SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3594, 30 January 1923, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

ACCESSORY AFTER THE FACT.

By

May Hutchinson.

(Copyright.) “I don’t see your ducks, M‘Car thy, observed Dr Drummond. He looked with a. twinkle in his eyes at, a man who entered the hotel bar, and x who, being plentifully bemired and carrying a shotgun, had. presumably been ingM'Carthy deposited the gun in a corner, and held up two fingers to the bar tender an indication of the amount of refresh ment required. “I haven’t seen them either,” he said agreeably. “There was a durned Indian with a squaw and a tepi at the south end of the lake, and 1 guess he’s shot half of them and skeered the other half.” ‘Likely. Queer-, place to camp,” said the doctor meditatively. “It’s not on the straight trail anywhere.” Tne doctor went home, pondering upon - the migratory red men, who interested him more than ducks. « Three nights later htf was spooking a last pipe before going to bed, when he heard the soft thudding of a shoeless horse’s feet. He opened the door- as ""the rider mounted the verandah steps. In the light which streamed out the doctor saw the figure of a tall Indian, and met the gaze of a pair of sombre dark eyes. The man’s dress bore no tribal mark, but after one glance Drummond confidently put a question in the soft Cree tongue, and was promptly answered. The .Indian was camping at the Lake of the Black Water, and his squaw was sick, and he had heard that the medicine-man was wise and of a good heart. Therefore he came to ask help. The doctor asked one or two questions, were answered intelligently, and in ten minutes he was riding out into the dark with the Cree at his horse’s flank. The lake lay ten miles south-westward. The land round it was waste, and even in summer it had an aspect of desolation. Drummond had never known it by night, but he had imagined it. . The long ride drew to an end, and they ' came within sound of the sobbing water and the wrenching of the wind-tom trees. Th® Indian drew ahead, and broke his .Enence, glancing over his shoulder at the t doctor. “I guide—the trail breaks here. The tepi is to the south,” he said. The wash of the water sounded close, -then the dimly lumihous outline of the tepi showed -through the darkness, and Drummond drew up and dismounted. The Indian lifted the tent-flap, and let the doctor pass in. The interior was like all Indian dwell-ing-places, except that it was unusually clean and orderly. The 6ick women was lying on a pile of skins against the canvas ' wall, one thin arm flung across her eyes. Before the doctor could do more than glance at her the Indian passed him and ' ’dropped on his knee beside his wife, drawing back the sheltering arm to look into the hidden face. Drummond bent forward also, and presently touched the man’s .shoulder. *‘Go out and wait, mv friend,” he said. "I call if need comes.” The wind was rising to a gale, and tore round the little tent in fierce gusts. In lie short pauses between the gusts Drummond could hear the pacing of the moccasined feet on the shingle before the -tent. When he lifted the fla*» half an tour later the Indian was beside him in a moment. “I think your wife wil] live. the. child hi dead,” he said slowly, and he spoke in -English. The man did not answer, hut passed quickly inside. When the doctor followed b* was kneelino’ beside the bed, and his head was bent low as he kissed the little Drown hands. They movqd under his touch, and the girl’s eyes opened. “Its all right, Rupert—don’* worry,” / ahe "whispered. The man was to his feet, .and faced the doctor. His ev»s were keen and defiant, but there was almost a humorous twist to the firm mouth.’ “I had much feared that vou would see throngh the stain.” he said composedly. 'A Cree would hardlv see anvthmg wrong with me. but she”—he looked down at the slender figure on the skins, at the thin little face with its fine lines; at the soft, tumbled hair so unlike the straight of a squaw—“nothing could make Ber anything but a white girl. ' He'' paused a moment, and his mouth hardJned into fighting lines. “Mv name is Wax well, of Toronto, and if you have ♦wad the papers lately you! will probably ■Sve seen it. I suppose you" can’t he expected to see things in the same light as •re do ” The doctor made a movement of interCDption. "As it happens. I’ve hardlv papers for some days. I know your name jyyon are a Toronto lawyer.—blit T don’t ■mow what you have been doing the last iWeek or two. I don’t want to -know. I fefuess everv man’s conscience is his own affair, and as to that—child,” he looked ’down at The worn young face at his feet—"if she’s sinned, she’s paving with in lerest. I’ll come out again to-morrow, and as far as I am concerned there are Only a couple of Indians at the lake. The stoniness of the dark face broke fes “Maxwell held out his hand. “Yon can take it, there’s nothing Worse Shan brown stain on it.” he said. " I thought you were a good man. What am I to do until von come back?” Drummond gave careful directions and Borne final attention to the girl. When the doctor lifted her hand to feel the faint

