CHAPTER XIII.

Cowley Cries “Enough!”

FROM the front of the shack, the lake was, of course, hidden by the intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence of his canoe would warn Cowley if the latter arrived in flight from Ballard, and struck off to the creek at a sharp trot.

Once here, he went on to the edge of the lake, and scrambled through the bushes to a vantage point. And here his mental question was answered instantly.

A scant quarter mile away was a canoe bearing a single paddler—evidently Cowley. The canoe was heading for the creek entrance, and was traveling fast. A mile or more behind it was another canoe bearing four men, and for a moment Denis eyed them, wondering why they did not catch up with Cowley. Then he laughed shortly.

“Overloaded, by Jasper! All four of ’em in her, and she must be right down to the water, so they don’t dare put on speed. This simplifies things for me, then.”

So, apparently, it did, since Cowley was coming squarely into the trap. At the moment it did not occur to Denis that Ballard’s arrival might bring him a new problem, and the most difficult one which he had yet faced.

Returning to the log landing, he picked up his canoe and carried it a dozen yards away, placing it among the bushes, where the hurrying Cowley would never notice it. This done, he made his way back to the shack.

With his Ross rifle under his arm, he set the other weapons out of reach in a corner. A glitter on the floor caught his eye, and he stooped to pick up the handcuffs which he had intended to place on Cowley and had worn himself by the irony of circumstance. He slipped them into his pocket and opened the door of the prison chamber.

Smoking Duck was sitting on the floor, in sour apathy, his wrists as Denis had left them. Denis smiled cheerfully at him.

“I suppose you heard the sound of wreckage, my friend? Yes, your little game is up for good and all. By the way, where’s the key of those handcuffs? I want to use them on your precious partner pretty quick.”

Smoking Duck glared up at him, and finally grunted out that the key was lost.

“So much the worse for Cowley, then—he’ll have to reach headquarters before getting released from bondage. I see you still have some coffee on the fire—want a hot cup that’ll cheer but not inebriate?”

The scowling half-breed emitted a flood of mingled Cree and English, which Denis rightly imagined to be a profane refusal, so he barred the door and left Smoking Duck to his own reflections.

A pot of coffee stood on the tiny fish-shanty stove, and in a couple of moments Denis had a fire going, for he had not eaten since the previous evening. Keeping one eye on the edge of the clearing, he swallowed some half-warmed coffee and a cold sour-dough biscuit—and looked out to see the figure of Cowley coming at a run, rifle in hand.

Denis cocked his own rifle, drew to one side of the doorway, and waited. On his way across the clearing, Cowley let out a roar for Smoking Duck, but the half-breed had not the presence of mind to call out a warning, or else he had not yet comprehended the full situation of affairs.

Thus Cowley came leaping into the trap. At sight of the man’s brutal face, Denis saw that he had been badly frightened; but that would further his own ends.

“Hands up—hurry!”

That snappy, curt command stopped Cowley as if shot. He was looking squarely into the muzzle of the Ross rifle.

For a moment he was paralyzed. His undershot jaw dropped in blank amazement, and the ragged mustache drew back from his yellow teeth in a snarl. Over the rifle sights the blue eyes of Denis were blazing at him, and with a single curse Cowley dropped his rifle and lifted his hands. As he did so, he took a backward step toward the door.

“Stop that!” snapped Denis. “Walk this way and put out your hands, wrists together. I mean business, Cowley, and you’d better believe it.”

Cowley flung a hunted look over his shoulder at the clearing, then slowly obeyed the command, advancing toward Denis.

His heavy face showed mingled fear, bewilderment, and fury. But when Denis took the handcuffs from his pocket Cowley cried out sharply:

“Not that, Mister Trooper—fer Gawd’s sake, don’t iron me! There’s four fellers right after me——”

“I know that,” said Denis warily. “And one of them’s Ballard, the man you cheated down on the Peace River. Your chickens are coming home to roost with a vengeance, eh? Stick out your hands!”

He held out the open handcuffs. But Cowley, breathing hoarsely, drew back in fear that was by no means assumed.

“I tell ye they’re after me!” he repeated. “Look-a-here, don’t lay me up where I can’t shoot, ye fool! Them fellers aims to murder me, an’ I got to handle a gun in about two minutes!”

“You’ll handle no more guns for a while.” Denis was smiling slightly, his eyes steady. “Bray has gone back to Vermilion, and I’ve just had the pleasure of smashing up your liquor stock and distillery. So you ran into Ballard, eh? I heard some shots—what happened down there?”

Cowley made as if to wipe his dripping brow, but halted as Denis’ linger tightened on the trigger.

“They seen me first an’ let drive. I dropped one o’ them—leastways I winged him a bit, then I shoved fer home. Now, use sense! You ain’t a-goin’ to fix me where they’ll pump lead into me without me gettin’ a chance to shoot——”

“Shut up that nonsense!” broke in Denis. “You’re not going to be hurt unless you get gay with me. If you don’t stick your hands here in ten seconds, I’m going to drop you with a bullet in your leg—take your choice!”

He meant the words, for he saw that the situation was grave in the extreme. Cowley had shot one of the four pursuers, and that meant trouble. Men of Ballard’s stamp would require tenfold vengeance for that shot. None the less, Denis saw his duty clear-cut before him, and intended to protect his prisoner to the utmost.

With a growling snarl, Cowley advanced and held forth his hands, wrists together. Denis lifted the open handcuffs in his left hand—and, as he did so, Cowley swiftly struck the rifle aside and bore him down with a pantherlike leap.

