CHAPTER XII.

Tightening Up.

CLOSE beside his tiny signal fire, Denis waited there in the night. As he watched, he remembered one thing to which he had given little thought.

This was that Cowley was going to the foot of the lakes some time that same night to meet Bray. Presumably Cowley would not start until an hour or so before dawn. But what would happen when he reached the foot of the lake?

“He’ll take Ballard’s camp fire for that of Bray,” mused Denis, frowning. “When he gets close up, he’ll discover his mistake and put for home. Then I’ll be there to nab him—if nothing happens. Well, no use gathering trouble till the time comes.”

Perhaps half an hour later, Denis sighted a dark blur on the lake, and heard a low hail. He flung a few scraps of birch bark on the fire, allowed them to blaze up until he himself was fully revealed; then he stamped out the fire and scattered it.

Waiting at the edge of the shore, he presently saw two craft come gliding in. The first was Napoleon’s dugout, with Napoleon himself wielding his clumsy paddle. Towing after this was the light canoe which Denis had left at the head of the lake on his unfortunate attempt to arrest Cowley.

“B’jou’!” came the half-breed’s voice. “I got heem. What you do dat man Bray, huh?”

“I took care of him, all right,” said Denis, smiling. “He’s gone back to Fort Vermilion, and you’ll find your camp waiting as you left it. When you’re at the fort, go in to Bray’s store and he’ll settle with you for whatever grub he used.”

The ’breed grunted deep satisfaction at this information. Denis pulled in the canoe. To his delight, he found his duffel bag, blankets, and the rifle exactly as he had left them.

“Mebbeso you make for pay?” suggested Napoleon diffidently.

Denis reflected.

“The man Bray sent you to find—the man named Cowley—has a camp halfway up this shore,” he returned. “I’m going to arrest him. Also a ’breed named Petwanisip. Cowley has some fine pelts up there, and you can have your pick. Want to come along?”

This did not strike Napoleon’s fancy.

“Mebbeso I come back. I’m want for sleep now,” he said, which was a lie, since he had probably slept all the preceding afternoon, after reaching the head of the lake. “Huh? Mebbeso I come back dere to-morrow.”

Denis chuckled.

“There’s a bunch of four white men down at the foot of the lake,” he rejoined. “They have rifles, and they’ll be up here to-morrow——”

That was enough for Napoleon, who grunted deep:

“Mebbeso I go ’way quick, whatever. Got um pain in belly. Want for sleep. Mebbeso I come back, mebbeso not. Whatcheer!”

He edged his dugout toward the lake shadows. Denis laughed, glad to be rid of the fellow, who would be of no use in a fight.

“Run along, then, ’Poleon. You come back to-morrow afternoon, and the coast will be clear, I think. Then I’ll pay you—and pay you pretty well, too. Don’t come later than that, but come then sure. Sure?”

“Huh! Sure!” was the answer. Napoleon would keep his word also—to the police.

Denis watched the dark, slim shape of the dugout float out into the night and disappear into a speck under the starlight. Then he turned to his own canoe, and, with a feeling of deep relief, knelt once more on his blankets and took up his paddle, the rifle ready to hand. Ballard’s canoe he left on the bank.

To land at Cowley’s Creek about dawn would be time enough for his purposes. He could let Cowley go to the foot of the lake—probably to return faster than he had gone. In the meantime he could arrest Smoking Duck and make an investigation.

That was an important point—the investigation. Besides the original charge against Cowley, and that of resisting arrest, the police must know what the man was doing here, how he had gained possession of so much fur, and just what kind of an illegal game was forward. It might be that he was simply dealing out whisky without a permit, which was in itself a grave offense in a land where the vanishing Indians are protected by laws of iron against such men as Cowley.

With ten miles to travel against a steadily increasing headwind, and three hours in which to cover it, Denis fell into a steady, even stroke that he could keep up for days on end if need were. Keeping close to shore, he worked his way gradually along up the lake, noticing a perceptible increase in the wind as the night wore onward.

When the stars began to dim and die, and the grayness of dawn slowly lifted the darkness, Denis ran to the beach and landed. It was vital that he make no mistake now, and he must be sure of his ground before going ahead.

For half an hour he lay on the bank, watching and waiting. Then an exclamation of satisfaction broke from him. Through the lifting gray dawn light he could discern the hills a half mile farther along the shore, where Cowley’s camp was located. Sweeping the waters of the lake with his eyes, he then caught a moving speck halfway across, in line between the hills and the foot of the lake, and moving toward the latter.

Cowley was well on his way down the lake!

“Looks as though things were breaking my way at last,” thought Denis, as he scrambled down the steep bank to his canoe. “Now I think that I’ll have a little surprise for Mr. Smoking Duck before he gets through his breakfast.”

Save for the cartridges which The Pigeon had expended, the Winchester rifle had a full magazine. Certain of this, Denis pumped in a fresh cartridge, knelt in the canoe, placed the rifle in front of him, and shoved out.

Now he paddled swiftly, putting all his strength into the work. In a short fifteen minutes he found himself lying outside the almost concealed creek entrance. Into this he headed, scanning the bushes and trees ahead for any sign of Smoking Duck.

No danger threatened, however. Without sighting a moving thing, he reached the log landing, jumped out, and lifted his canoe from the water. Then, rifle in hand, he stepped out on the trail to the shack.

Five minutes later, he was standing at the edge of the clearing, eying that odd cluster of buildings. From the chimney of the shack itself no smoke ascended, but from what seemed to be the lean-to just behind, a thin trail of wispy smoke was winding into the sky.

