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<h2 class="newchapter">XV TROOPER SIMPSON'S PRISONERS</h2> Day broke drearily across the clearing. Mist rolled about the dark pines and when the wind got stronger the dark branches tossed. The loghouse was cold and trooper Simpson, turning over on the hard boards, shivered. Then he remarked that although the pit-lamp had gone out the room was not dark and he was dully conscious that he had slept longer than he ought. After a few moments, his glance rested on an object covered by blankets at the other end of the room and he got up with a jerk. His head hurt and he was dizzy. He now remembered that he had run against a stump and fallen into the ditch; but he must brace up and with something of an effort he crossed the floor. So far as he could see, the warden's eyes were shut and his face was pinched. All the same, Simpson thought he breathed and when he touched him his skin was not cold. "Hello!" he said, and Stannard, sitting by Douglas, turned. "He's very sick," Simpson resumed. "What are we going to do about it?" "We must try to keep him warm and when he can swallow give him a little weak liquor and perhaps some hot soup. I expect that's all, but I have sent for a doctor." "I see you have given him good blankets," said Simpson, who looked about. "Leyland's not back; you allowed he had gone out for a few minutes. Then where's the big man?" "I stated Leyland went out a few minutes before Deering inquired for him," Stannard said dryly. "Some time after Leyland went, Deering started for the bush." "Then, I've got stung! You knew I'd lost my rifle and you helped my prisoners get off!" Stannard smiled. "To talk about your prisoners is ridiculous; I imagine we are rather your hosts. I am not a policeman, and when my friends resolved to leave the camp I had no grounds to meddle. However, if it will give you some satisfaction, I'll lend you a rifle." "I'm going to get mine," said Simpson and started across the clearing. He came back before long, carrying a wet rifle. His clothes were muddy and his mouth was tight. "I found her in two or three minutes, but when I was in the ditch last night I felt all about." "To find an object in the dark is awkward," Stannard remarked. Simpson gave him an angry glance. "The magazine's broke and the ejector's jambed. I don't see how she got broke. I didn't hit the stump with my gun; I hit it with my head." "The thing is rather obvious. The cut ought to satisfy your officer," said Stannard soothingly. "If you hadn't let your partners go, I wouldn't have had to satisfy my officer. Now I sure don't see where I am." "The situation is embarrassing," Stannard agreed. "My friends have been gone some time and are pretty good mountaineers; it's possible they could go where you could not. Then, if you went after Deering and Leyland, I might go off another way. I don't want to persuade you, but perhaps you ought to stop and take care of Douglas." Simpson frowned and put down his damaged rifle. "Looks as if you had got me beat and I've no use for talking. Now the light's good, I'll take a proper look at your party's tracks." Stannard let him go and soon afterwards Bob came in. Sitting down on the boards, he struck a pungent sulphur match and lighted his pipe. Stannard's glance got hard. He knew the Western hired man's independence, but he thought Bob truculent. "The warden's very ill and your tobacco's rank," he said. "He's sick all right. I doubt if he'll get better," Bob agreed in a meaning voice, although he did not put away his pipe. For a few moments Stannard pondered. To baffle the young trooper had rather amused him, but to dispute with Bob was another thing. "If Douglas does not get better, it will be awkward," Stannard said. "It will sure be awkward for Mr. Leyland." "Or for you!" "Shucks! You know I was sort of superintending and hadn't a gun." "I don't know," said Stannard. "You stated you had not a gun. In the meantime, I imagine Simpson is measuring distances and fixing angles, or something like that. I can't judge if he knows his job; perhaps you can." Bob's glance was a little keener. "Huh!" he said scornfully, "the kid's from the cities and can't read tracks. All the same, somebody shot Douglas, and if the police can't fix it on Leyland, they'll get after me." "I don't see where I can help. For one thing, Mr. Leyland is my friend. Then all I can state is, I didn't see you carry a gun. On the whole, I don't think the police have much grounds to bother you." "Well, I don't take no chances; the police would sooner I was for it. They can't claim Leyland meant to kill the warden, but they might claim I did. Gimme a hundred dollars and I'll quit." Stannard smiled. "I have not got ten dollars; I gave Jimmy my wallet. He's your employer." "Then, if I run up against Mr. Leyland, I'll know he carries a wad and I guess I can persuade him to see me out," said Bob. "Now I'm going to take all the grub I want. So long!" He went off and Stannard shrugged; but a few moments afterwards he rested his back against the wall and shut his eyes, as if he were tired. By and by Simpson returned and met Bob near the door. Bob carried a big pack, a cartridge belt, and a rifle. "Hello!" said Simpson. "Another for the woods? Well, you got to drop that pack. You're not going." "You make me tired. My gun's not broke," Bob rejoined and shoved the muzzle against Simpson's chest. "Get inside, sonny. Get in quick!" The Royal North-West Police do not enlist slack-nerved men and Simpson's pluck was good. For all that, he was lightly built and was hurt, while Bob was big and muscular. When Simpson seized the rifle barrel Bob