pulse ehe tore it from him with the strength of delirium. •‘You drive me mad if you touch me! Oh, God! Don’t let him touch me!” she gasped, cringeing. “Maxwell’s arm slipped beneath the hard pillow, and his other hand pressed the anguished face against his shoulder. “He shan't touch you, beloved —you are safe from him,” he said with an undercurrent of fierce anger in his low tones. The doctor lifted the swinging tentflap and faced the darkness. The terror in the girl’s voice told him much. The memory of some hated touch was full of horror for her, horror that haunted her unconsciousness, and, case-hardened as Drummond was by the hard schooling of the west, he felt nothing but pity as he rode hs>me. As often happens in such cases, he found half the tongues of the town ready to elucidate the matter wherein Rupert Maxwell, of Toronto, was involved. He went home and read the fullest account he could find. The columns rioted in detail and conjecture, denunciation, and wonderment. Drummond let the embellishment go and made a summary for his own use. It seemed that Reginald Burnaby, a man prominent in Toronto social life, had a week before been found in his own dining room shot through the heart, and that his young wife had disapppeared in company with Rupert Maxwell, the well-known lawyer. The servants had seen them leave the house together a few minutes after the shot was fired* -- Beyond these facts the only clear conclusion to be formed ' from the mass of" incoherence was that Reginald Burnaby was not in any sense a great loss to the world. And the murderess was a gentle girl of eighteen, married from her convent at Quebec less than a year before. Drummond thought it all over as he rode out to the lake the next evening. He realised that whatever t-lxe end might be Maxwell would make a good fight, and Drummond loved a good fighter. The tent was opened to him as he reached it. The girl had gained strength, and had rallied wonderfully, and though she said nothing beyond a whispered “Thank you” when Drummond was leavTrlg, she was fully conscious and comprehending. Her eves were of great beauty and depth, and they were always his chief memory of her. When he left the tent Maxwell followed, and the two stood for a minute in silence. , “You are making for the coast?” Drummond suggested presently. Maxwell nodded aijd glanced over his shoulder into the tent. “I must get her out of this before winter sets in,” he said. ‘I know the country, and the Indians will help me. I’ve done a lot of Government work in the Reserves, andH have friends in most of the tribes.” “It’ll be two weeks at least before vou can move,” the doctor said, and suddenly Maxwell broke out with unusual passion. “It’s a refinement of cruelty that we must be stopped by this—the birth of his child.” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. He had seen a great deal of the irony of circumstance.

“Well,” he said as he moved to his horse, \l’ll bring word if I hear anything you’d like to know.” For three weeks he went regularly to the lake, generally late in the evening. The Indian summer blazed over the dead prairie and died away. Audrey Burnaby collected her strength with a rapidity which gave a hint of the Infant youth that had been wrecked. She neveT spoke of her crime, and rarely of other matters, but once on a quiet night of clear starlight, when she stood with Maxwell and the doctor by the .water's edge, she broke her barrier of ’silence and showed a glimpse of the hungry youth that survived the shocks of disillusioned womanhood. The day after violent winds lashed the dry plains, and by four o’clock a dark night of storm had begun. Tlie doctor looked in at the hotel at about seven o’clock, but there were few men there, and he was leaving when a hand dropped on his slioudeT, and he turned to meet a face he had known well many years before. It was that of a Winnipeg police sergeant, known as Levett, though it was generally understood that he had borne another name before he joined the force. He was a clever man, and an artist in his work, and he had never been known to let sentiment in anv form interfere with his relentless performance of it. Drummond looked at him with only natural surprise in his steady eyes. “What brings vou so far out of the track of crime?” be inquired.

The man laughed. “I can tell you I’m on the Toronto murder case—Burnaby and Maxwell. I took it over from the Toronto men when they’d carried it as far as my limits. I guess I’ve about finished it.” “That so? I haven't seen anv criminals knocking around.” commented Drummond. ‘Tmaii can’t get a- woman off, nine cns^i out of ten,” said the sergeant. “Maxwell could have lost himself; he’s shot and fished with the red men most summers for the last fifteen years, and when he dresses as a. Cree he is one. But Mrs Burnaby’s trail was as cleanly marked out as a high road. Thev’re camping at the Blackwater Lake, I’ve heard.” “Oh. that couple! M'Carthy told a ‘nitcbe’ had a teni and a squaw somewhere round there,” said Drummond. He paused and drank prettv deeply from the glass beside»him. “When do you take them?” Levett glanced at the clock. “I am waiting for two of mv men, and we’ll be off soon after midnight. I calculate to take them east by the morning express. Will vou come along and see the thing through?” Drummond rose and glanced also at the clock.

“I’ll hardly be back in time. I’ve got to ride out in another direction, but I’ll join you 'if I can manage it. Good luck, anyway.” He left the sergeant sitting by the stove, and went out into the wind. He walked rapidly^down the street and along the bit of trail that led to his house, and spent a quarter of an hour there mixing some medicine, and talking to his house keeper, a soft-eyed half-breed woman, who had been married to an Indian. It took her most of the 15 minutes to trace some hieroglyphics upon a piece of paper v.’hich Dr Drummond pocketed carefully when he went out. \ There was a lull in the storm as he turned his home on to the trail, and the thick darkness closed upon him. “What a night for a ride from the law ! and, good Lord, that delicate child!” muttered Drummond. “And they've only a chance in a thousand !”

