CHAPTER XX

MORNING'S MAZE

The awakening of Sergeant Seymour was painful; never before had he known that a head could ache with the throbs that were racking his. Presently his mind took hold of a fragmentary idea--horse-blanket. Upon this, after a mental struggle, he was able to spread a picture of his sorry going-out at the hands of some mining-camp thugs, doubtless intent on robbing him.

His next wonder was what had awakened him and by way of answering that, he opened his eyes for a look around, the greatest surprise of which was broad daylight. The sun, then, must have served as his alarm clock--called him out of that night which was darker than any he had ever known before. Now its rays were streaming into a cabin room in which he lay, fully clad, upon a straw-stuffed bunk.

He did not bother to get up just then; he merely lay back on the inadequate pillow of his slouch hat and "listened" to the ache of his head. The idea that he had been robbed persisted. To his surprise, he found that the currency belt around his waist had not been disturbed. Surely mining camp crooks would know where to look for his valuables!

Then he slid his right hand over his chest to feel the holster that hung beneath his left arm. Greater surprise! His gun lay ready in its usual concealment.

The conclusions, painful in their process, were at once comforting and disturbing. He had not been trimmed or even frisked. Robbery could not have been the motive behind the attack outside the widow's restaurant. Then--what?

Slowly he raised himself to a sitting position upon the bare bunk and permitted his eyes to rove until they settled upon another shock to his tortured comprehension. This was found in the narrow window through which the sun was streaming. Iron bars crossed the opening. He must be a prisoner in jail.

"Deputy Sheriff! Samuel Hardley, the strong arm of the law!"

He swung his feet to the floor and took a somewhat wabbly stand. Further survey convinced him beyond doubt that he was in the blundering deputy's one-cell bastile. This proved to be built of logs with a door as thick as that of an ice box and studded with nails. The two windows were near the log ceiling, narrow, oblong and barred. There were three bunks along as many walls and a Yukon stove in the cell's center--no other furnishings, but enough for a frontier jail.

So, that was the lay of the cards, he mused darkly--the explanation of the surprise attack. After their talk in Brewster's room at the Bonanza, the fat deputy must have located Kaw--shod in front but plain behind--and his 30-30 rifle which he had left in the stable. Hardley had realized, then, that his ill-considered revelation of clews would have put his man on guard. Learning that Seymour, supposed murderer and robber of the stage, was in the restaurant he had made ambush and effected his arrest along safety-first lines.

There the deputy's caution seemed to have stopped, thought the sergeant, enjoying again the reinforcing feel of his gun. Neglect to search his prisoner was quite in keeping with other official blunders which the fat man had made. Seymour would have to give Hardley credit, however, for effecting a silent, bloodless capture--with a blanket, as he remembered it.

Full assurance on this point awaited his glance. Almost at his feet lay the thing--a worn horse-blanket. Possibly the deputy had covered him with it before locking him in and, in the restlessness of thud-impelled slumber, Seymour had kicked it off.

A bottle that stood on the sheet iron stove invited inspection. Even before he picked it up, the stars on its label prepared him for the brandy smell which a sniff at its neck brought forth. If Hardley had been fortifying his courage with that high-powered stuff, it was no wonder he overlooked the gun. A drink of the liquor might have strengthened Seymour; but he realized he would need all his wit in the heated session which he meant should begin with the deputy's arrival at the jail. Lifting the stove top, he permitted the pint which remained in the bottle to gurgle into the ashes of some long-ago fire.

Seated on the edge of one of the bunks, he took stock of the situation. He had missed the late-night appointment at the O'Malley cabin on Glacier Creek. The missionary folk would think, probably, that they had left too much to his intuition in their excess of caution. That, however, meant only delay and, while hours were precious, he would make up for lost time once free of Hardley's detecting.

It began to look as though he was not a huge success as a plain clothes man. He had taken off his mask for Bart's widow. Ruth Duperow evidently believed him to be a constable come to aid the murdered "sergeant." Now it seemed likely that he would be forced to make a confidant of the talkative Hardley in order to be able to carry on at all. If Bart had not made the uniform a conspicuous target for one bad outfit of that region, he'd be tempted to at once climb into the scarlet which the bandit had left unworn. Never had he liked under-cover patrols, but in this particular case, he felt that "civies" were essential.

An hour had passed since his awakening and he was beginning to wonder when the obese deputy fed his prisoners at his perforce boarding house. If the surmise taken from the half-filled bottle of "Four Star" had been freely partaken, Hardley might sleep late that morning and awaken with a "head" that would make his visit to the guard house a second thought.

