CHAPTER X
THE PRISONER
The fire did not cross the Stewart, and after running down a few miles Connie beached the scow at the point where the officers had camped and left a cache before separating to take their respective routes to the head-waters of the Gravel.
"You followed him?" asked the woman, when they had got a light shelter tent up.
Connie nodded. "Yes'm. I hated to, on account of you and the kids, but—duty is duty. I'm sorry he is mixed up in it. Whisky running is dirty. I'm sorry for you, and them," he pointed to the children, who were industriously panning gravel in an empty bean tin. Again he surprised the peculiar look in the woman's eyes, but instantly it was gone.
"But you didn't catch him!" she cried.
"No'm. I didn't. But, the others will. There are five of us, and we each took a different route."
"But, the fire! Maybe it caught them."
Connie shook his head. "No'm," he said, "they had plenty of time to get beyond the timber. They were north of me, and they didn't have to turn back."
"Why did you turn back?"
The boy looked at her in surprise. "Why, it was up to me to try to save you and the kids."
The woman's voice faltered: "But your orders were to—to arrest the"
"Huh!" interrupted the boy, "I guess you don't know the Mounted!"
The woman turned her face swiftly away and Connie saw that she was crying.
The boy's burns were found not to be serious and the woman tenderly bound them up, and for the remainder of the day, while she rested, Connie played with the children.
Early next morning he made up a light pack and telling the woman to remain where she was until someone came he started up stream, following the bank.
"Where are you going?" she called.
"To find your husband, and tell him you are safe."
"Is that all?"
Connie glanced away. "No'm, he answered, "that is not all," and plunged into the bush.
He forded the river opposite the mouth of the valley that had contained the cabin, but so changed was it that he scarcely recognized the place. No green thing was visible along the whole south bank of the river. Mountain slopes covered with blackened stubs and grey ashes reared skyward, and long naked ridges showed where, the day before, all was the rich dark green of the timber. The whole landscape spoke desolation and ruin. He passed on up the creek and halted suddenly. Two men were digging frantically among the ruins of the cabin, which still smouldered sullenly. Near-by a rifle leaned against a rock. One of the men looked up. It was the "prospector," and Connie saw that his face was seamed by deep lines of suffering.
"I can't find even a trace of them," said the man, in a dull, toneless voice. "My poor wife—and the babies"
"Not there, you can't!" smiled Connie.
"What do you mean?" The man leaped toward him, his eyes alight with a sudden hope. "Tell me! Speak, can't you!"
The other man moved stealthily toward the rifle.
"Back up, there! Back away!" cried the boy, and stepping past the "prospector," he secured the gun. Then he answered the man who could scarce restrain his impatience:
"Your wife and the kids are safe and sound a couple of miles down the Stewart." The man's face went white. He groped for words. "And now," broke in Connie, "I've got to take you two along. You're my prisoners. I charge you with running liquor to the Indians."
"You'll take me where they are?" asked the "prospector." Connie nodded.
"Look-a here! What in thunder's th' meanin' o' this? What's th' game?" The other man was staring from Connie to the "propector" in bewilderment.
"You shut up!" commanded Dubro. "Another word out of you, and you'll wish you hadn't said it! You heard what the kid said, didn't you? Well, he talked like he meant it—the Mounted generally does." Then, turning to Connie, he added: "We're ready."
The boy pointed down the trail. "Hike!" he 
"Back up, there!" cried Connie, and stepping past the "Prospector," he secured the gun.
said, and followed closely as the two men headed for the river.
Connie's position was far from an enviable one. All the way down the trail he thought deeply. The actions of the men perplexed him: the ready submission of the "prospector" to arrest, and the puzzled exclamation of the other. "I've got to keep my eyes open," he muttered. "I can stand guard over 'em one night—maybe two," he decided, grimly, "but, after that. … Well, some of the boys better hike back over the divide. I've got to sleep, sometime. Gee! I wish I'd taken the bracelets out of my pack before I ditched it. I could have 'cross-toggled' 'em and slept like a log."
