The Second Western Megapack

by Various Writers

  “I don’t walk on my pants.”

  “That’s just what you would do; the pants and coat would cut up into about four pairs of moccasins; they’d be as good as duffel cloth.”

  “I’ll starve.”

  “That’s your look-out. You’d lie awake nights worrying about where Jack Wolf would get a dinner—I guess not. I ought to shoot you. The damn police are nothin’ but a lot of dirty dogs anyway. Get busy and cook grub for two—bacon and tea while I sit here holdin’ this gun on you.”

  The Sergeant was a grotesque figure cooking with the manacles on his wrists, and clad only in a shirt.

  When they had eaten the Wolf bridled the horse, curled up the picket line and tied it to the saddle horn, rolled the blanket and with the carbine strapped it to the saddle, also his own blanket.

  “I’m goin’ to grubstake you,” he said, “leave you rations for three days; that’s more than you’d do for me. I’ll turn your horse loose near steel, I ain’t horse stealin’, myself—I’m only borrowin’.”

  When he was ready to mount a thought struck the Wolf. It could hardly be pity for the forlorn condition of Heath; it must have been cunning—a play against the off chance of the Sergeant being picked up by somebody that day. He said:

  “You fellers in the force pull a gag that you keep your word, don’t you?”

  “We try to.”

  “I’ll give you another chance, then. I don’t want to see nobody put in a hole when there ain’t no call for it. If you give me your word, on the honor of a Mounted Policeman, swear it, that you’ll give me four days’ start before you squeal I’ll stake you to the clothes and boots; then you can get out in two days and be none the worse.”

  “I’ll see you in hell first. A Mounted Policeman doesn’t compromise with a horse thief—with a skunk who steals a working girl’s money.”

  “You’ll keep palaverin’ till I blow the top of your head off,” the Wolf snarled. “You’ll look sweet trampin’ in to some town in about a week askin’ somebody to file off the handcuffs Jack the Wolf snapped on you, won’t you?”

  “I won’t get any place in a week with these handcuffs on,” the Sergeant objected; “even if a pack of coyotes tackled me I couldn’t protect myself.”

  The Wolf pondered this. If he could get away without it he didn’t want the death of a man on his hands—there was nothing in it. So he unlocked the handcuffs, dangled them in his fingers debatingly, and then threw them far out into the bushes, saying, with a leer: “I might get stuck up by somebody, and if they clamped these on to me it would make a get-away harder.”

  “Give me some matches,” pleaded the Sergeant.

  With this request the Wolf complied saying, “I don’t want to do nothin’ mean unless it helps me out of a hole.”

  Then Jack swung to the saddle and continued on the trail. For four miles he rode, wondering at the persistence of the muskeg. But now he had a horse and twenty-four hours ahead before train time; he should worry.

  Another four miles, and to the south he could see a line of low rolling hills that meant the end of the swamps. Even where he rode the prairie rose and fell, the trail dipping into hollows, on its rise to sweep over higher land. Perhaps some of these ridges ran right through the muskegs; but there was no hurry.

  Suddenly as the Wolf breasted an upland he saw a man leisurely cinching a saddle on a buckskin horse.

  “Hell!” the Wolf growled as he swung his mount; “that’s the buckskin that I see at the Alberta; that’s Bulldog; I don’t want no mix-up with him.”

  He clattered down to the hollow he had left, and raced for the hiding screen of the bushed muskeg. He was almost certain Carney had not seen him, for the other had given no sign; he would wait in the cover until Carney had gone; perhaps he could keep right on across the bad lands, for his horse, as yet, sunk but hoof deep. He drew rein in thick cover and waited.

  Suddenly the horse threw up his head, curved his neck backward, cocked his ears and whinnied. The Wolf could hear a splashing, sucking sound of hoofs back on the tell-tale trail he had left.

  With a curse he drove his spurs into the horse’s flanks, and the startled animal sprang from the cutting rowels, the ooze throwing up in a shower.

  A dozen yards and the horse stumbled, almost coming to his knees; he recovered at the lash of Jack’s quirt, and struggled on; now going half the depth of his cannon bones in the yielding muck, he was floundering like a drunken man; in ten feet his legs went to the knees.

  Quirt and spur drove him a few feet; then he lurched heavily, and with a writhing struggle against the sucking sands stood trembling; from his spread mouth came a scream of terror—he knew.

  And now the Wolf knew. With terrifying dread he remembered—he had ridden into the “Lakes of the Shifting Sands.” This was the country they were in and he had forgotten. The sweat of fear stood out on the low forehead; all the tales that he had heard of men who had disappeared from off the face of the earth, swallowed up in these quicksands, came back to him with numbing force. To spring from the horse meant but two or three wallowing strides and then to be sucked down in the claiming quicksands.

  The horse’s belly was against the black muck. The Wolf had drawn his feet up; he gave a cry for help. A voice answered, and twisting his head about he saw, twenty yards away, Carney on the buckskin. About the man’s thin lips a smile hovered. He sneered:

  “You’re up against it, Mister Policeman; what name’ll I turn in back at barracks?”

  Jack knew that it was Carney, and that Carney might know Heath by sight, so he lied:

  “I’m Sergeant Phillips; for God’s sake help me out.”

  Bulldog sneered. “Why should I—God doesn’t love a sneaking police hound.”

  The Wolf pleaded, for his horse was gradually sinking; his struggles now stilled for the beast knew that he was doomed.

