CHAPTER XVI
THE LOADED WAGON
“Billy Ashe!” exclaimed Tom Clifton, in the greatest amazement, when his breath and the excited state of his feelings permitted him to speak.
The trooper seemed to be fully as astonished as the Rambler.
“You—you!” he cried. “What in thunder are you doing out on the plains at this time of night? And riding a horse without saddle or bridle?” His voice became sharp and angry. “Confound it, fellow, you’ve spoilt the whole business!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Tom.
“You’ve made us lose valuable time, besides yelling our heads off to get you to stop. Don’t you know how far such sounds travel in the night?”
“My horse was running away,” snapped Tom. “Didn’t you have sense enough to know it?”
“Ah! That was the trouble, eh?” exclaimed the other policeman. “We’ve been stalking big game, an’ took you to be one of ’em.”
“Smugglers?” queried Tom, excitedly.
“Where’s the rest of your crowd?” queried Ashe, abruptly. “Give an account of yourself—fast, too. We haven’t an instant to spare.”
His peremptory tone jarred harshly on Tom Clifton’s sensibilities, especially after all the excitement he had gone through. But, excusing it on the ground of the urgency of the policeman’s business, the lad, in brief sentences, told his story.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Billy Ashe, almost violently, as the last words fell from his lips. “One of the nicest bits of police work that’s been done for months all gone for nothing because a nervy kid just bobs up in time to spoil it.”
“How have I done anything to hinder you?” demanded Tom, as angrily as the trooper.
“But for you we could have tracked the slickest band of smugglers in Canada to their destination. We’ve been on their trail for hours.”
“You haven’t lost much time on me.”
“That isn’t the point. That fellow back there who was watching you didn’t intend to take any chances of your prying into their game. Now, you may be sure, he’s put the others on their guard.”
“Aye, aye!” agreed the other trooper.
Billy Ashe, a very ambitious young officer, was becoming even more angry and disgusted. After much patient work, he saw all his efforts threatened with failure. Since entering the service he had always kept in mind the idea of some day wearing a sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves of his scarlet coat. And on this particular job the trooper had visions of receiving warm commendations from his superior officers. Tom Clifton had never impressed him favorably; and now, although the tall lad could not be directly blamed, his presence at a critical time irritated him, driving away for the moment the natural sympathy he should have felt.
Tom, however, was not looking for any. But he didn’t propose to shoulder undeserved blame.
“If you’ve made a fluke on the job,” he exclaimed, hotly, “it’s just exactly as you said yourself: your own shouting must have done it.”
“I’ll put it all up to Sergeant Erskine,” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “And when he gets my report I’d advise you to keep far away from the barracks.”
“Aye, aye!” said the other trooper.
“Oh, that doesn’t scare me a little bit,” jeered Tom. “I’ll make a report to Sergeant Erskine myself.”
With a sharp command to his horse, Ashe galloped off.
“Come on, Witmar!” he yelled. “We’ll get the wagon, anyway.”
“Aye, aye!” answered his companion.
“Guess I’ll follow this thing up myself,” muttered Tom. “Great Scott! Just think—I’m going to take part in a chase after smugglers!”
This thought was enough to stifle his angry feelings, and make him disregard the shooting pains which were now becoming stronger.
“Get up!” he yelled; “get up!”
Although being without saddle or bridle placed him at a great disadvantage, his horse was a swift, fiery creature—a bundle of high-strung nerves, ready to dash off at headlong pace upon the slightest provocation.
“They won’t leave me very far behind,” muttered Tom, grimly. “I can guide this nag by knee-pressure as well as any cowboy.”
The Northwest Mounted policemen, who seemed to have given up hope of capturing the smugglers, rode furiously. At the pace they set there was great danger of Tom’s horse running away again. The Rambler knew this, and though in a reckless and determined spirit, kept all his faculties alert. The wind was rushing by him once more. An occasional bush seemed to spring up before his path and be sent flying behind. He saw his shadow slipping over the ground, waving and wobbling curiously as it passed over the inequalities.
And presently a tiny glow showed him his own camp-fire.
“Wish I had time to skip over for my saddle and bridle,” he thought; “but business just now is too pressing.”
The light of his fire quickly faded from view; new scenes sprang up before him. The hills approached a little nearer to the river. Steep and precipitous they were at this point, and grimly dark, sending a delicate shadow over the silvery gray of the prairie.
