CHAPTER XXI
WORD FROM HEADQUARTERS
Two horses ambled complacently, side by side, down the village trail. Each was ridden by the man it knew best, and was most willing to serve. Peter’s affection for Stanley Fyles was probably little less than his master’s affection for him. The same thing applied to Sergeant McBain, whose hard face suggested little enough of the tenderer emotions. But both men belonged to the prairie, and the long prairie trail inspires a wonderful sympathy between man and beast.
The men were talking earnestly in low voices, but their outward seeming had no suggestion of anything beyond ordinary interest.
“He’s surely leaving a trail all over the valley,” said Sergeant McBain, after listening to his superior’s talk for some moments. “It’s a clear trail, too – but it don’t ever seem to lead anywhere – definite. You’ve made nothing of that corral place, sir?”
Fyles’s eyes roamed over the scene about him in the quick, uneasy fashion of a groping mind.
“I don’t know yet,” he said slowly, “I’ve got to windward of that haying business. The fellow’s haying all right. He’s got a permit for cutting, and he generally puts up fifty tons. Maybe he keeps that wagon out there all the time for convenience. I can’t say. But even if he doesn’t I can’t see where it points.”
“We can watch the place,” said McBain quickly.
“That’s better than speculation, but – it’s clumsy.”
“How, sir?”
“Why, man alive,” replied Fyles sharply. “Do you think we’re going to fool a crook like him by just watching? Besides – ”
“Yes, sir?”
Fyles had broken off. A woman was moving down the trail ahead of them. She was a good distance away, but he had recognized the easy gait and trim figure of Kate Seton. After a moment’s pause he withdrew his gaze and went on.
“I’ve got all I need out of that place – for the present. You’ve seen the wagon and – recognized it. It’s the wagon they ran that last cargo in. The man who drove it was Pete Clancy. Clancy is one of Charlie Bryant’s gang. I don’t think we need any more – yet. We’ve centralized the running of that last cargo. The rest of the work is for the future. My plans are all ready. The patrol comes in from Amberley to-night. It will be ample reinforcement. We’re just one move ahead of these boys, here, and we’ve got to keep that way. You can get right back to quarters, and wait for my return. I’m going in to the mail office to run my eye over local mail. The envelopes of a local mail make good reading – when a man’s used to it.”
McBain grinned in a manner that seemed to give his hard face pain.
“You get more out of the ad-dress on an envelope than any one I ever see, sir,” he observed shrewdly.
Fyles shrugged, not ill pleased at the compliment.
“It’s practice, and – imagination. Those things, and – a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who’s that coming down the southern trail? Looks like – ”
He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley.
McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits.
“It ain’t part of the patrol?” he said questioningly. “Yet it’s one of our fellers. Maybe it’s a – despatch.”
Fyles’s brows drew sharply together in a frown of annoyance.
“If the chief’s sent me the word I’m waiting for that way he’s – a damn fool. I asked him for cipher mail.”
“Mr. Jason don’t ever reckon on what those who do the work want. If that feller’s riding despatch, the whole valley will know it.”
McBain’s disgust was no less than that of Fyles. His hard face was coldly set, and the despatch rider, if he were one, seemed likely to get a rough reception.
“He’ll make for the mail office,” said Fyles shortly. “We’ll go and meet him.”
He lifted Peter’s reins, and the horse responded at a jump. In a moment the two men were galloping down to Dy’s office. Fyles was the first out of the saddle, and the two stood waiting in silence for the arrival of the horseman.
There was not much doubt as to the publicity of the man’s arrival. As if by magic a number of men, and as many women, appeared in the vicinity of the saloon, farther down the trail. They, too, had seen the newcomer, and they, too, were consumed with interest, though it was based on quite a different point of view from that of Stanley Fyles and Sergeant McBain.
To them a despatch rider meant important news, and probable action on the part of the authorities. Important action meant, to their minds, something detrimental to the shady side of their village life. Every man was searching his brain for an explanation, a reason for the man’s coming, and every woman, sparing herself mental effort, was asking pointed questions of those who should think for her.
The man rode into the village at full gallop, and, seeing the two police horses outside the mail office, came straight on toward them.
