CHAPTER XII

SERGEANT IN COMMAND

Kitchener faced the constables in his scarlet tunic with easy confidence, swaggering a little as Jerry might have done if he had stepped in to take command of the outpost at _Saut Sauvage_. Inwardly he was not so sure of himself.

He watched the pair warily. Jerry had said that he was not acquainted with Devon or Cross. But there remained the danger that one or another of the constables had seen him somewhere without his knowing. Both officers must have heard of the sergeant, and possibly carried mental pictures of him. Jerry was too vivid a personality not to leave strong impressions upon the people he met.

A guilty conscience may have made Kit oversensitive. The constables studied him critically for a moment, and then exchanged sidewise glances. For an instant Kit held his breath. What thought had struck them? Did they suspect something was wrong? It was an anxious moment. To be unmasked now would be calamitous.

Whatever his secret doubts he put up his boldest front. And all at once the tense atmosphere seemed to clear. The constables grinned at him in apparent comradeship and shook hands with him. If their suspicions had been aroused they evidently wanted to be more certain of their ground before they denounced him.

“I’m looking for a man who calls himself Jim Durand,” he told his new fellows-at-arms. “He’s a six-foot husky with big, bowed shoulders, a prize-fighter’s arms and fists and a swarthy face that looks as if it had been sliced up with a knife some time or other. Anybody like that been around here recently?”

The two constables shook their heads. “Outside of these chaps and one or two bushmen we know,” said Devon, “there hasn’t been a living soul along this way in weeks.”

“I lost his trail this morning,” said Kit, “and so far haven’t found it again. He’s wearing a pair of square-webbed snowshoes that look as though they were woven over a waffle-iron. I hoped one of you might have seen his tracks.”

“What’s he wanted for?” asked Cross.

Kit had had a night and a day to think affairs out and to decide on his future course of action. He had made up his mind that in his dealings with Hell Bent he would play out the hand on his own responsibility, alone.

There were several reasons why he could not tell the constables the truth. If he let them know, for instance, that a murder had been committed in the old cabin at Great Owl Run they naturally would want to learn who the victim was, and their police-trained curiosity in that direction might lead to all kinds of embarrassing complications. They would search the river and perhaps find Jerry’s body, and in his clothing or on his person there might be some identifying mark to label him as the real Sergeant Tearl. In which event Kit would have trouble explaining why he was wearing another man’s uniform and perhaps even might be accused of his brother’s murder.

It was too late now to abandon his imposture. Diane Durand knew him as Sergeant Tearl. If he had tried to change back to private citizenship she would discover the falsity of his previous claim: and having every reason to wish him out of the way, she would not hesitate to denounce him. He had to go on being a policeman.

As long as he was not found out there were advantages in playing out the rôle. He was the boss in this part of the woods, and every human being in the neighborhood had to step to his authority. By wearing the insignia of the police he held the moral prestige at any future meeting with Hell Bent. He could arrest his man or shoot him down, and there could be nobody to interfere or to question his act. Meanwhile, if he could learn anything of the old tragedy at Great Owl Run, he could keep the information to himself or use it as he saw fit. Circumstances would decide him. But for the present there would be no outside blundering to hamper him. It was safest to work alone.

So Kit did not allow the constables to think that he was much concerned over the fugitive’s whereabouts. He said nothing about the man’s being the ex-convict, Sim Bent, and was particular to use the alternative name of Durand.

“There’s no charge against him,” he said. “I’m looking for him on account of his niece, Miss Diane Durand. She followed him into the woods and somehow missed connections, and I picked her up farther down country. She’s waiting at the old cabin down by Great Owl Run.”

“You had his trail?” asked Constable Cross.

“Yes. He had two teams of dogs, one of which he drove ahead, the other running at his heels. I wasn’t two hours behind him last night at midnight. There was no trouble following his tracks with a flashlight. But early this morning he suddenly turned east and entered that Yellow-Knife village by the long lake. That’s where I lost him.”

The two constables looked interested, but asked no questions. Apparently they hesitated to say anything that might reflect upon their superior officer’s woodcraft.

Kit shook his head ruefully. “There are a thousand tracks around that camp, of course. Snowshoes and sledges and huskies’ pads. The waffle-meshes entered on one side, and didn’t come out again. Well, when I got there I searched the camp, looked in every teepee, talked to all the Indians. No good. The trail went into the camp, but the man wasn’t there.”

“What did the Yellow Knives say?” ventured Sergeant Devon.

“Hadn’t seen him, that was all. It may have been true. He could have crossed through their camp while they were all parked in for the night. They sleep like a lot of mud-turtles. Maybe for a fact they didn’t know a thing about him.

“I circled the village several times,” Kit pursued, “but no waffle marks passing out.”

“What do you think?” asked Devon.

“There’s only one thing that could have happened. He must have had another pair of snowshoes with him, or else he stole a pair, and changed ’em after he got among the cluttered trails of the village. After that there wasn’t any way of knowing which tracks were his.

“Well, I crawled into a teepee and caught a few hours of badly needed sleep,” Kit finished. “Then I thought I might as well come on here and report.”

He turned unexpectedly to the two trappers. “When did you two get here?” he asked.

Giffard’s little eyes shifted uncomfortably before the sergeant’s scrutiny. “This evenin’--early,” he answered. “A little before dark.”

“Either of you run across a stranger to-day?”

“No, sir,” said Giffard.

“P’r’aps,” insinuated the bearded Bruyas, “if we meet dis fellow we say de sergeant he seek for him. Eh, w’at?”

“Tell him if he wishes to find his niece to get in touch with the police post.”

“It is a fonny t’ing to arrive in dis col’ country when winter she come,” Bruyas ventured to remark. “What is it he wish?”

“I understand he expects to trap a bit,” Kitchener replied.