pushed hard on the butt. The trooper staggered back, struck the doorpost, and plunged into the house. Bob laughed. "Your job's to help cure your partner. Maybe he knows who shot him," he remarked, and started across the clearing. Simpson leaned against the wall and gasped. When he got his breath he turned to Stannard savagely. "Where's your rifle?" "In the corner behind you," Stannard replied, and Simpson, seizing the rifle, jerked open the breech. "My cartridge shells won't fit." "It's possible," said Stannard. "I didn't engage to lend you ammunition, but if you go to the barn, you'll find a brown valise. Bring me the valise and I may find you a box of cartridges." "Do you reckon Bob is going to wait until I get all fixed?" "That's another thing," said Stannard pleasantly. Simpson put down the rifle. "In about a minute the fellow'll hit the timber and his sort don't leave much trail. Then you have not pulled out yet." "You imagine if you went after Bob and did not find him, you might not find me when you came back?" "That's so," Simpson agreed. "Not long since I reckoned I'd got the gang. Now you're all that's left. The packers don't count." "Oh, well," said Stannard, smiling. "I'll agree to remain. I expect to pay a fine for poaching, although I didn't know I was on the reserve. Since I'm resigned, it doesn't look as if my friends had an object for shooting Douglas. You see, I killed the big-horn." "All the same, three have lit out." "There's the puzzle; the warden was hit by one bullet. I own I don't see much light; but I think you sketched the clearing." Simpson pulled out a note-book and Stannard remarked that the plan of the ground was carefully drawn. He thought the spots the sportsmen had occupied were accurately marked; distances and the lines of the warden's and Simpson's advance were indicated. "The thing's like a map," he said. "How did you fix the positions?" "I carry a compass and can step off a measurement nearly right. At Regina they teach us to study tracks, but I was at a surveyor's office before I joined up." "Then, you are a surveyor?" said Stannard with keen interest, for he saw the accuracy of the plan was important. Simpson smiled. "Surveying's a close profession. I was a clerk, but I copied plans and sometimes the boss took me out to help pull the measuring chain. Well, I guess that plan will stand!" When Stannard gave back the book his look was thoughtful, but he said, "Until the doctor arrives, we must concentrate on keeping Douglas alive. To begin with, we'll get the packers to make a branch bed and light a fire." Douglas lived, but, so far as the others could see, this was all. He hardly moved and he did not talk, but sometimes at night his skin got hot and he raved in a faint broken voice. A packer shot some willow grouse and they made broth, and Stannard put away the party's small stock of liquor and canned delicacies for his use. Sometimes he swallowed a little food, but for the most part he lay like a log in blank unconsciousness. Simpson, Stannard, and a packer watched, and before long Stannard knew the trooper was his man. He had qualities that attracted trustful youth and used his talent cleverly. For all that, when the doctor and an officer of the mounted police arrived, Stannard's look was worn and Simpson's relief was keen. The officer sent Stannard from the room, but ordered him to wait at the barn. After some time Simpson came to the barn and Stannard, returning to the house, saw the officer's brows were knit. The doctor put some instruments into a case and then turned his head and looked at his companion. Stannard imagined they had not heard his step and for the moment had forgotten about him. "He was obviously hit in front. The bullet mark's near the middle of his body and indicates he was going for the man who shot him," the officer remarked. "The wound at the back does not altogether support your argument," the doctor replied. "It is not at the middle, and the fellow is lucky because it is not. The mark's, so to speak, obliquely behind the other." "The mark where a bullet leaves the body is generally larger?" "To reckon on its being larger is a pretty safe rule," the doctor agreed. Stannard's interest was keen, but the officer saw him and looked at the doctor, who signed to Stannard to advance. "I imagine you have used some thought for the sick man," he said. "Sit down; I want to know—" In a few minutes Stannard satisfied his curiosity, and the officer then took him to another room. He used reserve, but he was polite, and Stannard thought he had examined Simpson and the trooper's narrative had carried some weight. "The doctor states Douglas must not be moved," the officer presently remarked. "In the morning, I must start for the railroad and you will go with me. I'll try to make things as easy as I can, but if you tried to get away, you would run some risk. The Royal North-West have powers the Government does not give municipal police." "Had I wanted to get away, I would have gone some time since," Stannard replied. The other nodded. "Simpson admits your help was worth much. Well, you will certainly be made accountable for poaching, but this may satisfy my chiefs—I don't know yet. I expect there's no use in my trying to get some light about your friends' plans?" "There is not much use," Stannard agreed. "For one thing, my friends did not altogether enlighten me." "Very well," said the officer, smiling. "So long as you do not go off the ranch, you can go where you like. After breakfast in the morning we start for the railroad." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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