He flung out of the saddle and saluted the inspector. Then he began fumbling in an inner pocket. Fyles understood his intention and sharply warned him.
“Not here. Now, in one word. Is it news from down East?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“You believe so?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Jason told me I’d to make here to-day – mid-day. Said you were waiting for this letter to act. He also said I was to avoid speaking to any one in the place till I’d delivered the despatch into your hands. He also said I was to remain here under your orders.”
“Damnation! And we’ve had letters through the mail every day.”
“Beg pardon, sir – ”
McBain made a sign for silence, and the man broke off. But Fyles bade him go on.
“Mr. Jason warned me to be very careful, as it was a despatch he could not trust to the mail.”
Fyles gave a short laugh.
“That’ll do. Now, get mounted, and ride back the way you came into the valley. When you get out of it keep along the edge of it westwards. You’ll come to our camp five miles out. It’s in a bluff. It’s a shack on an abandoned farm. I can’t direct you better, except it’s just under the shoulder in the valley, and is approached by a cattle track. You’ll have to ride around till you locate it. McBain will be coming back soon. Maybe he’ll pick you up. Avoid questions, and still more – answers. Keep the letter till McBain gets in.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man remounted and rode away. His coming had been so sudden, his stay so brief, and his departure so rapid, that Fyles had achieved something of his purpose in repairing any damage Superintendent Jason had done to his plans in acting contrary to his subordinate’s wishes.
The sharp-eyed villagers had witnessed the interview with suspicions lulled. There had been no despatch delivered, and the man was off again the way he had come. Surely nothing very significant had taken place. Possibly, after all, the man was merely a patrol from some outlying station.
Fyles turned to his lieutenant.
“We’re going to get busy,” he said, with a shadowy smile.
The older man could not conceal his appreciation.
“Looks that way, sir.”
“I’ll look over the mail myself,” Fyles went on. “You best get back to camp, and see to that letter. Guess you’ll wait for me to take action. You can get out across the valley south. Ride on west and ford the river up at the crossing – Winter’s Crossing. See if the patrol’s in. Then make camp – and keep an eye skinned for that boy. I’ll get along later.”
The sergeant saluted and sprang into the saddle. Fyles passed into the mail office as the man rode off.
Allan Dy was used to these visits of the inspector. There were very few country postmasters who were not used to such visits. It was a process of espionage which was never acknowledged, yet one that was carried on extensively in suspected districts. There was never any verbal demand, or acquiescence, in the manner in which it was carried out. When the police officer appeared the day’s mail was usually in the process of being sorted, and was generally to be found spread out lying in full view of the searching eyes.
Fyles walked in. Passed the time of day. Collected his own mail and that of the men under him. Chatted pleasantly with the subservient official, and started to pass out again. In those brief moments he had seen all he wanted to see, which on this occasion was little enough.
There were only four letters from the East, The rest were all of local origin. One of the eastern letters was for O’Brien, and it carried an insurance firm’s superscription. There were two letters for Kate Seton, both from New York, and both carrying the firm styles of well-known retail traders in women’s clothing. The fourth was addressed to Charlie Bryant, and bore no trader’s imprint.
As he neared the door of the little office he had to stand aside as Kate Seton made her way in.
Fyles felt that his luck was certainly in. The news he had awaited with so much impatience had been received at last, and now – well, his quick appreciative eyes took in the delightfully fresh, wholesome appearance of this woman, who had made such inroads upon his usually unemotional heart. There was not a detail escaped him. The rounded figure suggesting virility and physical well-being. Her delightful, purposeful face full of a wide intelligence and strength. Those wonderful dark eyes of such passionate, tender depth, which yet held possibilities for every emotion which finds its place in the depth of a strong heart.
She was clad, too, so differently from the general run of the villagers. Like her sister, though in a lesser degree, she breathed the air of a city – a city far from these western regions, a city where refinement and culture inspires a careful regard for outward appearance.
She smiled upon him as he stood aside. Somehow the shyness which her sister had accused her of seemed to have gone. Her whole atmosphere was that of a cordial welcome.
“You’re early down for your mail, Mr. Fyles,” she said, after greeting him. “I’m generally right on the spot before Allan Dy is through. Still, I dare say your mail is more important, and stands for no delay.”