It was a quick ride, but it seemed a weary length of time before the sound of water forced itself through the wind. As he neared the tepi he gave the whistle which was his usual signal, and Maxwell was outside in an instant. “Anything up?” he asked sharply. Drummond followed him into the tent, and gave an anxious glance at the girl. She looked frail and colourless, but she met his eyes bravely. “Yes, you must get on,” Drummond said shortly. He looked away from the pitiful girl’s figure, and explained rapidly to the man, who met the blow with an unmoved face. “You’ve risked a lot for us. I won’t try and thank you,” he said as the doctor -finished. “We’ll get on, Audrey.” He moved nearer to .her, and laid his strong brown hand on her shoulder, with a protecting assurance that meant more than a caress. “It’ll be all right, lifcle girl. Help her get ready, will you, while I see to the horses?” He went out, and Drummond helped an. the packing of the small bundles which were all two wandering Indians might carry, saw that the girl was warmly wrapped, and gave her the strong stimulant he had prepared in the time he spent at home. They left the tent standing, and carried the two bundles out to where Maxwell waited with the ponies. The storm whirled round them, and darkness lay like a tremendous curtain across their path. The bitter desolation of it struck on Drummond’s heart, and he struggled to express something of a mail’s sympathy for the hunted girl standing silently and patiently beside Him. lie could say nothing, but as he lifted her on her pony perhaps something in the kind touch of his strong arms spoke of him, and she looked down with a sudden smile, which beautified her face. Drummond never forgot the lovely eyes, radiant and young, which looked down at him from their most delicate background. “Don’t trouble about us,” she said, “whatever happens.” “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” he answered. “But don’t ride west! You hear. Maxwell! Go back on your tracks, due east, and make for Lake Superior. , With luck, you’ll get there before winter. There’s a tribe of Crees camping there, and my housekeper was the wife of one of their head men. He’s dead, but Indians don’t forget, and they’ll remember her. Give them this letter, and they’ll give up their own children before they’ll let vou be taken. ' He put the paper into the girl’s hand, which he still held. “Don’t be afraid of the risks. Trust me, and look back in an hour, and you’ll see I’ve hidden your trail!”

He let go the little hand, and stepped back. A frantic gust of wind swooped down on them, and the wiry buckskin bronchos plunged away into the crashing dark. Drummond stood still for’ the moment, then went back into the tent. He glanced round, with his hand on the lamp, and noticed a basket of Audrey’s faulty manufacture lying half-finished on the floor. He took it up, put out the light, and left the little battered tepi to its stormy solitude. He rode slowly along the homeward trail, looking often through the darkness towards the south. The little-used t>ack by which/ the fugitives had fled ran parallel with but several miles nearer to the southern boundary of the bush. In about half an hour he had ridden a couple of miles, and, after a moment’s pause to satisfy himself that the wind had not veered, he dismounted, and, with his bridle over his arm, walked off the trail for a few yards among the deeper grass of the nrairie. He found a dried tussock under the lee of a small thicket or saskatoon and choke cherry, and in a momentary drop of the wind stooped and carefully struck a couple of matches, shielding them very anxiously with hands and coat. They flicketed for a moment, then the tindery grass caught, blew to sparks, caught again, and flared. When the tussock was well alight, and the dry twigs of the sasgatoon bushes were catching, he left the wind to finish the work, and walked on to start another small lire fifty yards from the first in a straight line. For half an hour he worked, until a line of fire ran brokenly from north to south along some hundred yards of prairie. “Fifty dollars for starting a prairie fire, old man,” he remarked grimly to his nervous horse, as he led him back to the trail. “And* considerably more than a fifty-dollar fine for aiding and abetting criminals to escape. We ought to--have learnt a bit more sense.” I He patted the tired horse’s neck, mounted, and rode rapidly away from the growing line of fire, looking hack many times to notice how the thin flicker grew and rose until a wind-driven flame leaped far towards west and south. He shook the reins, bent his head to the wind, and wearied horse and man forced their way towards home. He met the sergeant and his man at the corner of the main street. They were watching the red glare in the west. “That’ll have spoilt your game, Levett,” observed Drummond, reining up. “I’ve

been watching it. They must be well on their way west by this. You won’t catch them, but the chances are that the fire will.” “ Yes. I’ve come a baulk. They’ll be riding ahead of that, and it’s small use riding behind it,” agreed Levett. Drummond hung the untidy little basket among an odd collection of relics in his rooms. Nearly a year later a passing Indian left on the doctor’s doorstep a fine pair of moose horns and a splendid skin of rare black fox, from ‘A. and R., in gratitude and remembrance.” And the world that knew them never heard again of Audrey Burnaby and Rupert Maxwell.