Prescott of Saskatchewan Part 41

"A frozen foot's bad enough, if you have to walk until it galls," Curtis admitted. "A hand's easier looked after, though I've three fingers I'm never quite sure of. That's one reason it took so much shooting before I plugged Glover's horse."

"You were pretty cute about his jacket," Stanton remarked.

"That was easy enough. The thing was too big for him and newer than his trousers. Soon as I noticed it, I knew I'd dropped on to something worth following up."

"I can't see what you made of it, and you haven't told me yet."

"I was too dog-goned cold and tired to talk; wanted to make the post and get to sleep. However, though I gave Crane's boys no hint, I'll show you what I've been figuring on. Consider yourself a jury and tell me how it strikes you. You have as much intelligence as the general run of them."

"If I hadn't any more than the kind of jurymen we're usually up against, I'd quit the service," Stanton declared.

The corporal's eyes twinkled.

"If you'll learn to think and not hustle, you'll make a useful man some day. Anyhow, the first thing I caught on to was that Glover had taken off his jacket because there was something in it he didn't want us to find.

Next, that it was money or valuables, because he could have put any small thing into the stove or hid it in the snow before he lit out. Now, Glover knew it was kind of dangerous to leave his jacket with Jepson, who might find the bills, and as he couldn't tell you were in the ravine he must have thought he had a good chance of getting clear away; but, for all that, he wouldn't risk taking the wad along. Guess there's only one explanation--he'd a reason for being mighty afraid of those bills falling into our hands. That was plain enough when I asked him about his jacket."

"Yes," Stanton said thoughtfully; "I guess you have got it right. But what was his reason? He knows Crane can have him sent up for horse-stealing."

Curtis, opening a drawer, took out a slip of paper with some numbers on it, and then laid the wad of bills on the table.

"Twenty dollars each, Merchants' Bank, and quite clean," he said.

"It was a five-dollar bill on the same bank we found at the muskeg!"

cried Stanton, starting.

"It was." Curtis took up the list. "Now here are the numbers of the twenty-dollar bills Morant at Sebastian got from the bank a day or two before he made the deal with Jernyngham; it was with those bills he paid him the night he disappeared." He paused and added significantly, "I guess we have got some of them here."

This proved to be correct when they had compared them with the list. Then Curtis leaned back in his chair and filled his pipe.

"It's a mighty curious case," he remarked.

"Sure," replied Stanton. "You get no farther with it. You have points against three different men, and it's pretty clear that they haven't been working together. They can't all have killed the man."

"That's true. Well, I've made a report for Regina, and they'll keep Glover safe until we want him. I can't tell what our chiefs will do; but as Glover's not likely to tell them anything, I guess they'll hold this matter over until we find out more." He locked up the money. "Now we'll quit talking about it. I want to give my mind a rest."

Curtis had few of the qualities needed for the making of a great detective; he was merely a painstaking, determined man, with a capacity for earnest work, which is perhaps more useful than genius in the ranks of the Northwest Police. He could tirelessly follow the dog-sleds, sometimes on the scantiest rations, for hundreds of miles over the snow, sleeping in the open in the arctic frost. He had made long forced marches to succor improvident settlers starving far out in the wilds; in the fierce heat of summer he made his patrols, watching the progress of the gra.s.s-fires, sternly exacting from the ranchers the plowing of the needed guards; and cattle-thieves prudently avoided the district that he ruled with firm benevolence. The man was a worthy type of his people, the new nation that is rising in the West: forceful, steadfast, direct, and, as a rule, devoid of mental subtleties. He admitted that the Jernyngham mystery, every clue to which broke off as he began to follow it, was hara.s.sing him.

While he spent the evening, lounging in well-earned leisure beside the stove, Mrs. Colston was talking seriously to her sister in a room of the Leslie homestead. Owing to the number of its inmates, she had found it difficult to get a word with the girl alone, and now that an opportunity had come, she felt that she must make the most of it.

"Muriel," she said, "do you think it's judicious to speak so strongly in Prescott's favor as you have done of late? You were rude to Gertrude last night."

The girl colored. She had, as a matter of fact, lost her temper, which was generally quick.

