CHAPTER XI
NOTORIOUS BISHOP
In the barracks of B Division, R. N. W. M. P., a dozen non-commissioned officers and constables looked up from the polishing of kits as the Superintendent entered, saluted, and awaited the accustomed tug at the grey military moustache with which the commanding officer invariably introduced a subject.
"It looks as though we are going to have a live one on our hands," began the Superintendent. "You remember a month ago Stony Mountain reported the escape of Notorious Bishop—climbed to the roof through a scuttle—must have had wings, for they never found how he reached the ground. And now comes the report that he crossed the Mackenzie above Fort Simpson. Didn't dare risk a dash for the States, I suppose, and thought he would leave Canada by way of Alaska. The chances are, if he has succeeded in reaching a point above Fort Simpson, N Division won't pick him up, so it's up to us. He must never cross the Yukon. If it were anybody but Notorious Bishop I would detail a man or two to watch the passes, Bonnet Plume and Gravel River, and notify Fort Selkirk and Lapierre House, and let it go at that, but Notorious Bishop never does the obvious. I'm going to string a dozen men through the mountains, because if there is a strip of range that looks absolutely impassable, that's right where Notorious Bishop will cross." The Superintendent laid a small packet upon the reading table. "Better look over these photographs and descriptions," he advised, "and report for assignments in an hour."
As the commanding officer left the room constables and non-coms crowded about the table, and Special Constable Connie Morgan, who had been playing checkers with Sergeant Dan McKeever, rose to join them. The Sergeant, who had shown no interest in the documents, smiled into the boy's face.
"Set down, son," he said. "This ain't your job."
"Why not?" asked the boy, "and why aren't you taking a squint at those pictures?"
McKeever laughed: "Well, in the first place," he answered, "they don't send rookies after men like Notorious Bishop. He'd eat you up in two bites. In the second place, I don't need to look at no pictures nor no descriptions, neither, 'cause I'm the little lad that run Notorious down. Five years ago, it was, down on Bow River. An', believe me! I knew I'd been somewheres when I done it!"
"What did he do?" asked Connie.
"Do! Why take it first an' last, Notorious done everything the books says not to. But it was in his getaways he showed his real class. That's how he got his name. Wasn't satisfied with just gettin' away. Always had to add a few flourishes. It got so, I don't believe Notorious would of snuck away if he got the chance. One time he jumped off the middle of a sixty-foot trestle into the Saskatchewan. Another time he rode his horse full tilt over a twenty-foot cut-bank, when five of us thought sure we had him cornered, an' got off horse and all, acrost Milk River into Montana. Another time, when Corporal Ross was crowdin' him pretty close down in the Cypress Hills, he slipped up on the Corporal's camp one night, tied him up an' borrowed his whole outfit, uniform an' all. He rode -the Corporal's mount till it dropped an' then stopped at a ranch on French Creek, requisitioned the best horse in the corral, an' got acrost the line. A week later he sent the outfit back by a Swede along with a note of thanks.
"But all that ain't a patchin' to the stunt he pulled down on the C. P. R. Inspector Rooney an' a couple of constables rounded him up onct in some little town—Blairmore or Cowley maybe. It happened that a freight train had pulled onto the sidin' to let the Imperial Limited by, an' Notorious was makin' his stand amongst the freight cars. The little town, whatever it was, wasn't a stoppin' place for the Limited an' directly she showed up down the track runnin' full tilt. Somehow, Notorious managed to cut the engine off that freight on the side-track. Quite a crowd had collected to see the boys gather Notorious in, an' when they crowded back to watch the Limited go by, Notorious he lets out a yell like a Comanche, jumps onto the freight engine an' pulls her wide open. Rooney says the engine started so quick it never took the switch, but jumped plumb over onto the main track an' went a-roarin' off ahead of the Limited that was comin' fifty miles an hour, not a quarter of a mile away. Well, they stopped the Limited, cut her engine off, an' Rooney an' his constables took out after Notorious. That freight engine wasn't no slow-crawlin' bug when she was wide open. All they could see ahead was a black smudge." McKeever paused, grinning while several of the constables and non-coms who knew of the Sergeant's first-hand acquaintance with the outlaw, crowded about and were listening to the narrative. And Rickey, who had also chased Notorious on more than one occasion, cut in with an observation:
"Yes, and he whistles Yankee Doodle, blast him!"
McKeever laughed aloud. "I was comin' to that," he said. "Notorious is a Yankee, an' Rooney swears when that engine had got plumb out of sight down the track, an' them a-followin' so fast the telegraph poles looked like the teeth of a fine-toothed comb, Notorious was playin' Yankee Doodle on the whistle. That might be true, and again it mightn't—it ain't in the report. But, believe me, if a man can play Yankee Doodle on an engine whistle, Notorious done it! That's his way."
"Did they catch him?" asked Connie, who had listened wide-eyed.
"Catch him!" snorted McKeever. "I don't believe they got anyways close to him, 'cause right then he pulled the most spectacular stunt of his whole notorious career. He waited till he got amongst the foothills an' stopped his engine, then he threw her wide open on the reverse an' jumped off. Rooney says he hopes he'll never see another sight like that. With the passenger engine a-tearin' along better than sixty miles an hour, they rounded a curve an' there, down a two-mile stretch of track, straight at 'em come that freight engine."
"Did it hit 'em?" asked Connie, excitedly.