Taken utterly by surprise, Denis went back and the rifle was knocked across the shack with a clatter. Cowley’s fist drove home on his cheek, knocking him into the wall; but as the ruffian followed, Denis flung himself to one side and scrambled up.

A fierce rush of anger swept from his mind all thought of the revolver at his belt, and he went into the man with both fists, his blue eyes blazing. He landed right and left to the face, then went staggering away, groaning, as Cowley’s heavy boot took him squarely in the side. Cowley was after him with a roar.

That foul kick infuriated Denis as nothing else had the power to madden him, and when the ruffian tried the same tactics again his anger drove new life into his veins. Disdaining to employ such tricks himself, he lifted a blow through the other’s guard that went straight to the mouth and sent Cowley reeling back with broken teeth. On into him went Denis, placing blow after blow, his lips clenched in silent fury and his fists beating a tattoo on the man’s face.

Cowley lurched into the wall, cursing; flung back, met a smashing left hook that rocked him on his heels, and then swung himself bodily into a clinch. At the same instant, Denis stepped into a bearskin heaped loosely on the floor. Endeavoring to get clear of Cowley’s hug, the bearskin tripped and brought him down on the floor—underneath.

The breath was knocked out of Denis by the impact. He lay gasping and helpless while Cowley, above, hit him twice heavily. Then the ruffian gripped Denis by the throat in an effort at systematic choking. Aware of his advantage, without pity, he was deliberately trying to get Denis out of the way.

Vainly and ineffectually Denis struck upward—a man flat on his back cannot hit much of a blow. Cowley tore at him with snarling oaths, the great fingers digging into his throat until it seemed that his flesh was coming asunder. His breath was stopped.

With all things going black, and the black changing to specks of fire that danced through his brain, a final coherent thought came to him. It was the recollection of his revolver.

His fumbling hands went to the lanyard in blind desperation. Even in that moment Denis fought against himself; he must not fire! He must take Cowley alive, he must bring in this man a prisoner. With that great thought pounding against his brain, Denis pulled out the gun and struck upward with it wildly.

Cowley caught the full effect of that blow. The fore sight of the revolver took him just above the temple and ripped to the bone. Again Denis struck out blindly, and again the heavy revolver landed, almost in the same place.

Those two blows were enough. Denis felt the terrible grip on his throat relax, and felt Cowley’s weight tumble away from him. Little more than conscious himself, he rolled over and dragged himself up by the logs of the wall.

He leaned against the wall, hanging on weakly and panting for breath, fighting against the terrible faintness that oppressed him and threatened to conquer his reeling brain. That life-and-death struggle had all but drowned him.

Gradually his sight cleared, as air returned to his gasping lungs. There at his feet lay Cowley, stretched out, his head bleeding. Denis’ first thought was that he had struck too hard; dropping to his knees, he breathed quick relief at finding Cowley’s heart beating. The man was only stunned.

A glance at the clearing showed no sign of Ballard’s forces. After all, that battle had taken only a few moments, though it had seemed an age to Denis.

For a little he stood gazing down at Cowley, while strength came back to him and his throbbing lungs drank in the sweet air. To one side lay the handcuffs where he had dropped them. Picking them up, he drew Cowley’s wrists together and snapped the bracelets in place.

“I’ve landed him at last,” he muttered, with a deep sigh of relief. “And it’s a lucky thing for me that I made sure of Smoking Duck first! I can’t leave this fellow to bleed to death, though.”

Searching through Cowley’s pockets, he discovered a ragged bandanna. With this and his own handkerchief he bandaged the man’s bleeding scalp, roughly but effectively. While doing so, Cowley’s eyelids fluttered, then opened.

“Lie still!” cautioned Denis. “You can get up in a minute.”

Cowley lifted his wrists, saw the handcuffs, and relaxed with a low growl. When the bandaging was finished, Denis went to the door of the smaller room and unbarred it. Smoking Duck still reposed on the floor, wide awake and glaring like a trapped beast. Denis turned to the watching Cowley.

“Come along, now, and get in here! Ballard may show up at any minute, and I want you off my hands——”

“Ballard!”

Cowley sat up, fright stamped anew in his coarse features.

“Ye ain’t goin’ to let ’em have me, Mister Trooper? Fer the love of——”

“Shut up!” snapped Denis curtly. “Ballard and his friends won’t lay a finger on you, I’ll promise you that. You join your friend and fellow citizen in here, and go to sleep. I’ll attend to the rest.”

Cowley looked at him. Into the man’s rough face crept a slow gleam of admiration as he met the steady gaze of Denis.

“Mister, ye sure are some man!” he exclaimed. “Ye got me—ye got me proper, and I give ye the best I had at that. I thought I’d slide out o’ here with a good wad, but ye sure played the game hard. No, I reckon I got to take my med’cine now, and I ain’t got any kick comin’. You blasted redcoat!”

With this grudging tribute to his conqueror, Crowley lifted himself and staggered into the smaller room, sinking down beside Smoking Duck. Denis shut the door and dropped the heavy bar into place.

The clearing was still empty of life outside the shack. Sinking down on one of the two bunks, Denis rested his aching head in his hands.

“The worst of the job is done,” he thought, “unless—unless that lynching party is after gore. If they are, it looks to me as if they’ll have to get it. By Jasper, I have Cowley safe, and I mean to keep him!”

He lifted his head at sound of a distant shout. Then, picking up his Ross rifle, he laid it across his knees and waited, facing the doorway.