The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey
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luck strings with you, Carney, and you get away with this dirty trick, what you say’ll make good—I’ll have to quit the Force; an’ I want to get home down east. Give me a chance; let me have my own two hundred.”
“I think you’re lying—a man in the Force doesn’t get two hundred ahead, not honest. But I’ll toss you whether I give you one hundred or two,” Carney said, taking a half dollar from his pocket. “Call!” and he spun it in the air.
“Heads!” the Wolf cried.
The coin fell tails up. “Here’s your hundred,” and Bulldog passed the bills to their owner.
“I see here,” he continued, “your order to arrest Bulldog Carney. Well, you’ve made good, haven’t you. And here’s another for Jack the Wolf; you missed him, didn’t you? Where’s he—what’s he done lately? He played me a dirty trick once; tipped off the police as to where they’d get me. I never saw him, but if you could stake me to a sight of the Wolf I’d give you this six hundred. He’s the real hound that I’ve got a low down grudge against. What’s his description—what does he look like?”
“He’s a tall slim chap—looks like a halfbreed, got mixed blood in him,” the Wolf lied.
“I’ll get him some day,” Carney said; “and now them duds are about cooked—peel!”
The Wolf stripped, gray shirt and all.
“Now step back fifteen paces while I make my toilet,” Carney commanded, toying with his 6-gun in the way of emphasis.
In two minutes he was transformed into Sergeant Heath of the N.W.M.P., revolver belt and all. He threw his own clothes to the Wolf, and lighted his pipe.
When Jack had dressed Carney said: “I saved your life, so I don’t want you to make me throw it away again. I don’t want a muss when I turn you over to the police in the morning. There ain’t much chance they’d listen to you if you put up a holler that you were Sergeant Heath—they’d laugh at you, but if they did make a break at me there’s be shooting, and you’d sure be plumb in line of a careless bullet—see? I’m going to stay close to you till you’re on that train.”
Of course that was just what the Wolf wanted; to go down the line as Bulldog Carney, handcuffed to a policeman, would be like a passport for Jack the Wolf. Nobody would even speak to him—the policeman would see to that.
“You’re dead set on putting this crazy thing through, are you?” he asked.
“You bet I am—I’d rather work this racket than go to my own wedding.”
“Well, so’s you won’t think your damn threat to shoot keeps me mum, I’ll just tell you that if you get that far with it I ain’t going to give myself away. You’ve called the turn, Carney; I’d be a joke even if I only got as far as the first barracks a prisoner. If I go in as Bulldog Carney I won’t come out as Sergeant Heath—I’ll disappear as Mister Somebody. I’m sick of the Force anyway. They’ll never know what happened to Sergeant Heath from me—I couldn’t stand the guying. But if I ever stack up against you, Carney, I’ll kill you for it.” This last was pure bluff—for fear Carney’s suspicions might be aroused by the other’s ready compliance.
Carney scowled; then he laughed, sneering: “I’ve heard women talk like that in the dance halls. You cook some bacon and tea at that fire—then we’ll pull out.”
As the Wolf knelt beside the fire to blow the embers into a blaze he found a chance to slip the knife he had buried into his pocket.
When they had eaten they took the trail, heading south to pass the lower end of the great muskegs. Carney rode the buckskin, and the Wolf strode along in front, his mind possessed of elation at the prospect of being helped out of the country, and depression over the loss of his money. Curiously the loss of his own one hundred seemed a greater enormity than that of the school teacher’s five hundred. That money had been easily come by, but he had toiled a month for the hundred. What right had Carney to steal his labor—to rob a workman. As they plugged along mile after mile, a fierce determination to get the money back took possession of Jack. If he could get it he could get the horse. He would fix Bulldog some way so that the latter would not stop him. He must have the clothes, too. The khaki suit obsessed him; it was a red flag to his hot mind.
They spelled and ate in the early evening; and when they started for another hour’s tramp Carney tied his cow-rope tightly about the Wolf’s waist, saying: “If you’d tried to cut out in these gloomy hills I’d be peeved. Just keep that line taut in front of the buckskin and there won’t be no argument.”
In an hour Carney called a halt, saying: “We’ll camp by this bit of water, and hit the trail in the early morning. We ain’t more than ten miles from steel, and we’ll make some place before train time.”
Carney had both the police picket line and his own. He drove a picket in the ground, looped the line that was about the Wolf’s waist over it, and said.
“I don’t want to be suspicious of a mate jumping me in the dark, so I’ll sleep across this line and you’ll keep to the other end of it; if you so much as wink at it I guess I’ll wake. I’ve got a bad conscience and sleep light. We’ll build a fire and you’ll keep to the other side of it same’s we were neighbors in a city and didn’t know each other.”
Twice, as they ate, Carney caught a sullen, vicious look in Jack’s eyes. It was as clearly a murder look as he had ever seen; and more than once he had faced eyes that thirsted for his life. He wondered at the psychology of it; it was not like his idea of Sergeant Heath. From what he had been told of that policeman he had fancied him a vain, swaggering chap who had had his ego fattened by the three stripes on his arm. He determined to take a few extra precautions, for he did not wish to lie awake.
“We’ll turn in,” he said when they had eaten; “I’ll hobble you, same’s a shy cayuse, for fear you’d walk in your sleep, Sergeant.”
He bound the Wolf’s ankles, and tied his wrists behind his back, saying, as he knotted the rope, “What the devil did you do with your handcuffs—thought you johnnies always had a pair in your pocket?”
“They were in the saddle holster and went down with my horse,” the Wolf lied.
Carney’s nerves were of steel, his brain worked with exquisite precision. When it told him there was nothing to fear, that his precautions had made all things safe, his mind rested, untortured by jerky nerves; so in five minutes he slept.
The Wolf mastered his weariness and lay awake, waiting to carry out the something that had been in his mind. Six hundred dollars was a stake to play for; also clad once again in the police suit, with the buckskin to carry him to the railroad, he could get away; money was always a good thing to bribe his way through. Never once had he put his hand in the pocket where lay the knife he had secreted at the time he had changed clothes with Carney, as he trailed hour after hour in front of the buckskin. He knew that Carney was just the cool-nerved man that would sleep—not lie awake through fear over nothing.
In the way of test he shuffled his feet and drew from the half-dried grass a rasping sound. It partly disturbed the sleeper; he changed the steady rhythm of his breathing; he even drew a heavy-sighing breath; had he been lying awake watching the Wolf he would have stilled his breathing to listen.
The Wolf waited until the rhythmic breaths of the sleeper told that he had lapsed again into the deeper sleep. Slowly, silently the Wolf worked his hands to the side pocket, drew out the knife and cut the cords that bound his wrists. It took time, for he worked with caution. Then he waited. The buckskin, his nose deep in the grass, blew the pollen of the flowered carpet from his nostrils.
Carney stirred and raised his head. The buckskin blew through his nostrils again, ending with a luxurious sigh of content; then was heard the clip-clip of his strong teeth scything the grass. Carney, recognizing what had waked him, turned over and slept again.
Ten minutes, and the Wolf, drawing up his feet slowly, silently, sawed through