Man-Size

  CHAPTER VII

  THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET

  Morse ambled out at a road gait to take his turn at guard duty. He wasfollowing the principle that the longest way round is the shortestroad to a given place. The reason for this was to ward off anysuspicion that might have arisen if the watchers had always come andgone by the same trail. Therefore they started for any point of thecompass, swung round in a wide detour, and in course of time arrivedat the cache.

  There wasn't any hurry anyhow. Each day had twenty-four hours, and afellow lived just as long if he didn't break his neck galloping alongwith his tail up like a hill steer on a stampede.

  To-day Morse dropped in toward the cache from due west. His eyeswere open, even if the warmth of the midday sun did make him sleepy.Something he saw made him slip from the saddle, lead his horse into adraw, and move forward very carefully through the bunch grass.

  What he had seen was a man crouched behind some brush, looking downinto the little gorge where the whiskey cache was--a man in leatherboots, tight riding-breeches, scarlet jacket, and jaunty forage cap.It needed no second glance to tell Tom Morse that the police had rundown the place where they had hidden their cargo.

  From out of the little canon a man appeared. He was carrying a keg ofwhiskey. The man was Barney. West had no doubt sent word to him thathe would shortly bring a buyer with him to the rendezvous.

  The man in the scarlet jacket rose and stepped out into the open. Hewas a few feet from Barney. In his belt there was a revolver, but hedid not draw it.

  Barney stopped and stared at him, his mouth open, eyes bulging. "Wherein Heligoland you come from?" he asked.

  "From Sarnia, Ontario," the red-coat answered. "Glad to meet you,friend. I've been looking for you several days."

  "For me!" said Barney blankly.

  "For you--and for that keg of forty-rod you're carrying. No, don'tdrop it. We can talk more comfortably while both your hands are busy."The constable stepped forward and picked from the ground a rifle."I've been lying in the brush two hours waiting for you to getseparated from this. Didn't want you making any mistakes in yourexcitement."

  "Mistakes!" repeated Barney.

  "Yes. You're under arrest, you know, for whiskey-smuggling."

  "You're one of these here border police." Barney used the risinginflection in making his statement.

  "Constable Winthrop Beresford, North-West Mounted, at your service,"replied the officer jauntily. He was a trim, well-set-up youth, quickof step and crisp of speech.

  "What you gonna do with me?"

  "Take you to Fort Macleod."

  It was perhaps because his eyes were set at not quite the right anglesand because they were so small and wolfish that Barney usually arouseddistrust. He suggested now, with an ingratiating whine in his voice,that he would like to see a man at Whoop-Up first.

  "Jes' a li'l' matter of business," he added by way of explanation.

  The constable guessed at his business. The man wanted to let his bossknow what had taken place and to give him a chance to rescue him if hewould. Beresford's duty was to find out who was back of this liquorrunning. It would be worth while knowing what man Barney wanted totalk with. He could afford to take a chance on the rescue.

  "Righto," he agreed. "You may put that barrel down now."

  Barney laid it down, end up. With one sharp drive of the rifle buttthe officer broke in the top of the keg, He kicked the barrel overwith his foot.

  This was the moment Morse chose for putting in an appearance.

  "Hello! What's doin'?" he asked casually.

  Beresford, cool and quiet, looked straight at him. "I'll ask _you_that."

  "Kinda expensive to irrigate the prairie that way, ain't it?"

  "Doesn't cost me anything. How about you?"

  Morse laughed at the question fired back at him so promptly. Thisyoung man was very much on the job. "Not a bean," the Montanan said.

  "Good. Then you'll enjoy the little show I'm putting on--five thousanddollars' worth of liquor spilt all at one time."

  "Holy Moses! Where is this blind tiger you're raidin'?"

  "Down in the gully. Lucky you happened along just by chance. You'll beable to carry the good news to Whoop-Up and adjacent points."

  "You're not really aimin' to spill all that whiskey."

  "That's my intention. Any objections?" The scarlet-coated officerspoke softly, without any edge to his voice. But Tom began tounderstand why the clerk at the trading-post had called the MountedPolice go-getters. This smooth-shaven lad, so easy and carefreeof manner, had a gleam in his eye that meant business. His verygentleness was ominous.