“It’s the red tape of our business, Miss Seton,” Fyles replied, with a light shrug. “We’re always getting orders that should rightly be executed before they can possibly reach us. It’s up to us to get them the moment they arrive.”
Kate’s smile was good to see. There was just that dash of ironical challenge in her eyes which Fyles was beginning to associate with her.
“Still working out impossible problems which don’t really – exist?”
The man returned her smile.
“Still working out problems,” he said. Then he added slyly, “Problems which must be solved, in spite of assurances of their non-existence.”
“You mean – what I said to you the other day?”
Fyles nodded.
Kate’s eyes sobered, and the change in their expression came near to melting the officer’s heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. Then she sighed. “But I s’pose you must see things your own way.” She glanced at the mail counter. “You had a despatch rider in this morning. I saw him coming down the trail. Everybody saw him.”
Just for a moment Fyles’s strong brows drew together. He was reluctant to deliberately lie to this woman. He felt that to do so was not worthy. He felt that a lie to her was a thing to be despised.
“We had a patrol in,” he said guardedly.
Kate smiled.
“A patrol from – Amberley?”
Again was that ironical challenge in Kate’s eyes. Fyles’s responsive smile was that of the fencer.
“You are too well informed.”
But the woman shook her head.
“Not so well informed as I could wish,” she said. Then she laughed as her merry sister might have laughed, and the policeman wanted to join in it by reason of its very infection. “There’s a whole heap of things I’d like to know. I’d like to know why a government of the people makes a law nobody wants, and spends the public’s money in enforcing it. Also I’d like to know why they take a vicious delight in striving to make criminals of honest enough people in the process. Also I’d like to know how your people intend to trip up certain people for a crime which they have never committed, and don’t intend to commit, and, anyway, before they can be punished must be caught red-handed. You’ve got your problems sure enough, and – and these are some of the simplest of mine. Oh, dear – it almost makes my head whirl when I think of them. But I must do so, because,” her smile died out, and the man watched the sudden determined setting of her lips, “I’m against you as long as you are – against him. Good-bye. I must get my mail.”
It was a long circuitous route which took Stanley Fyles back to his camp. But it seemed short enough on the back of the faithful, fleet-footed Peter. Then, too, the man’s thoughts were more than merely pleasant. Satisfaction that his news was awaiting him at the camp left him free to indulge in the happy memory of his brief passage of arms with Kate Seton.
What a staunch creature she was! He wondered if the day would ever come when she would exercise the same loyalty and staunchness on his behalf. To him it seemed an extraordinary, womanish perversity that made her cling to a poor creature so obviously a wrongdoer. Was she truly blind to his doings, or was she merely blinding herself to them? She was not in love with Charlie Bryant, he felt sure. Her avowal of regard had been too open and sincere to have been of any other nature than the one she had claimed for it. Yes, he could understand that attitude in her. Anything he had ever seen of her pointed the big woman nature in her. She felt herself strong, and, like other strong people, it was a passion with her to help the weak and erring.
Fyles’s knowledge of women was slight enough, but he had that keen observation which told him many things instinctively. And all the best and truest that was in him had been turned upon this woman from the very first time he had seen her.
He told himself warmly, now, that she was the most lovable creature on earth, and nothing but marriage with her could ever bring him the necessary peace of mind that would permit him to continue his work with that zeal and hope of achievement with which he had set about a career.
He saw so many things now, through the eyes of a great passion, that seemed utterly different, rendered transcendentally attractive through the glamor of a strong, deep love. They were things which, before, had always been viewed dispassionately, almost coldly, yet not without satisfaction. They had always been part of his scheme, but had no greater attraction than the mere fact that they were integral parts of one great whole. Now they became oases, restful shades in the sunlight of his effort.
He had always contemplated marriage as an ultimately necessary adjunct to the main purpose. No man, he felt, could succeed adequately, after a certain measure had been achieved, without a woman at his side, a woman’s influence to keep the social side of a career in balance with the side which depended upon his direct effort. Now he saw there was more in it than that. Something more human. Something which made success a thousand times more pleasing to contemplate. He felt that with Kate at his side giant’s work would become all too easy. Her ravishing smile of encouragement would be a gentle spur to the most jaded energies. The delight of bearing her upon his broad shoulders in his upward career, would be bliss beyond words, and, in the interim of his great efforts, the care and happiness of her loyally courageous heart would be a delight almost too good to be true.
