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  CHAPTER VIII

  AT SWEET WATER CREEK

  Before a fire of buffalo chips Constable Beresford and his prisonersmoked the pipe of peace. Morse sat on his heels, legs crossed, afterthe manner of the camper. The officer lounged at full length, an elbowdug into the sand as a support for his head. The Montanan wason parole, so that for the moment at least their relations wereforgotten.

  "After the buffalo--what?" asked the American. "The end of theIndian--is that what it means? And desolation on the plains. Nobodyleft but the Hudson's Bay Company trappers, d'you reckon?"

  The Canadian answered in one word. "Cattle."

  "Some, maybe," Morse assented. "But, holy Moses, think of the millionsit would take to stock this country."

  "Bet you the country's stocked inside of five years of the time thebuffalo are cleared out. Look at what the big Texas drives are doingin Colorado and Wyoming and Montana. Get over the idea that this landup here is a desert. That's a fool notion our school geographies areresponsible for. Great American Desert? Great American fiddlesticks!It's a man's country, if you like; but I've yet to see the beat ofit."

  Morse had ceased to pay attention. His head was tilted, and he waslistening.

  "Some one ridin' this way," he said presently. "Hear the hoofs clickon the shale. Who is it? I wonder. An' what do they want? When folks'intentions hasn't been declared it's a good notion to hold a hand youcan raise on."

  Without haste and without delay Beresford got to his feet. "We'll stepback into the shadow," he announced.

  "Looks reasonable to me," agreed the smuggler.

  They waited in the semi-darkness back of the camp-fire.

  Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound of that clear,bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to listen better.

  The constable answered the call.

  Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim,straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swungfrom the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion ofher ride shadowed her.

  Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness.

  "Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called tothe constable.

  "How do you know?"

  "Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand thelithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behindit, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to followyou--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey."

  "He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamedhard and chill. He would see about that.

  "They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at SweetWater Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in thegirl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd betterhurry."

  The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those ofthe prisoner. Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find outpretty soon.

  "Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail."

  "Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?"

  Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelightflickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery.This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees.

  "Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of both hands toindicate the numbers. "Coming up creek. Here soon."

  "We'll move back to the big rocks and I'll make a stand there,"the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap the saddles on withoutcinching. We've got no time to lose." His voice lost its curtness ashe turned to the girl. "Miss McRae, I'll not forget this. Very likelyyou've saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better slip awayquietly. You mustn't be seen here."

  "Why mustn't I?" she asked quickly. "I don't care who sees me."

  She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that little touch ofscornful defiance in the quivering nostrils that seemed to express aspirit free and unafraid. The sense of superiority is generally not alovely manifestation in any human being, but there are moments when ittells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean.

  Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. Hecould hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch ofwords.

  "... must be somewheres near, I tell you."

  Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, andmoved toward the big rocks.

  The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strangetricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools orlike prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as theThree Bears, another as the Elephant.

  Among these boulders Morse found the party he had just left. Theofficer was still trying to persuade Jessie McRae to attempt escape.She refused, stubbornly.

  "There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot. So am I. For thatmatter, if anybody is going to escape, it had better be you," shesaid.

  "Too late now," Morse said. "See, they've found the camp-fire."

  Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approachingthe camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barneyand Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indiantrailer of the Piegan tribe.

  "He must 'a' heard us comin' and pulled out," Barney said.

  "Then he's back in the red rocks," boomed West triumphantly.

  "Soon find out." Brad Stearns turned the head of his horse toward therocks and shouted. "Hello, Tom! You there?"

  No answer came from the rocks.

  "Don't prove a thing," West broke out impatiently. "This fellow's gotTom buffaloed. Didn't he make him smash the barrels? Didn't he takeaway his six-gun from him and bring him along like he hadn't any mindof his own? Tom's yellow. Got a streak a foot wide."

  "Nothin' of the kind," denied Stearns, indignation in his voice. "Idone brought up that boy by hand--learned him all he knows aboutridin' and ropin'. He'll do to take along."