  Tom Morse reflected swiftly. His uncle's firm had taken a chance ofthis very finale when it had sent a convoy of liquor into forbiddenterritory. Better to lose the stock than to be barred by the CanadianGovernment from trading with the Indians at all. This officer was notone to be bribed or bullied. He would go through with the thing he hadstarted.

  "Why, no! How could I have any objections?" Morse said.

  He shot a swift, slant look at Barney, a look that told the Irishmanto say nothing and know nothing, and that he would be protectedagainst the law.

  "Glad you haven't," Constable Beresford replied cheerfully--so verycheerfully in fact that Morse suspected he would not have been muchdaunted if objections had been mentioned. "Perhaps you'll help me withmy little job, then."

  The trader grinned. He might as well go the limit with the bluff hewas playing. "Sure. I'll help you make a fourth o' July outa the kegs.Lead me to 'em."

  "You don't know where they are, of course?"

  "In the gully, you said," Morse replied innocently

  "So I did. Righto. Down you go, then." The constable turned to Barney."You next, friend."

  A well-defined trail led down the steep side of the gulch. It ended ina thick growth of willow saplings. Underneath the roof of this foliagewere more than a score of whiskey-casks.

  After ten minutes with the rifle butt there was nothing to show forthe cache but broken barrels and a trough of wet sand where the liquorhad run down the bed of the dry gully.

  It was time, Morse thought, to play his own small part in theentertainment.

  "After you, gentlemen," Beresford said, stepping aside to let themtake the trail up.

  Morse too moved back to let Barney pass. The eyes of the two men metfor a fraction of a second. Tom's lips framed silently one word. Inthat time a message was given and received.

  The young man followed Barney, the constable at his heels. Morsestumbled, slipped to all fours, and slid back. He flung out his armsto steady himself and careened back against the constable. His flyinghands caught at the scarlet coat. His bent head and shoulders thrustBeresford back and down.

  Barney started to run.

  The officer struggled to hold his footing against the awkward incubus,to throw the man off so that he could pursue Barney. His efforts werevain. Morse, evidently trying to regain his equilibrium, plungedwildly at him and sent him ploughing into the willows. The Montananlanded heavily on top, pinned him down, and smothered him.

  The scarlet coat was a center of barrel hoops, bushes, staves, andwildly jerking arms and legs.

  Morse made heroic efforts to untangle himself from the clutter. Onceor twice he extricated himself almost, only to lose his balance on theslippery bushes and come skating down again on the officer just as hewas trying to rise.

  It was a scene for a moving-picture comedy, if the screen had been afeature of that day.

  When at last the two men emerged from the gulch, Barney was nowhere tobe seen. With him had vanished the mount of Beresford.

  The constable laughed nonchalantly. He had just lost a prisoner, whichwas against the unwritten law of the Force, but he had gained anotherin his place. It would not be long till he had Barney too.

  "Pretty work," he said appreciatively. "You couldn't have done itbetter if you'd done it on purpose, could you?"

  "Done what?" asked Morse, with bland n
aivete.

  "Made a pillow and a bed of me, skated on me, bowled me over like atenpin."

  "I ce'tainly was awkward. Couldn't get my footin' at all, seemed like.Why, where's Barney?" Apparently the trader had just made a discovery.

  "Ask of the winds, 'Oh, where?'" Beresford dusted off his coat, histrousers, and his cap. When he had removed the evidence of the battleof the gulch, he set his cap at the proper angle and cocked aninquiring eye at the other. "I suppose you know you're under arrest."

  "Why, no! Am I? What for? Which of the statues, laws, and ordinancesof Queen Vic have I been bustin' without knowin' of them?"

  "For aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner."

  "Did I do all that? And when did I do it?"

  "While you were doing that war-dance on what was left of my manhandledgeography."

  "Can you arrest a fellow for slippin'?"

  "Depends on how badly he slips. I'm going to take a chance onarresting you, anyhow."

  "Gonna take away my six-shooter and handcuff me?"

  "I'll take your revolver. If necessary, I'll put on the cuffs."