His keen mind and straining energies were bathed in the wonderful fount of love. He was looking for the first time into the magic mirror which every human creature must, at some time, gaze into. He was discovering all those pictures which had been discovered countless millions of times before, and which other coming countless millions had yet to discover for themselves.
So he rode on dreaming to the rhythmic beat of Peter’s willing hoofs. So he came at last to the distant camp of his subordinate comrades.
He was greeted by the harsh voice and hard, weather-stained features of McBain wreathed in a smile which was a mere distortion, yet which augured well.
“I haven’t opened the letters, sir,” he said, “but I’ve questioned Jones close. I guess it’s right, all right.”
Fyles was once more the man of business. He nodded as he flung off his horse and handed it over to a waiting trooper.
“Where’s the despatch?” he demanded sharply.
McBain produced a long, official envelope. The other tore it open hastily. He ran his eyes over its contents, and passed it back to the sergeant.
“Good,” he exclaimed. “There’s a cargo left Fort Allerton, on the American side, bound for Rocky Springs by trail. It’s a big cargo of rye whisky. We’ll have to get busy.”
CHAPTER XXII
MOVES IN THE GAME OF LOVE
Stanley Fyles’s extreme satisfaction was less enduring than might have been expected. Success, and the prospect of success, were matters calculated to affect him more nearly than anything else in his life. That was the man, as he always had been; that was the man, who, in so brief a time, had raised himself to the commissioned ranks of his profession. But, somehow, just now a slight undercurrent of thought and feeling had set in. It was scarcely perceptible at first, but growing rapidly, it quickly robbed the tide of his satisfaction of quite half its strength, and came near to reducing it to the condition of slack water.
McBain was in the quarters attending to the detail which fell to his lot. A messenger from Winter’s Crossing had come in announcing the arrival, at that camp, of the reinforcing patrol. This was the culminating point of Fyles’s satisfaction. From that moment the undercurrent set in.
The inspector had moved out of the bluff, which screened the temporary quarters from chance observation, and had taken up a position on the shoulder of the valley, where he sat himself upon a fallen fence post to consider the many details of the work he had in mind.
The sun was setting in a ruddy cauldron of summer cloud, and, already, the evening mists were rising from the heart of the superheated valley. The wonderful peace of the scene might well have been a sedative to the stream of rapid thought pouring through his busy brain.
But its soothing powers seemed to have lost virtue, and, as his almost unconscious gaze took in the beauties spread out before it, a curious look of unrest replaced the satisfaction in his keen eyes. His brows drew together in a peevish frown. A discontent set the corners of his tightly compressed lips drooping, and once or twice he stirred impatiently, as though his irritation of mind had communicated itself to his physical nerves.
Once more the image of Kate Seton had risen up before his mind’s eye, and, for the first time it brought him no satisfaction. For the first time he had associated the probable object of his plans with her. Charlie Bryant was no longer a mere offender against the law in his mind. In concentrating his official efforts against him he realized the jeopardy in which his own regard for Kate Seton placed him. He saw that his success now in ridding the district of the whisky-runner would, at the same time, rob him of all possible chance of ever obtaining the regard of this woman he loved. It meant an ostracism based upon the strongest antipathy – the antipathy of a woman wounded in her tenderest emotions, that wonderful natural instinct which is perhaps beyond everything else in her life.
The more than pity of it. Kate’s interest in Charlie Bryant had assumed proportions which threatened to overwhelm his whole purpose. It became almost a tragedy. Pondering upon this ominous realization a sort of panic came near to taking hold of him. Apart from his own position, the pain and suffering he knew he must inflict upon her set him flinching.
Her protestations of Charlie’s innocence were very nearly absurd. To a mind trained like his there was little enough doubt of the man’s offense. He was a rank “waster,” but, as in the case of all such creatures, there was a woman ready to believe in him with all the might of feminine faith. It was a bitter thought that in this case Kate Seton should be the woman. She did believe. He was convinced of her honesty in her declaration. She believed from the bottom of her heart, she, a woman of such keen sense and intelligence. It was – yes, it was maddening. Through it all he saw his duty lying plainly before him. His whole career was at stake, that career for which only he had hitherto lived, and which, eventually, he had hoped to lay at Kate’s feet.
