break of day he was in the saddle. An experienced trailer, Westfound no difficulty in following the wagon tracks. No attempt had beenmade to cover the flight. The whiskey-runner could trace at a roadgait the narrow tracks along the winding road.
The country through which he traveled was the border-land between theplains and the great forests that rolled in unbroken stretch to thefrozen North. Sometimes he rode over undulating prairie. Again hemoved through strips of woodland or skirted beautiful lakes from thereedy edges of which ducks or geese rose whirring at his approach. Apair of coyotes took one long look at him and skulked into a ravine.Once a great moose started from a thicket of willows and galloped overa hill.
West heeded none of this. No joy touched him as he breasted summitsand looked down on wide sweeps of forest and rippling water. Thetracks of the wheel rims engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze. Ifthe brutish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been far frompleasant ones.
The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault, slid toward thehorizon. Dusk found him at the edge of a wooded lake.
He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of triumph. From the timberon the opposite shore came a tenuous smoke skein. A man came to thewater with a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods. BullyWest knew he had caught up with those he was tracking.
The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and rode through thetimber toward the smoke. At a safe distance he dismounted, tiedthe horse to a young pine, and carefully examined his rifle. Verycautiously he stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill andthe stealth of a Sarcee scout.
Camp had been pitched in a small open space surrounded by bushes.Through the thicket, on the south side, he picked a way, pushing awayeach sapling and weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of hishuge body. For such a bulk of a figure he moved lightly. Twice hestopped by reason of the crackle of a snapping twig, but no sign ofalarm came from his prey.
They sat hunched--the four of them--before a blazing log fire,squatting on their heels in the comfortable fashion of the outdoorsman the world over. Their talk was fragmentary. None gave any sign ofalertness toward any possible approaching danger.
No longer wary, West broke through the last of the bushes andstraddled into the open.
"Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore boss," he jeered,triumph riding voice and manner heavily.
He waited for the startled dismay he expected. None came. The drama ofthe moment did not meet his expectation. The teamsters looked at him,sullenly, without visible fear or amazement. None of them rose orspoke.
Sultry anger began to burn in West's eyes. "Thought you'd slip oneover on the old man, eh? Thought you could put over a raw steal an'get away with it. Well, lemme tell you where you get off at. I'm gonnawhale every last one of you to a frazzle. With a big club. An'I'm gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of whipped curs.Understand?"
Still they said nothing. It began to penetrate the thick skull ofthe trader that there was something unnatural about their crouchedsilence. Why didn't they try to explain? Or make a break for agetaway?
He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley of curses,than to repeat his threat. "A thunderin' good wallopin', first off.Then we hit the trail together, you-all an' me."
From out of the bushes behind him a voice came. "That last's a goodprophecy, Mr. West. It'll be just as you say."
The big fellow wheeled, the rifle jumping to his shoulder. Instantlyhe knew he had been tricked, led into a trap. They must have heard himcoming, whoever they were, and left his own men for bait.
From the other side two streaks of scarlet launched themselves at him.West turned to meet them. A third flash of red dived for his knees. Hewent down as though hit by a battering-ram.
But not to stay down. The huge gorilla-shaped figure struggled toits feet, fighting desperately to throw off the three red-coats longenough to drag out a revolver. He was like a bear surrounded byleaping dogs. No sooner had he buffeted one away than the otherswere dragging him down. Try as he would, he could not get set. Theattackers always staggered him before he could quite free himself foraction. They swarmed all over him, fought close to avoid his sweepinglunges, hauled him to his knees by sheer weight of the pack.
Lemoine flung one swift look around and saw that his captors were verybusy. Now if ever was the time to take a hand in the melee. Swiftly herose. He spoke a hurried word in French.
"One moment, s'il vous plait." From the bushes another man hademerged, one not in uniform. Lemoine had forgotten him. "Not yourfight. Better keep out," he advised, and pointed the suggestion with ashort-barreled shotgun.
The trapper looked at him. "Is it that this iss your fight, MistairMorse?" he demanded.
"Fair enough. I'll keep out too."
The soldiers had West down by this time. They were struggling tohandcuff him. He fought furiously, his great arms and legs threshingabout like flails. Not till he had worn himself out could they pinionhim.
Beresford rose at last, the job done. His coat was ripped almost fromone shoulder. "My word, he's a whale of an animal," he panted. "If Ihadn't chanced to meet you boys he'd have eaten me alive."
The big smuggler struggled for breath. When at last he found words, itwas for furious and horrible curses.
Not till hours later did he get as far as a plain question. "What doesthis mean? Where are you taking me, you damned spies?" he roared.
Beresford politely gave him information. "To the penitentiary, I hope,Mr. West, for breaking Her Majesty's revenue laws."