The policemen had, naturally, increased their lead, although Tom strove hard to close up the gap between them. From the shaggy sides of his horse rose clouds of steam; the pony’s eyes were distended, his ears thrown back. He seemed to be on the point of bolting again, when the lad, eagerly gazing over the landscape, saw a dark spot coming into view.
“The wagon!” he exclaimed.
Billy Ashe and his companions were thundering over the prairie as fast as their horses could take them. And now, as the distance was being cut down with remarkable rapidity, the canvas-covered wagon began to show clearly in the moonlight. But there were no indications of horsemen near.
Billy Ashe was evidently right. Tom’s appearance on the scene had resulted in the men’s becoming alarmed and abandoning the vehicle. The two policemen soon covered the last stretch, and jumped from the saddle.
Scarcely had their investigations been begun when Tom Clifton clattered up, sawing away on the halter and yelling sharp commands to his horse.
“Well, if this chap hasn’t the biggest nerve I ever heard of!” cried Ashe.
“They have flown, eh?” exclaimed Tom, when at length he managed to conquer his fractious steed.
“I should think they have flown!” growled the trooper, his eyes flashing angrily. “When a man wants a nice piece of beefsteak he isn’t satisfied with gravy. We were after the men—not a wagon-load of contraband stuff, eh, Witmar?”
“Aye, aye!” said his companion.
“You can’t put the blame on me,” cried Tom, hotly.
“I do—and so will the sergeant.”
“Get out! This is a free country, isn’t it?”
“It’s not free for any one to interfere with the business of the Northwest Mounted.”
“What’s in that old chuck wagon?” demanded Tom, impatiently.
Witmar had pulled open the flap, and, by the aid of a pocket search-light, was examining some of the contents.
“We are not supposed to answer questions put to us by strangers,” interposed Ashe, who was in such a disappointed frame of mind that he found it hard to speak with civility. “Come—get out. What do you want to do—take charge of the wagon—and us besides?”
“Aye, aye! I reckon he’d like to,” said Witmar.
“Is this a private park?” demanded Tom. “Where are the ‘keep off the grass’ signs? Have you any authority over me?”
“I have authority to arrest any one who interferes with us,” returned Ashe, threateningly. “There’s many an old stager on the force who might run you over to the barracks if you didn’t light out the moment he said the word.”
“Aye, aye! I’ve seen it done,” said Witmar.
“Well, you won’t see it done in this case!” cried Tom, wrathfully. “You’re supposed to protect people. How do I know that the fellow who pitched into me isn’t lying around somewhere ready to tackle the job again just as soon as I stray far enough away from the Mounted Police, eh?”
“There’s reason in that,” said Witmar.
Billy Ashe did not reply. Although the smugglers had escaped there was still much work to be done. The contraband goods would have to be conveyed to the settlement, where a police post was located; and that meant one of them would have to remain on guard while the other went in search of a team.
“Where do you suppose this wagon was bound?” asked Tom.
“That’s what we should have found out but for you,” growled Ashe. “Once these chaps know we’re hot on their trail they’ll keep under cover, maybe for months.”
The two troopers climbed into the wagon, and from bits of conversation which Tom now and then overheard he felt sure they had made a valuable find of contraband goods.
The canvas-covered vehicle, resting motionless upon the prairie, with its deep shadow cutting over the ground, produced a singularly picturesque effect. The soft moonlight, too, added an impressive appearance of size. To Tom Clifton’s mind it vaguely suggested some huge monster brought to bay and rendered helpless.
He wondered in which direction the men and horses had gone. He carefully studied the landscape, the hills, the obscure distance touched with faint lights and delicate shades. Somewhere in that great expanse were concealed the forms so eagerly sought.
Then, in another moment, the channel of his thoughts was rudely changed. A horseman, galloping hard, suddenly appeared. He was headed directly for the wagon.
At the same instant the troopers also discovered him.
“Well, did you ever!” cried Tom, excitedly. “What in thunder——”
Ashe and Witmar sprang to the ground.
“He’ll have to give a good account of himself!” cried the former. “After him, Witmar!”
Their precaution, however, was unnecessary, for the oncoming rider made no effort to change his course.
Not a sound came from the three as they watched him coming nearer and nearer, until at length his figure was clearly in view. Then Tom Clifton uttered a shout of surprise and exultation.
“By George—if this isn’t the greatest piece of luck I ever heard of!” he yelled, almost wildly. “By all that’s wonderful, it’s Larry Burnham!”