What could he do? There was no other way. He – must – go – on. His dream was wrecking. It was being demolished before his eyes. It was not being sent crushing at one mighty stroke, but was being torn to shreds and destroyed piecemeal.
He strove to stiffen himself before the blow, and his very attitude expressed something of his effort. He told himself a dozen times that he must accept the verdict, and carry his duty through, his duty to himself as well as to his superiors. But conviction was lacking. The human nature in him was rebelling. For all his discipline it would not be denied. And with each passing moment it was gaining in its power to make itself felt and heard.
Its promptings came swiftly, and in a direction hardly conceivable in a man of his balance of mind. But the more sure the strength of the man, the more sure the strength of the old savage lurking beneath the sanest thought. The savage rose up in him now in a reckless challenge to all that was best and most noble in him. A cruel suspicion swept through his mind and quickly permeated his whole outlook. What if he had read Kate’s regard for the man Bryant wrong? What if he had read it as she intended him to read it, seeking to blind him to the true facts? He knew her for a clever woman, a shrewd woman, even a daring woman. What if she had read through his evident regard for her, and had determined to turn it to account in saving her lover from disaster, by posing with a maternal, or sisterly regard for his welfare? Such things he felt had been done. He was to be a tool, a mere tool in her hands, the poor dupe whose love had betrayed him.
He sprang from his seat.
No, a thousand times no, he told himself. His memory of her beautiful, dark, fearless eyes was too plainly in his mind for that. The honesty of her concern and regard for the man was too simply plain to hold any trace of the perfidy which his thought suggested. He told himself these things. He told himself again and again, and – remained unconvinced. The savage in him, the human nature was gaining an ascendancy that would not be denied, and from the astute, disciplined man he really was, at a leap, he became the veriest doubting lover.
He threw his powerful arms out, and stretched himself. His movements were the movements of unconcern, but there was no unconcern within him. A teeming, harassing thought was urging him, driving him to the only possible course whereby he could hope to obtain a resumption of his broken peace of mind.
He must see Kate. He must see her again, without delay.
Kate Seton was sitting in the northern shadow of her little house the following morning when Stanley Fyles rode down the southern slope of the valley toward the old footbridge. She had just dispatched Big Brother Bill on an errand to the village, and, with feminine tact, had requested him to discover Helen’s whereabouts, and send her, or bring her home. She had no particular desire that Helen should return home. In fact, she would rather she didn’t until mid-day dinner. But she felt she was giving the man the excuse he evidently needed.
As a matter of fact, she had a good deal of work to do. And the first hour after Bill had taken his departure she was fully occupied with her two villainous hired men. After that she returned to the house, and wrote several letters, and, finally, took up her position in the shade, and devoted herself to a basket of long-neglected sewing.
At the sound of the approaching horseman she looked up with a start. She had no expectation of a visitor, she had no desire for one just now. Nevertheless, when she discovered the officer’s identity, she displayed no surprise, and more interest, than might have been expected.
She did not disguise from herself the feelings this man inspired. On the contrary she rather reveled in them, especially as, in a way, just now, all her actions must be in direct antagonism to his efforts.
She felt that a battle, a big battle, must be fought and won between them. It was a battle to be fought out openly and frankly. It was her determination that this man should not wrong himself by committing a great wrong upon Charlie Bryant.
Kate was very busy at the moment Fyles rode up. She was intent upon fitting a piece of lace, obviously too small, upon a delicate white garment of her sister’s, which was obviously too big.
For a moment, as she did not look up, Fyles sat leaning forward in the saddle with his arms resting upon its horn. He was watching her with a smiling interest which was not without anxiety.
“There’s surely not a dandier picture in the world than a girl sitting in the shade sewing – white things,” he said at last, by way of greeting.
Kate glanced up for the briefest of smiling glances. Then her dark head bent over her sewing again.
“And there’s surely nothing calculated to upset things more than a man butting in, where the same girl’s fragment of brain is worrying to fit something that doesn’t fit anyway.”