The two natives exchanged a fleeting glance, and Bruyas scowled and showed the ugly line of his broken teeth. “If he expect to use his trap on Great Owl Run we have somethin’ to say about dat.”

“Bruyas,” explained the wizened Giffard, “runs his lines on the north side of that creek, and I on the south. There’s no room for any others.”

“What do you have--leases or something?” inquired Kit ironically.

“We have been on dose groun’ for ten year,” put in Bruyas darkly. “Dat’s plenty long time so we can say odders keep out.”

“Tell him anything you like as long as you don’t make a police case of it,” said Kit indifferently. He measured the pair with appraising eyes, and grinned at them. “After you’ve had a look at him you may not go quite so heavy on conversation.”

Constable Cross had gone over to investigate the pot on the stove. He tasted and wrinkled his nose with a fine appreciation. “It’s done,” he announced.

Devon brought out a stack of crockery bowls and began dipping out the contents of the stew-pot. Places for three policemen were set at the one table boasted by the barracks. Giffard and Bruyas were served on the top of a packing box. The Yellow Knives were handed out their Christmas Eve dinner, catch-as-catch-can, crouched on the floor in the stifling hot corner behind the stove.

“We just received a radio message for you, sergeant,” remarked Devon when Kitchener, as was the commanding officer’s right, took his seat at the head of the table, facing the door.

Kit lifted his head quickly. “Where from?”

“Edmonton--from Inspector Bowman. He wants us to look into a murder among the Yellow Knives. I don’t know just what it amounts to, if anything.”

Kitchener nodded. This, he was thinking, was a fortunate excuse to return to the Indian village, which was not far from Great Owl Run. He could prowl about that neighborhood as much as he pleased, attending to his own affairs, and working ostensibly under the orders of Inspector Bowman. “They didn’t say anything about it when I was in the village,” he remarked.

“They wouldn’t,” said Constable Cross. “You can’t cork-screw information out of those dull-blades.”

“All right,” announced Kitchener. “I’ll go back down there in the morning.”

Devon chuckled under his breath as he darted a triumphant glance at his fellow constable. He had predicted that Sergeant Tearl would turn out to be an agreeable chap. Here indeed was an officer after his own heart--a man who tackled a mean job himself instead of commanding an underling to do it.

“You tried to pump any of these three anacondas?” inquired Kit, glancing over his shoulder at the Indians, who were drinking their stew noisily out of tin pans.

“Sure,” said Cross. “They don’t know anything. But if you really want me to find out what they know, just say the word.”

“Never mind,” said Kit. “I’ll make somebody talk when I get down below.”

If the Indians knew they were the subject of conversation they gave no sign. The three continued to eat until the well-scoured bottom of the big cooking vessel came into view. This evidently was the sole purpose of their visit. When the pot was empty they wrapped themselves in their furs, stalked solemnly to the door and went out into the night without a word of thanks for the provender which the police had supplied them.

Giffard and Bruyas lingered after their meal for a couple of pipefuls of kinnikinnick mixed with tobacco. At length, however, Bruyas hoisted his bulk from the stool, upon which it might have been feared that he had become a permanent fixture.

“De leedle fox and mink will be lonesome waitin’ in traps,” he remarked. “I make my way back down. _Bon soir._ I see you again mebby. _Merci._”

“I’ll go with you,” announced Giffard. He buttoned his cadaverous body into a bulky mackinaw coat. “Good-by, everybody.” His piggy eyes shifted Kitchener’s direction for a last squinting look, as though to make sure of remembering the sergeant if they met again.

He picked up his rifle and snowshoes, bowed his head to the blast that came through the open doorway, and followed Bruyas into the storm.

Devon, who was standing by the door, banged it shut. “If our nearest neighbors don’t drop in again before next Christmas Eve,” he remarked, “that’ll make it once too often. If I had my choice between the two trappers and those Yellow Knives, I’d take a musk-ox.”

Kitchener went to the window, scratched the thick frost with his nail, and looked out into the darkness. After a moment he turned back and started to gather up his duffle.

The constables observed him wonderingly. “What are you planning to do?” demanded Cross.

“I’m going back,” announced Kit--“down towards Great Owl Run.”

“To-night?”

“I don’t know whether you two noticed, but this Giffard had a queer look in his eyes when I mentioned a girl left alone in that cabin.” Kit scowled. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s all right. But I thought I might as well follow him back. He lives down that direction, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does. The end of his trapping loop reaches that cabin on this side of the brook. Giffard! A measly animal. I wouldn’t trust him anywhere on the outside of a jail cell.”

“I thought not,” said Kit. “Give me a fresh battery for my flashlight, will you?”

“Listen, sergeant,” suggested Devon. “Let Cross go, or I will if you say so. There’s no sense in your bucking this nor’-easter again to-night.”

“Thanks,” said Kit. “But I had plenty of sleep this afternoon. I’ll go myself.”

“We can give you dogs and a sledge,” offered Cross.

“Don’t need ’em. I left a team down at Great Owl Run.” Kitchener slipped his arms into the parka that had been drying over the stove, and hitched his pack onto his shoulders.

“Don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” he remarked. “If I happen to need either of you boys I can send word. You go on with your usual routine until you hear from me again.”

Kitchener opened the front door and looked out into the blustering night. The trappers and the three Indians had vanished without a sound. But the line of their footprints turned westward, and presumably they were on their way home.

After a moment Kit stepped outside and kicked his toes into his snowshoe lashings. “If you see this Durand,” he said in parting, “don’t try to hold him, but keep in touch with him and let me know as soon as you can.” He glanced back into the lighted, warm barracks room, and then resolutely faced the clouds of flying snow.

“So long,” he called over his shoulder, and set forth on his return trip to Great Owl run.