“That must be the ‘fire’ to which Cowley referred,” thought Denis, frowning. “If Smoking Duck isn’t asleep, he’s probably around there in back.”

Hesitating no longer, he went across the clearing at a run, half expecting a rifle shot from the silent shack front. None came. Reaching the door of the shack, he peered inside and found the place empty, but from the back came the regular strokes of an ax!

Slipping around the side wall of the shack, to the right, Denis passed the lean-to which held the baled peltries. At the corner he paused, cocking his rifle, then stepped out around the end.

A dozen feet away stood Petwanisip, leaning on an ax; even that cocking of the rifle had attracted the half-breed’s attention. Denis covered the man instantly.

“Hands up, Smoking Duck!”

Smoking Duck stared as if at an apparition. Then he cast a wild glance around, and Denis saw a rifle leaning against the wall. But it was three yards distant, and not even the desperate half-breed dared risk it. His hands rose slowly.

Each lean-to adjoined the other, here at the back. To the left of the rifle was a low doorway, near which Smoking Duck had been throwing the wood as he had cut it. Denis observed that this was firewood.

“Go to the left of that door, stand with your face to the wall, and stick your hands out behind your back!” commanded Denis.

There was a snap to his voice that spelled earnestness. His brown face convulsed with helpless rage, the half-breed did as Denis had ordered. Advancing to the man, Denis stuck his rifle in Petwanisip’s back.

“Be mighty careful, now—this gun is cocked!”

With one hand he unlaced his moccasins, knotted the lacing, and drew it about the swarthy wrists. Then he set down his rifle, and in a few seconds had knotted the buckskin thongs stoutly. Smoking Duck was trapped beyond escape.

“Walk around to the front of the cabin.”

Driven by that relentless rifle, the sullen half-breed led the way around the shack to the door. Denis ordered him on inside, and so to the same little room where he himself had been confined. Removing the fellow’s knife, he locked him in the inner room.

“Things are certainly coming fine for me!” he reflected, as from Cowley’s stores he replaced his moccasin lacing. “Now we’ll begin our investigations—and I’d better start right here.”

Ben’s Ross service rifle was in a rack, as was the revolver with its lanyard. Denis gladly took back these weapons, and found Cowley’s revolver hanging to a nail. No other rifle was in evidence, however, and he conjectured that Cowley had not gone forth unarmed. This, however, he had expected.

Leaving Smoking Duck locked up safely, Denis sallied forth on his tour of inspection. First he visited the lean-to at the right, and in this he found a few sacks of corn, together with several sacks marked “Beans” and “Potatoes.” A slash with his knife showed that all these were filled with corn.

“So Cowley has been importing all the corn he could, under every disguise possible!” thought Denis, looking down at the sacks. “The question is, why? In about two minutes your little game will be up, my friend!”

As he closed the rude door of the lean-to and stepped out into the early-morning sunshine, he paused suddenly. The night wind had died away; the morning was perfectly calm and clear. He stood motionless, listening—and the sound came again. It was a distant but still recognizable rifle crack. A third sounded instantly, then two or three shots came almost together. After that, silence.

“That’s Cowley and Ballard!” thought Denis, his blue eyes narrowing. “If they haven’t got him, he’ll be back presently. If they have—then it’s up to me to arrest Ballard’s crowd. By Jasper, I don’t like this business a little bit!”

No further sounds of conflict reached him. While he could sympathize with Ballard and the latter’s friends, he knew perfectly well that he must arrest them if they had killed Cowley. He was representing Big Ben Stewart, and his uniform typified the law, and Ben would be held responsible for the upholding of the law.

Frowning uneasily, he passed on around the corner of the log structure, and again came to where he had found Smoking Duck at work. He stepped to the doorway, set down his rifle beside that of the half-breed, and entered the mysterious lean-to.

This proved to be unlighted save by the door, and for a moment his eyes could not pierce the semidarkness. Then, as he saw what manner of place this was, an exclamation of slow surprise broke from his lips.

“By Jasper! And to think that I never even suspected it—and dad was the closest guesser of all!”

To either side of him were piled small kegs, and above these were neat rows of glass half-pint flasks, precisely similar to that which he had found on the person of The Pigeon a few days previously. About half of them were filled with a white liquid, and the subtle odor of whisky which pervaded the room betrayed the nature of that liquid. But Denis merely noted these things in passing—his gaze, was riveted on what lay beyond, across the room from him.

There, with a small fire still burning, was a complicated arrangement of metal which he did not understand at all, but whose usage was quite evident to him. He had seen pictures of stills before this, and knew at once that he had solved the mystery of Cowley’s corn and trading and illegal work. Every detail lay clear before him.

Here on Hay Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had located a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to the summer Hudson Bay Post, farther down the Hay, he had brought up corn under various disguises, to avert possible suspicion, and had calmly proceeded to manufacture his own whisky and trade it to the Indians in the neighborhood.

“This is going the whisky-running game one better, all right!” exclaimed Denis, as he eyed the place. “Well, my job is clear—so here goes!”

Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. First drawing what was left of the fire and carefully stamping it out, he then waded into the still, ripping the copper worm and everything else into useless shreds of metal. He did his work thoroughly and left nothing undestroyed.

Then he turned his attention to the kegs and bottles. The latter he smashed where they were; the former he rolled out into the yard. Ten of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed in and emptied. Satisfied at length that the whole affair had been destroyed, with the exception of one flask to be used as evidence if necessary, he wiped his dripping face and took up the two rifles.

“Here’s a good morning’s work for Ben, anyhow!” he muttered happily. “Now I’d better prepare my little reception committee for Mr. Cowley—or Ballard. I wonder which will come?”