“Meaning me?”
Fyles smiled in his confident way.
“Seeing there’s no one else around, I must have meant some other fellow.”
Kate laid the lace aside, and looked up with a sigh. A gentle amusement shone in her fine dark eyes.
“Have you ever tried to make things fit that – just won’t?” she demanded.
Fyles shook his head.
“Maybe I can help, though,” he hazarded.
“Help?” Kate’s amusement merged into a laugh. “Say, when it comes to fitting things that don’t fit, two heads generally muss things right up. All my life I’ve been trying to fit things that don’t fit, and I find, if you’re to succeed, you’ve got to do it to yourself, and by yourself. It always takes a big lot of thinking which nobody else can follow. Maybe your way of thinking is different from other folks, and so they can’t understand, and that’s why they can’t follow it. Now here’s a bit of lace, and there’s a sleeve. The lace is short by an inch. Still there’s ways and ways of fixing it, but only one right way. If I make the sleeve smaller the lace will fit, but poor Helen won’t get her arm through it. If I tack on a bit more lace it’ll muss the job, and make it look bad. Then there’s other ways, too, but – there’s only one right way.” She dropped the lace in her basket and began to fold the garment. “I’ll get some new lace that does fit,” she declared emphatically.
Fyles nodded, but the amusement died out of his eyes.
“All of which is sound sense,” he said seriously, “and is leading us toward controversial – er – subjects. Eh?”
Kate raised a pair of shoulders with pretended indifference. But her eyes were smiling that challenge which Stanley Fyles always associated with her.
“Not a bad thing when the police are getting so very busy, and – you are their chief in the district,” she said.
“I must once more remark, you are well informed,” smiled Fyles.
“And I must once more remark not as well informed as I could wish,” retorted Kate quickly.
Fyles had permitted his gaze to wander down the wooded course of the river. Kate was watching him closely, speculatively. And curious enough she was thinking more of the man than his work at that moment.
The man’s eyes came back abruptly to her face, and her expression was instantly changed to one of smiling irony.
“Well?” she demanded.
Fyles shook his head.
“It isn’t,” he said. “May I ask how you know we are – so very busy?”
“Sure,” cried Kate, with a frank laugh. “You see, I have two of the worst scamps in the valley working for me, and they seem to think it more than necessary that they keep themselves posted as to – your movements.”
“I see.” Fyles’s lighter mood had entirely passed, and with its going Kate’s became more marked. “I s’pose they spy out everything for the benefit of their – chief.”
Kate clapped her hands.
“What reasoning. I s’pose they have a chief?” she added slyly.
A frown of irritation crossed the policeman’s brow.
“Must we open up that old sore, Miss Kate?” he, asked almost sharply. “They are known to be – when not occupied with the work of your farm – assisting Charlie Bryant in his whisky-running schemes. They are two of his lieutenants.”
“And so, because they are so known among the village people here, you are prosecuting this campaign against a man whom you hope to catch red-handed.”
“I have sufficient personal evidence to – prosecute my campaign,” said Fyles quickly. “As you said just now, we are not idle.”
“Yes, I know,” Kate sighed, and her gaze was turned upon the western reaches of the valley. “Your camp out there is full of activity. So is Winter’s Crossing. And the care with which you mask your coming and going is known to everybody. It is a case of the hunter being hunted. Yes, I say it without resentment, I am glad of these things, because I – must know.”
“If we are against each other – it is only natural you should wish to know.”
Kate’s eyes opened wider.
“Of course we are against each other, as long as you are against Charlie. But only in our – official capacities.” A whimsical smile stole into the woman’s eyes. “Oh, you are so – so obstinate,” she cried in mock despair. “In this valley it is no trouble for me to watch your every move, and, in Charlie’s interests, to endeavor to frustrate them. But the worst of it is I’d – I’d like to see you win out. Instead of that I know you won’t. You’ve had some news. You had it yesterday, I suppose, by that patrol. Maybe it’s news of another cargo coming in, and you are getting ready to capture it, and – Charlie. I’m not here to give any one away, I’m not here to tell you all I know, must know, living in the valley, but you are doomed, utterly doomed to failure, if you count the capture of Charlie success.”