  Morse looked at him, not without admiration. The man in the scarletjacket wasted nothing. There was about him no superfluity of build,of gesture, of voice. Beneath the close-fitting uniform the musclesrippled and played when he moved. His shoulders and arms were thoseof a college oarsman. Lean-flanked and clean-limbed, he was in thehey-day of a splendid youth. It showed in the steady eyes set wide inthe tanned face, in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, inthe spring of the step. The Montanan recognized in him a kinship ofdynamic force.

  "Just what would I be doing?" the whiskey-runner asked, smiling.

  Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I'll find that out pretty soon. Yourrevolver, please." He held out his hand, palm up.

  "Let's get this straight. We're man to man. What'll you do if I findI've got no time to go to Fort Macleod with you?"

  "Take you with me."

  "Dead or alive?"

  "No, alive."

  "And if I won't go?" asked Morse.

  "Oh, you'll go." The officer's bearing radiated a quiet, imperturbableconfidence. His hand was still extended, "_If_ you please."

  "No hurry. Do you know what you're up against? When I draw this gun Ican put a bullet through your head and ride away?"

  "Yes."

  "Unless, of course, you plug me first."

  "Can't do that. Against the regulations."

  "Much obliged for that information. You've got only a dead man'schance then--if I show fight."

  "Better not. Game hardly worth the candle. My pals would run youdown," the constable advised coolly.

  "You still intend to arrest me?"

  "Oh, yes."

  As Morse looked at him, patient as an animal of prey, steady,fearless, an undramatic Anglo-Saxon who meant to go through with theday's work, he began to understand the power that was to make theNorth-West Mounted Police such a force in the land. The only way hecould prevent this man from arresting him was to kill the constable;and if he killed him, other jaunty red-coated youths would come tokill or be killed. It came to him that he was up against a new orderwhich would wipe Bully West and his kind from the land.

  He handed his revolver to Beresford. "I'll ride with you."

  "Good. Have to borrow your horse till we reach Whoop-Up. You won'tmind walking?"

  "Not at all. Some folks think that's what legs were made for,"answered Morse, grinning.

  As he strode across the prairie beside the horse, Morse was stillpuzzling over the situation. He perceived that the strength of theofficer's position was wholly a moral one. A lawbreaker was confrontedwith an ugly alternative. The only way to escape arrest was to commitmurder. Most men would not go that far, and of those who would thegreat majority would be deterred because eventually punishment wassure. The slightest hesitation, the least apparent doubt, a flicker offear on the officer's face, would be fatal to success. He won becausehe serenely expected to win, and because there was back of him asilent, impalpable force as irresistible as the movement of a glacier.

  Beresford must have known that the men who lived at Whoop-Up wereunfriendly to the North-West Mounted. Some of them had been put out ofbusiness. Their property had been destroyed and confiscated. Fineshad been imposed on them. The current whisper was that thewhiskey-smugglers would retaliate against the constables in personwhenever there was a chance to do so with impunity. Some day adebonair wearer of the scarlet coat would ride out gayly from oneof the forts and a riderless horse would return at dusk. There wereoutlaws who would ask nothing better than a chance to dry-gulch one ofthese inquisitive riders of the plains.

  But Beresford rode into the stockade and swung from the saddle withsmiling confidence. He nodded here and there casually to dark, sullenmen who watched his movements with implacably hostile eyes.

  His words were addressed to Reddy Madden. "Can you let me have a horsefor a few days and charge it to the Force? I've lost mine."

  Some one sniggered offensively. Barney had evidently reached Whoop-Upand was in hiding.

  "Your horse came in a while ago, constable," Madden said civilly."It's in the corral back of the store."

  "Did it come in without a rider?" Beresford asked.

  The question was unnecessary. The horse would have gone to FortMacleod and not have come to Whoop-Up unless a rider had guided ithere. But sometimes one found out things from unwilling witnesses ifone asked questions.

  "Didn't notice. I was in the store myself."

  "Thought perhaps you hadn't noticed," the officer said. "None of youother gentlemen noticed either, did you?"

  The "other gentlemen" held a dogged, sulky silence. A girl canteredthrough the gate of the stockade and up to the store. At sight ofMorse her eyes passed swiftly to Beresford. His answered smilinglywhat she had asked. It was all over in a flash, but it told the manfrom Montana who the informer was that had betrayed to the police theplace of the whiskey cache.

  To the best of her limited chance, Jessie McRae was paying aninstallment on the debt she owed Bully West and Tom Morse.