Seymour thought of firing his pistol through the window in a hope of attracting attention to his plight; he even went so far as to unlimber the weapon. But he recalled that he had not the slightest idea of where the calaboose was situated, for it had not come to his notice in the course of his one crowded day in Gold. That it did not stand immediately back of the sheriff's office he was certain, and it might be on the camp's outskirts for all he knew to the contrary. It seemed the part of wisdom to reserve his ammunition; at least to give the deputy another half-hour of grace.

In his impatience to be out and going, the sergeant began to pace the floor. Already, his physical fitness was asserting itself, returning him rapidly to normal. There was a pair of bumps on the back of his head where the two put-out blows had landed, but there was no sign of a scalp wound, thanks to the protection the thick blanket had afforded. Except for the confining bars and that ice-box door, he was entirely able to be out, carrying the law where it sadly was needed.

On his fourth or fifth round of the small room, he paused before the door, seized with a commanding impulse to expend his surplus energy in beating upon it. He had seen prisoners behave in that same futile fashion in his own guard rooms and, for the sake of quiet, had put irons on them when they persisted. But there was no one in this inhospitable place to put irons on him, so he yielded to the extent of beating a tattoo on the stout planking.

To his amazement, the door gave slightly under his touch, which was no way at all for a self-respecting jail door to behave. This "giving" suggested the application of more force. Crouching, he put his shoulder to it and the heavy portal swung open. He had been "jugged" in an uncorked "jug," and there was nothing now to keep him from going where and when he listed.

He delayed just long enough to examine the fastenings which had not fastened. A heavy padlock hung securely locked in its deep-set staple, but the hasp had been left outside, folded back against the door. For the first time that morning, Sergeant Scarlet smiled; more than that, he grinned. For once he was indebted to too much brandy.

Outside, under the blue sky, he took several deep breaths of vitalizing air. He had seen his own prisoners do that upon being released from confinement, but never understood the impulse as he did now. A moment was necessary to get his bearings; the jail stood on a knoll a hundred yards back from King Street.

To make tracks out of camp was his first inclination. But at once he rejected any attempt at escape. That would only start Hardley in pursuit, probably with that posse the coroner's jury had authorized so superfluously. Rather, he must quiet the deputy's suspicions, even to disclosing his official identity, if necessary. Picking his path, he strode down the incline to King Street.

As he neared the Bonanza, he saw Hardley come off the porch and waddle in his direction. But at first sight of him, the deputy merely added another to the morning's list of surprises. This one took the form of a cheerfully waved greeting, as from friend to friend. By no stretch of the imagination could it have been expected from an officer sighting a prisoner who had just broken out of jail. Seymour advanced, puzzled and on guard.

"You're out early this morning, stranger," Hardley shrilled when the paces that separated them were few. "Just been up to your room looking for you but heard no 'Come in.'"

The sergeant studied the man a moment, then replied: "Sorry I was out. What can I do for you, now that you've found me?"

"I noticed yesterday that you have a come-hither eye," went on the deputy in a lower voice. "I've got a hunch them murdering stage robbers are camped in a cañon south of town a-ways. Thought you might like a little frolic as one of my official posse. No danger to speak of, for I'll be leading you and we'll all be armed to the shoulder-blades. Better come if you've got the time to spare."

That Hardley did not know Seymour had spent the night in jail seemed indubitable. The Mounted officer could not explain it. Too much to blame upon the brandy this seemed, for the deputy had been absolutely sober in Brewster's room. But explanations could wait. Here was a chance to be about his police business without disclosing that he had any.

At once Seymour expressed his regret. He honestly had no time to spare. Hardley could understand how anxious he was to get to the creeks and locate something for himself. The deputy should have no trouble recruiting enough men, citizens who knew the country better than any stranger could and who already had staked their claims. He was for the law every time--Seymour was, but he'd appreciate being excused from service this once.

"Sure, I understand, friend," agreed the deputy. "Be on your way and the best of luck to you. My down-river hunch may be all wrong, so keep your eyes peeled for a horse that's shod in front and plain behind. The rider of him is the killer of Sergeant Seymour, or I'm a liar and as a deputy sheriff, not worth the powder to blow me to blazes!"

Half an hour later, a horse that was shod before and plain behind traveled north out of Gold. His rider was Sergeant Seymour himself, not his killer.