  "Hmp! He always fooled you, Brad. Different here. I'm aimin' to givehim the wallopin' of his life when I meet up with him. And that'll besoon, if he's up there in the rocks. I'm goin' a-shootin'." Bully Westdrew his revolver and rode forward.

  The constable had disposed of his forces so that behind the cover ofthe sandstone boulders they commanded the approach. He had tried topersuade Jessie that this was not her fight, but a question from herhad silenced him.

  "If that Bully West finds me here, after he's killed you, d' you thinkI can get him to let me go because it wasn't my fight?"

  She had asked it with flashing eyes, in which for an instant he hadseen the savagery of fear leap out. Beresford was troubled. The girlwas right enough. If West went the length of murder, he would be anoutlaw. Sleeping Dawn would not be safe with him after she had riddenout to warn his enemy that he was coming. The fellow was a primevalbrute. His reputation had run over the whole border country ofRupert's Land.

  Now he appealed to Morse. "If they get me, will you try to save MissMcRae? This fellow West is a devil, I hear."

  The officer caught a gleam of hot red eyes. "I'll 'tend to that. We'llmix first, him 'n' me. Question now is, do I get a gun?"

  "What for?"

  "Didn't you hear him make his brags about what he was gonna do to me?If there's shootin' I'm in on it, ain't I?"

  "No. You're a prisoner. I can't arm you unless your life is indanger."

  West pulled up his horse about sixty yards from the rocks. He shouteda profane order. The purport of it was that Beresford had better comeout with his hands up if he didn't want to be dragged out by a ropearound his neck. The man's speech crackled with oaths and obscenity.

  The constable stepped into the open a few yards. "What do you want?"he asked.

  "You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden gust of passion."Think you can make a fool of Bully West? Think you can bust up ourcargo an' get away with it? I'll show you where you head in at."

  "Don't make any mistake, West," advised the officer,
his voice cold asthe splash of ice-water. "Three of us are here, all with rifles, alldead shots. If you attack us, some of you are going to get killed."

  "Tha's a lie. You're alone--except for Tom Morse, an' he ain't foolenough to fight to go to jail. I've got you where I want you." Westswung from the saddle and came straddling forward. In the uncertainlight he looked more like some misbegotten ogre than a human being.

  "That's far enough," warned Beresford, not a trace of excitement inmanner or speech. His hands hung by his sides. He gave no sign ofknowing that he had a revolver strapped to his hip ready for action.

  The liquor smuggler stopped to pour out abuse. He was working himselfup to a passion that would justify murder. The weapon in his handswept wildly back and forth. Presently it would focus down to a deadlyconcentration in which all motion would cease.

  The torrent of vilification died on the man's lips. He stared past theconstable with bulging eyes. From the rocks three figures had come.Two of them carried rifles. All three of them he recognized. Hisastonishment paralyzed the scurrilous tongue. What was McRae's girldoing at the camp of the officer?

  It was characteristic of him that he suspected the worst of her.Either Tom Morse or this red-coat had beaten him to his prey. Jealousyand outraged vanity flared up in him so that discretion vanished.

  The barrel of his revolver came down and began to spit flame.

  Beresford gave orders. "Back to the rocks." He retreated, backward,firing as he moved.

  The companions of West surged forward. Shots, shouts, the shiftingblur of moving figures, filled the night. Under cover of the darknessthe defenders reached again the big rocks.

  The constable counted noses. "Everybody all right?" he asked. Then,abruptly, he snapped out: "Who was responsible for that crazy businessof you coming out into the open?"

  "Me," said the girl. "I wanted that West to know you weren't alone."

  "Didn't you know better than to let her do it?" the officer demandedof Morse.

  "He couldn't help it. He tried to keep me back. What right has he tointerfere with me?" she wanted to know, stiffening.

  "You'll do as I say now," the constable said crisply. "Get back ofthat rock there, Miss McRae, and stay there. Don't move from coverunless I tell you to."

  Her dark, stormy eyes challenged his, but she moved sullenly to obey.Rebel though she was, the code of the frontier claimed and held herrespect. She had learned of life that there were times when her willmust be subordinated for the general good.