"I hate injustice!" she broke out. "Gertrude and her father make such an unfair use of everything they can find against him, and I think Gertrude's the worse of the two." She looked hard at her sister. "She shows a rancor against the man which even the disappearance of her brother doesn't account for."

The same idea had occurred to Mrs. Colston, but it was a side issue and she was not to be drawn away from the point.

"You stick to the word disappearance," she said.

"Yes," Muriel answered steadily. "Cyril Jernyngham isn't dead!"

"You have only Prescott's word for that."

Muriel made no answer for a few moments; then she looked up with a resolute expression.

"I'm satisfied with it!"

Her sister understood this as a challenge. She had indulged in hints and indirect warnings, and they had been disregarded. The situation now needed more drastic treatment.

"That," she said, "is a significant admission; I can't let it pa.s.s. Your prejudice in favor of the man has, of course, been noticeable; you have even let him see it. Don't you realize what damaging conclusions one might draw from it?"

"Damaging?" Muriel's eyes were fixed on her sister, though her face was hot. "As you have been thinking of all this for some time, perhaps you had better explain and get it over."

Mrs. Colston leaned forward with a severe expression.

"I feel that some candor is necessary. You have taken the man's side openly; you have sympathized with him; I might even say that you have led him on."

Muriel's wayward temperament drove her to the verge of an outbreak, but with an effort at self-control, she sat still, and her sister resumed:

"Besides his lying under suspicion, the man is a mere working farmer, imperfectly educated, forced to live in a most primitive manner, thinking of nothing but his crops and horses."

"He is not imperfectly educated! As a matter of fact, he knows more about most things than we do; but that's not important. Mind, I'm admitting nothing of all that you suggest, but you might have said that I'm a penniless girl, living on your husband's charity. I must confess that he gives it very willingly."

"That is precisely why I'm anxious about your future." Mrs. Colston's voice softened to a tone of genuine solicitude. "Of course, we are glad to have you--Harry has always been fond of you--but, for your sake, I could wish you a completer life in a home of your own. But so much depends on the choice you make."

"Yes; a very great deal depends on that. I'm expected, of course, to make a brilliant match!"

"Not necessarily brilliant, but there are things we have always enjoyed which must be looked for--a good name, position, the right to meet people brought up as we have been, on an equal footing."

Muriel broke in upon her with a strained laugh.

"Once, for a little while, it looked as if we should have to do without them, and somehow I wasn't very much alarmed. But your list's rather short and incomplete. There are one or two quite as important things you might have added to it; though perhaps I'm exacting."

There was silence for a few moments, and a faint flicker of color crept into Mrs. Colston's face while the girl mused. Her sister had got all she asked for, but Muriel suspected that she was not content; now and then, indeed, she had seen a hint of weariness in her expression. Harry Colston made a model husband in some respects, but he had his limitations. His virtues were commonplace and sometimes tedious; his intelligence was less than his wife's. Muriel was fond of him, but his unwavering good-nature and placidity irritated her. She was inclined to be sorry for her sister in some ways.

"Muriel," Mrs. Colston resumed gently, "your happiness means a good deal to me. A mistake might cost you dear, and, after all, one cannot have everything."

"That is obviously true. I suppose it's a question of what one values most, or perhaps what most strongly appeals to one's fancy. It would be difficult to fix an accurate standard for judging suitors by, wouldn't it?" Then her tone grew scornful. "Besides, as those who are eligible aren't numerous, a girl's expected to wait with an encouraging smile and thankfully take what comes."

Mrs. Colston looked at her reproachfully.

"You're hardly just, my dear; I only urge you to be prudent now."

"Prudence is such a cold-blooded thing! I'm afraid I never had it. After all, what seems wise to me might appear to be folly to you. I think if ever what looks like a chance of happiness is offered me, I shall take all risks and clutch at it."

She picked up a book, as if to intimate that she had no more to say, and Mrs. Colston wondered whether her worst fears were justified or whether Muriel had been behaving with unusual perverseness. In either case, she might make things worse by laboring the subject. She hesitated a moment and then went out in search of her husband.

"Harry," she said, "we have been away a long while. Don't you think it is time to go home?"