No matter with what suspicion Connie viewed the "prospector's" submission to arrest, his affection for his wife and children was genuinely unassumed, and as the boy noted the warmth of their reunion, a hope entered his mind that, out of gratitude for their deliverance, the man might consent to remain a willing prisoner until the return of the officers. He was evidently the leader of the gang; at least, he had spoken with authority when the other man had seemed on the point of resisting arrest. But at the very first words of the woman that reached his ears he dismissed the thought, for he suddenly realized that he had not only the two men to deal with but the woman also, and that her brain, in all probability, was the most resourceful of the three.
"Have you told him, Jack?" she asked, and the man smiled as he shook his head. "Well, you go right this minute and tell him or I will! He's the bravest and gamest little boy in the world! You should have seen him come staggering out of the woods with his blouse all on fire, and without waiting to put it out, start to help me launch the boat. And I never could have done it alone—Jackie, and I—could we, Jackie?" She caught up the youngster and covered his face with kisses.
"Big boat!" the little fellow cried, and pointed toward the scow, partially drawn onto the bank. The man laughed aloud.
"All right, I'll tell him." He motioned to Connie, who drew nearer. "It's kind of worrying you, ain't it, kid, to figure out how you are going to hold us till your pals come?"
Connie met his smile with a level stare. "Not a bit," he prevaricated; "I could hold a dozen like you." He glanced significantly toward the service revolver that dangled in its holster. The man still smiled.
"But, you've got to sleep. Suppose the others don't get back for three or four days?"
"They'll be here today, or tomorrow at the latest," answered the boy.
"Maybe they will, and maybe they won't. That gang may keep them busy for a couple of days. I have an idea they're bad actors."
It was Connie's turn to smile. "Oh, you have an idea, have you? Well, you ought to know."
"Yes, I ought to, but I don't—that is, not all of them. He paused and Connie waited for him to proceed. "Look here, kid, who do you think I am?"
Connie shook his head. "Search me! You said you are Hank Dubro. I am guessing that you are the boss of the whisky-runners. I took a look at your sluice—so I know you're no prospector."
The woman laughed, and the other man turned his scowling face toward the group. "Tell him!" she urged.
"I'll admit, kid, the name was a fake, and so was the prospector bluff. I never worked in the gold country before, and I was afraid that sluice wouldn't stand inspection. In real life I'm Inspector Jack Cartwright, of N Division, working out of Fort Simpson."
Connie snickered. "Guess again! Surely, you aren't just an Inspector! Why, I thought you were the Commissioner, or at least, a Superintendent!" The man ignored the sarcasm.
"I've been on this case for six months. There are three of us working together; the others are over on the Gravel. We wanted to slip one over on B Division and, because I was satisfied all the contraband wasn't coming in from our side, I crossed the divide and located on the creek, yonder. My wife always has wanted to get a taste of the big outdoors, and I've always promised to take her, so when we got the cabin rolled up we brought her over from Fort Simpson. She's only been here two months—but I guess she's had enough."
"Yes, indeed!" interrupted the woman. "And more than enough!" The man continued: "We figured that if we could catch some of the gang with the goods, on your side of the divide, we'd have the laugh on you. We didn't know that B Division had got wind of this job, and when you came along the other night, I figured you weren't alone, so I jumped out early to close down on the gang over on our side before you B Division fellows could beat us to it and turn the tables on us. Some of 'em must have beat me across, though, because this specimen, here, came tearing over the divide like something real was after him. I gathered him in—and then the fire came. All I could think of, then, were my wife and the babies down there alone. I thought of you, but I figured you'd be almost as far on your way as I was on mine—and I was cut off from the first. No one will ever know what a night I spent there on the rocks above the burned timber, waiting for the ashes to cool, and standing guard over my prisoner. Maybe you can get some idea, when I tell you that my brightest hope was that they had managed to reach the river. I knew the scow was too heavy for her to put into the water, and I knew she couldn't make it across the ford with the babies—even if she found it. But, drowning is a heap easier than burning—I hoped they would drown. As soon as it was light enough, we hit down through the ashes—and they weren't any too cool—nor the rocks, either." He extended a boot scorched and cracked to bursting. "We reached the ruins of the cabin and—well, you know the rest."
