Prescott of Saskatchewan Part 47

"They could have gone off together in the first instance," Colston objected.

Jernyngham made an impatient gesture.

"I was merely suggesting an explanation; the point is not important. The fellow has bolted; but I've reason for believing he won't get across the boundary!"

He broke off, tearing the newspaper as he opened it, and there was an awkward silence until Mrs. Leslie brought in dinner. Jernyngham ate very little, and after spending a few minutes in his room, he drove off in the sleigh. Somewhat later, Colston met Gertrude in a pa.s.sage and stopped her. He thought she looked anxious.

"I'm sorry I couldn't calm your father, but I was afraid that anything I might say would only make him more excited," he told her. "I meant to go with him, but he wouldn't permit it."

"No," she said, "there was nothing that you could do; but I'm badly disturbed." She paused irresolutely, and then resumed: "He has taken a magazine pistol, though I believe it's the first time he has carried it."

Colston looked grave. He determined, if possible, to abstract the pistol and hide it on Jernyngham's return.

"I'm very sorry. It must be trying for you. Indeed, I wonder anxiously where all this is leading us."

"The horrible mystery will be cleared up on Prescott's arrest," Gertrude said in a harsh voice. "I think that can't be long deferred."

She left him troubled by her expression, and he and the others spent a dreary afternoon and evening. It was late when Jernyngham returned, looking worn but very stern.

"From what I've learned, word has been sent to every police trooper between here and the frontier," he said, and broke into a grim smile.

"Prescott's chance of escape is a very poor one."

He made a scanty meal, without seeming to notice what he ate, and afterward sat silent. The others seldom spoke and when a word was exchanged there was strain in their voices. The snapping of the poplar billets in the stove seemed to emphasize the quiet and jarred on their nerves, while Muriel, tormented by fears on Prescott's account, found the suspense and constraint almost intolerable. She was thankful when bedtime came, though she could not sleep. Her troubled thoughts were with her lover, and she wondered what perils he was exposed to on the snowy wilds.

As it happened, Prescott was riding steadily through the stinging frost.

He had been unable to obtain a fresh horse, but he had borrowed a saddle, and the Clydesdale, though far from fast, possessed good staying powers.

For all that, he had been forced to rest part of the day at an outlying farm, and while there a man brought him word from Stanton, whose line of travel ran roughly parallel with his, three or four leagues to the west.

The trooper's horse had gone badly lame, and Prescott was instructed to push on while Stanton sought another mount.

It was a very bitter night, but the young rancher was used to cold, and, riding alone in the moonlight, he made the best pace he could across the white desolation. There was no sign of life on it. Nothing moved in the reeds beside the frozen ponds and the shadowy bluffs he pa.s.sed; no sound but the thud of heavy hoofs broke the overwhelming silence. By and by he left the trees behind, and pressed on into a vast glittering plain which ran back to the horizon, unbroken by a bush, and inexpressibly lonely.

In the early morning he reached a homestead where he rested until the afternoon. He chafed at the delay, but as the Clydesdale was badly jaded, it could not be avoided, and Wandle would have to stop now and then, unless he could hire fresh horses, which might be difficult. Starting again, he came to a small wooden settlement in the evening and rode first to the livery-stable. The telephone wires, which were being stretched across the prairie, had not reached the place, and he surmised that the police had been unable to communicate with it. The liveryman was busy in one of the stalls, but he came out and answered Prescott's question.

"Yes," he said, "a fellow like the one you speak of came in here about an hour ago. His team looked pretty used up and he wanted to hire another, but I couldn't deal. Keep my horses hauling cordwood through the winter, and the only team I have in the stable is ordered by a drummer for to-morrow."

"Can't you find me a mount? I'll pay you what you like."

"No, sir," said the other. "When I engage to drive a man round, I've got to make good. If I didn't, it would soon ruin my trade."

Seeing he was not to be moved, Prescott asked:

"How do you strike the south trail?"

"Go straight through the town. It forks in about three miles, and you can take either branch. They're both pretty bad, but the west one's the shorter and the worse."

"What's between the forks?"

"A big patch of broken country--sandhills and bluffs. About eight miles on, the other trail runs in again."

"Are there any homesteads on the way?"

"Nothing near the trail. There's a shack where two fellows cutting cordwood camp."

Prescott considered when he had thanked the man. He was tired and his horse was far from fresh, but he understood that Wandle's team was in a worse condition. There was a possibility of his overtaking him, if he pushed on at once. Leaving the stable, he meant to walk a short distance to ease his aching limbs, but he saw a mounted man trotting up the street and called out as he recognized Stanton.

"I thought I might get news of you here," said the trooper, pulling up.

"Have you found out anything?"

Prescott told him what he had heard, and Stanton nodded.