  “All right,” Carney said suddenly. “One condition—never mind, I’ll save you first—there isn’t too much time. Now break your gun, empty the cartridges out and drop it back into the holster,” he commanded. “Unsling your picket line, fasten it under your armpits, and if I can get my cow-rope to you tie the two together.”

  He slipped from the saddle and led the horse as far out as he dared, seemingly having found firmer ground a little to one side. Then taking his cowrope, he worked his way still farther out, placing his feet on the tufted grass that stuck up in little mounds through the treacherous ooze. Then calling, “Look out!” he swung the rope. The Wolf caught it at the first throw and tied his own to it. Carney worked his way back, looped the rope over the horn, swung to the saddle, and calling, “Flop over on your belly—look out!” he started his horse, veritably towing the Wolf to safe ground.

  The rope slacked; the Wolf, though half smothered with muck, drew his revolver and tried to slip two cartridges into the cylinder.

  A sharp voice cried, “Stop that, you swine!” and raising his eyes he was gazing into Carney’s gun. “Come up here on the dry ground,” the latter commanded. “Stand there, unbuckle your belt and let it drop. Now take ten paces straight ahead.” Carney salvaged the weapon and belt of cartridges.

  “Build a fire, quick!” he next ordered, leaning casually against his horse, one hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

  He tossed a couple of dry matches to the Wolf when the latter had built a little mound of dry poplar twigs and birch bark.

  When the fire was going Carney said: “Peel your coat and dry it; stand close to the fire so your pants dry too—I want that suit.”

  The Wolf was startled. Was retribution so hot on his trail? Was Carney about to set him afoot just as he had set afoot Sergeant Heath? His two hundred dollars and Lucy Black’s five hundred were in the pocket of that coat also. As he took it off he turned it upside down, hoping for a chance to slip the parcel of money to the ground unnoticed of his captor.

  “Throw the jacket here,” Carney commanded; “seems to be papers in the pocket.”

  When the c
oat had been tossed to him, Carney sat down on a fallen tree, took from it two packets—one of papers, and another wrapped in strong paper. He opened the papers, reading them with one eye while with the other he watched the man by the fire. Presently he sneered: “Say, you’re some liar—even for a government hound; your name’s not Phillips, it’s Heath. You’re the waster who fooled the little girl at Golden. You’re the bounder who came down from the Klondike to gather Bulldog Carney in; you shot off your mouth all along the line that you were going to take him singlehanded. You bet a man in Edmonton a hundred you’d tie him hoof and horn. Well, you lose, for I’m going to rope you first, see? Turn you over to the Government tied up like a bag of spuds; that’s just what I’m going to do, Sergeant Liar. I’m going to break you for the sake of that little girl at Golden, for she was my friend and I’m Bulldog Carney. Soon as that suit is dried a bit you’ll strip and pass it over; then you’ll get into my togs and I’m going to turn you over to the police as Bulldog Carney. D’you get me, kid?” Carney chuckled. “That’ll break you, won’t it, Mister Sergeant Heath? You can’t stay in the Force a joke; you’ll never live it down if you live to be a thousand—you’ve boasted too much.”

  The Wolf had remained silent—waiting. He had an advantage if his captor did not know him. Now he was frightened; to be turned in at Edmonton by Carney was as bad as being taken by Sergeant Heath.

  “You can’t pull that stuff, Carney,” he objected; “the minute I tell them who I am and who you are they’ll grab you too quick. They’ll know me; perhaps some of them’ll know you.”

  A sneering “Ha!” came from between the thin lips of the man on the log. “Not where we’re going they won’t, Sergeant. I know a little place over on the rail”—and he jerked his thumb toward the west—“where there’s two policemen that don’t know much of anything; they’ve never seen either of us. You ain’t been at Edmonton more’n a couple of months since you came from the Klondike. But they do know that Bulldog Carney is wanted at Calgary and that there’s a thousand dollars to the man that brings him in.”

  At this the Wolf pricked his ears; he saw light—a flood of it. If this thing went through, and he was sent on to Calgary as Bulldog Carney, he would be turned loose at once as not being the man. The police at Calgary had cause to know just what Carney looked like for he had been in their clutches and escaped.

  But Jack must bluff—appear to be the angry Sergeant. So he said: “They’ll know me at Calgary, and you’ll get hell for this.”

  Now Carney laughed out joyously. “I don’t give a damn if they do. Can’t you get it through your wooden police head that I just want this little pleasantry driven home so that you’re the goat of that nanny band, the Mounted Police; then you’ll send in your papers and go back to the farm?”

  As Carney talked he had opened the paper packet. Now he gave a crisp “Hello! what have we here?” as a sheaf of bills appeared.

  The Wolf had been watching for Carney’s eyes to leave him for five seconds. One hand rested in his trousers pocket. He drew it out and dropped a knife, treading it into the sand and ashes.

  “Seven hundred,” Bulldog continued. “Rather a tidy sum for a policeman to be toting. Is this police money?”

  The Wolf hesitated; it was a delicate situation. Jack wanted that money but a slip might ruin his escape. If Bulldog suspected that Jack was not a policeman he would jump to the conclusion that he had killed the owner of the horse and clothes. Also Carney would not believe that a policeman on duty wandered about with seven hundred in his pocket; if Jack claimed it all Carney would say he lied and keep it as Government money.

  “Five hundred is Government money I was bringin’ in from a post, and two hundred is my own,” he answered.

  “I’ll keep the Government money,” Bulldog said crisply; “the Government robbed me of my ranch—said I had no title. And I’ll keep yours, too; it’s coming to you.”

  “If 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. H
e 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.