Connie nodded. "Yes, I know the rest," he answered. "And, of course, I know you are no prospector." The man grinned, and the boy continued: "And, of course I know you are a whisky-runner and a mighty slick one, too. You put up a good bluff. You've got brains, but just let me tell you something, Mr. Prospector, or Dubro, or Inspector, or whatever you call yourself, you haven't got all the brains, and if I were to believe your yarn, you sure would have the laugh on B Division. If I turned you loose, Dan McKeever and Rickey never would get through kidding me! And wouldn't the Superintendent be proud of me?" Connie laughed aloud.
"But, kid, I am Inspector Cartwright! I've given it to you straight! Haven't I, Alice?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, indeed! Every word of it is true."
"I'm sorry you're mixed up in this, ma'm, " said the boy, gravely. "I don't blame you for trying to help him—I would, too, in your place—but, it won't work."
"Look here, kid, " broke in the man, and moving closer whispered earnestly into Connie's ear. The boy shook his head.
"You know a lot about the inside, all right. I guess you've been in the service, some time or other." His voice hardened. "And so much more shame to you for turning crook, too. But, your story is too thin!" He glanced at the man's clothing. "Funny kind of uniform they wear in N Division, isn't it?"
"You don't expect a man to pose as a prospector in a scarlet tunic and a 'pill-box,' do you?"
"Don't expect one to pose as a prospector with a chicken-coop for a sluice, either. Where's your service outfit?"
"Burnt up!"
"Hard luck!" exclaimed Connie, with mock sympathy. "I suppose they furnish N Division with Marlin rifles, too?" He glanced toward the captured gun.
The man flushed. "Constable Morgan, as your superior, I order you to release me from restraint! We should be working together to round up the rest of the gang, instead of hanging around camp doing nothing!"
"Don't worry! Your gang is prob'ly rounded up by this time."
"And B Division will get the credit!"
"Too bad!"
"You said the boys never would get through kidding you, if you turned me loose—I tell you, it won't be a patching to the way they'll kid you, when they find you've held me prisoner."
Connie interrupted with a laugh. "You're some bluffer, old hand. But, even if you are telling the truth, I guess the kidding will be the other way around—'specially, if B Division makes those arrests. What '11 your report look like?"
The man was plainly annoyed. "Once for all, I order you to release me!"
"And once for all, I order you to shut up! I don't take orders from my prisoners. And, besides, prisoners do the work in my camp. You were kicking about hanging around with nothing to do. Get busy, now, and cook dinner! Here, you!" he called to the other man, "make you a wedge, and unravel these old socks, and pound the yarn into the cracks of that scow till she's tight. Come on, kiddies," he smiled at the two youngsters, "I guess you're my prisoners, too. I'll show you how to make a water wheel, while we watch 'em work."
The "prospector" glanced at his wife in dismay. But the corners of her mouth were twitching, and she laid a hand on his arm.
"The boy is right, Jack. Come on—be game! You fetch the wood and water, and build the fire, and I'll cook dinner."
And thus it was that a half-hour later, when Sergeant McKeever, and Corporal Rickey, and Constable Emmons, and Ick Far marched into camp escorting five manacled prisoners, they found a whisky-runner caulking a scow, and an Inspector of the Mounted and his wife preparing the noonday meal, while Special Constable Connie Morgan sat on the gravel and supervised the proceedings while he showed two round-eyed, and very much interested children how to build a water wheel out of a few round sticks and an old tin can.
For the "prospector" really was Inspector Jack Cartwright. McKeever had served with him in D Division, and Rickey in F. And when the roars of laughter that followed the recital had subsided, Inspector Cartwright stepped to Connie's side and threw his arm about him, and the boy felt the grip of the strong fingers upon his shoulder.
"You're all right, son! The joke's on me—but, laying the joke aside, you've got a head that's a credit to the service. And as for your nerve—the real courage, that shows what stuff a man's made of—the big test that comes sometimes to some men—I know you must have been mighty close to the timber-line, son, yesterday morning. You could have saved yourself, sure. And, instead—you turned back! You took a long chance in the face of the worst death of all for them. That's the kind of thing, son, that men are remembered for. It's above gold, above power, above fame—this big test of a man is. And you have stood the test, son—the test by fire."