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Man Size, a novel by William MacLeod Raine |
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Chapter 12. Tom Ducks Trouble |
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_ CHAPTER XII. TOM DUCKS TROUBLE To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that served for an office in the company store at Faraway, came a light-stepping youth in trim 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 how many months?" "Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who killed Buckskin Jerry." 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 had met. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozen Lone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guess the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books, without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the Canadian's blithe joy in living. "Get him?" the Montanan asked. The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought back those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up the tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent. "Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized existence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a look-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 was a cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs of Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed north 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." His knuckles 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. "According to 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 paint hawss does. Come again in one syllables." "Noticed any trouble among the Crees lately--that is, any more than usual?" 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 Dug Whaley, a gambler who had drifted from one mining camp to another and been washed by the tide of circumstance into the Northwest. Ostensibly they supplied blankets, guns, food, and other necessities to the tribes, but there was a strong suspicion that they made their profit in whiskey smuggled across the plains. "But to guess it and to prove it are different propositions. How am I going to hang it on them? I can't make a bally fool of myself by prodding around in their bales and boxes. If I didn't find anything--and it'd be a long shot against me--West and his gang would stick their tongues in their cheeks and N.W.M.P. stock would shoot down. No, I've got to make sure, jump 'em, and tie 'em up by finding the 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 his trade back and forth, don't they?" "Forth, but not back. When they've got to have some goods--if it's neck 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 can guarantee that if he brought any liquor with him--and I've good reason to think he did--it hasn't been unloaded yet. To-morrow the wagons will scatter. I can't follow all of 'em. If I cinch Mr. West, it's got to be to-night." "I see. You want me to give you my blessin'. I'll come through with a fine 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 for your good intentions." The officer's grin had a touch of the proverbial Cheshire cat's malice. "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'd better look out or you'll burn your paw." "Just remember I ain't promisin' a thing. I'm a respectable business man 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. Keep cases 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 West every turn of the road. He's crooked as a dog's hind laig. But it wouldn'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 you can. 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 one else." 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 whispered conversation with Onistah. They were standing back of an outlying shed, in such a position that they could not be seen from the road. _ |
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