"Then we had better get on. The horse I've got is pretty fresh."

In another minute or two they had left the lights of the settlement behind and Prescott prepared for a third night on the trail. His eyes were heavy, long exposure to extreme cold had had its effect on him, and the warmth seemed to be dying out of his exhausted body. After a while they came to a straggling clump of birches with blurred ma.s.ses of taller trees behind, where the trail broke in two. Stanton dismounted and struck a few matches, examining the snow carefully.

"Nothing to show which way Wandle's gone," he reported. "Somebody's been along with a bob-sled not long ago and rubbed out his tracks. Anyhow, I'll take the shorter fork."

They separated; the trooper riding on in the moonlight and Prescott entering the gloom of the trees. He soon found the trial remarkably uneven. So far as he could make out, it skirted a number of low, thickly timbered ridges, swinging sharply up and down. In places it slanted awkwardly toward one edge; in others it was covered with stiff, dwarf scrub. One or two of the descents to frozen creeks were alarmingly steep and the Clydesdale stumbled now and then, but it kept its feet and Prescott felt that, everything considered, he was making a satisfactory pace. Stanton, he supposed, was two or three miles to the west of him, following the opposite edge of the high ground, but there was nothing to indicate which of them was the nearer to Wandle.

He rode on, wis.h.i.+ng the light were better, for the faint gleam of the moon among the trees confused his sight and made it difficult to distinguish the trail, while to leave it might lead to his plunging down some precipitous gully. At length he saw a yellow glow ahead, and soon afterward came upon a shack in an opening. Small logs were strewn about it and among them stood tall piles of cordwood. The door opened as he rode up and a man's dark figure appeared in the entrance.

"Have you seen a rig going south?" Prescott asked.

"I heard one, about seven or eight minutes ago. The fellow didn't seem to be driving quick."

"Thanks," responded Prescott, and rode off with a feeling of satisfaction.

He had gained on Wandle, who had probably been delayed by some mischance on the trail. If the Clydesdale could be urged to a faster pace, he might overtake him, but this must be done before the fugitive could hire a fresh team. Next, he began to wonder what progress Stanton had made, for the relative positions of Wandle and the constable were now important. If Stanton were far enough ahead, he would reach the spot where the trails united before the absconder, in which case they would have him between them and it would be better for Prescott to save his horse's strength, because speed might be required. On the contrary, if Stanton were not yet abreast of him, he ought to push on as fast as possible. Wandle, he was glad to remember, could not know how closely he was being followed.

Turning the matter over in his mind, he rode at a moderate pace while the rough track wound deeper into the bluff. The partial obscurity was now extremely puzzling. Here and there a slender trunk glimmered in the faint moonlight that streamed down between the branches, and patches of brightness lay across the path, but this intensified the darkness of the background. It was hard to tell which of the dim avenues that kept opening up was the trail; the state of the short scrub could no longer be used as a guide, for the cordwood cutters had not penetrated so far with their sled.

Prescott knew that he must go forward, however; and he was gazing anxiously ahead with eyes that ached from long exposure to the reflection from the snow when the Clydesdale stumbled violently. He had scarcely time to clear his feet of the stirrups before the beast went down and he was flung into a clump of brush with a force that nearly drove the breath out of him. For a few moments he lay still, dimly conscious that the horse was struggling in the snow; and then, rousing himself with an effort, he got up unsteadily. He felt badly shaken, but he saw the horse scramble to its feet without a.s.sistance and stand trembling, looking about for him.

Neither he nor the animal seemed to be seriously injured, but he felt incapable of mounting and waited a while, wondering what he should do. He was tired out and was sensible of a depressing la.s.situde, the result of nervous strain. Then, as the bitter cold nipped him, a reaction set in.

Wandle, he remembered, had with detestable cunning plotted to ruin him; it might be difficult to clear himself unless the man were arrested. For the sake of the girl who had maintained his innocence with steadfast faith, the suspicion under which he labored must be dispelled. Prescott was seized by a fit of fury against his betrayer. Nerved by it, he got into the saddle and rode on, urging the Clydesdale savagely through the wood.

Half an hour later he heard a measured drumming sound and Stanton's voice answered his hail. Then a horseman rode out of a gap in the trees and pulled up near him.

"I suppose you have seen nothing of Wandle?" Prescott asked.

"Not a sign," said Stanton shortly. "Have you?"

Prescott raised his hand and sat listening while he struggled with his rage and disappointment. The night was still; he thought he would hear any sound there might be a long distance off, but nothing broke the silence.

"I learned from a chopper that I wasn't far behind him, and I half expected you would have headed him off. I can't think he has pa.s.sed this spot."

"We'll try to fix that."

Stanton dismounted and struck several matches. The flame burned steadily, but it showed none of the marks for which he searched the beaten snow with practised eyes.