"Hit 'em!" roared McKeever. "Ain't I just got through tellin' that Rooney turned in his report? Well, he wouldn't, if that engine had hit 'em. They managed to stop their engine, an' take to the brush just before the two engines hit. They sure mussed up the right of way. Rooney says there wasn't a piece left big enough but what a section crew loaded 'em by hand on a flat car."
"Let's see his picture," said Connie, and Rickey extended a bunch of photographs which he held in his hand.
"Pay your money an' take your pick," grinned the Corporal. "He never shows twice alike. The only thing you can really tell him by, they can't photograph—he whistles Yankee Doodle."
Connie scrutinized the pictures closely. He saw at a glance that Rickey had spoken the truth. No two pictures showed the same likeness.
"How did you catch him at last, Dan?" he asked.
"Who me?" winked the modest McKeever. "Why, I—I just surrounded him." And the boy joined in the laugh that followed, for he knew that here was a story he must hear from other lips. Big Sergeant Dan McKeever never boasted of his own exploits.
An hour later, Connie stood with the others awaiting assignment. In spite of Big Dan's prediction that they wouldn't detail a rookie to capture Notorious Bishop, a hope lingered in the boy's mind that possibly the Superintendent might pick him for the job. He had said a dozen men would be detailed. "A fellow ought to stand a pretty good show out of a dozen," muttered the boy, as he took his place at the end of the line, and with chest thrown out, glanced eagerly into the face of the Superintendent whose grey eyes twinkled as he noticed that the boy's service hat was pinched into its very tallest peak, and that his boot heels missed the floor by a good two inches—noted also that the youngster had taken up his position beside Constable Peters, who was the shortest man in B Division, and that even as he stood on tiptoe the peak of the boy's service hat did not show very much above Constable Peters's shoulder.
"For special detail to patrol the divide in search of one Notorious Bishop," the Superintendent was saying, "McKeever, … Rickey, …" Name after name was called, and as the list grew the boy's hopes sank. Even Constable Peters was mentioned and Connie winked hard as he realized the list was closed. Again the Superintendent was speaking: "For special detail to take census of Indians on the head-waters of the McQuesten, Special Constable Morgan, with Ick Far, interpreter."
The assignments were over. The men crowded into the barracks while Connie Morgan passed around to the dog corral, and ten minutes later, Dan McKeever paused at the sound of a small voice and peered over into the corral where the boy sat on the ground, surrounded by his ten great malamutes. "That's the trouble with being just a boy," Connie was explaining to McDougall's big leader, "here's Dan and Rickey and even that sawed-off Peters got some real work to do. And I got to go off and count a lot of greasy Indians! Well," he consoled himself, "that's better than no assignment at all, like some of 'em got. You bet, I'll hike up that river and I'll count those Indians the best they ever was counted—and don't you forget it!" Whereupon he fell to playfully thumping McDougall's great leader with both fists, and Dan McKeever passed on with a grin.
Counting the Indians on the upper McQuesten was not a very strenuous job and twenty days after their arrival upon the farther reaches of the river, Connie Morgan and Ick Far began the return journey. The McQuesten is a quick- water river, and as the canoe shot swiftly around the bend on the second day of the return trip, Connie, who was in the bow, saw at the edge of the scrub upon a long bar, a one-man camp where no camp had been 
"That's the trouble with being just a boy," Connie explained to McDougall's big leader. "The others get real work to do, and I got to count a lot of greasy Indians."
when they made the ascent of the river. The boy passed a swift signal and with a dexterous twist of the paddle Ick Far shot the canoe shoreward. Here, evidently, was an Indian who had been missed in the counting. Suddenly, just as the bow scraped the gravel, the boy's heart gave a great bound. Darkness had gathered and in the scrub near a tiny fire someone was whistling. The man then, was a white man, and the air was Yankee Doodle! With his heart in his throat, the boy glanced toward the west where the high peaks of the main divide of the Rockies loomed big and vast and mysterious in the lingering half-light of the afterglow. For he knew that somewhere among those peaks and passes lay twelve picked men—stern-faced—experienced. Men who were the very flower of the Mounted, and who were there for the express purpose of preventing one certain man from crossing that divide. And despite their vigilance—despite the best efforts of that grim parol, the man had crossed the divide! Notorious Bishop was upon the McQuesten and it was up to him. Special Constable Connie Morgan, to take into Dawson the man who had time and again flaunted his escapes in the face of the Mounted!
The boy stepped onto the gravel. "Dan said, that day on the river, that brains and nerve are worth more than beef in the service, he muttered. "They better be!" he added thoughtfully, with a glance toward his slender wrists. "'Cause I sure haven't got much beef."
The man evidently had not noted their approach for the strains of Yankee Doodle continued to sound from the scrub. The boy filled his lungs.
"Hello!" he called. Yankee Doodle ceased abruptly. There was a quick movement by the fire and a man stepped from the scrub with a rifle in his hand. Leaving Ick Far to draw up the canoe Connie advanced boldly toward the silent figure. "Hi!" he greeted, casually. "How they coming?"
Halting within a few feet of the other he noted the swift glance with which the man swept his uniform—a glance that strayed past him and rested upon the figure of Ick Far who was walking toward them from the direction of the river. Noted also, that if the sight of the uniform had in any way disconcerted the man he did not show it by so much as the flicker of an eyelash.
"Hello, kid," he smiled, "'pears like you're quite a ways from somewheres, ain't you? Where you headin'?"
"Dawson," answered Connie. "I'm Special Constable Morgan of the Mounted, and this is Ick Far. Ick is the best scout and interpreter in the service."
"Pleased to meet you," acknowledged the man, "an' bein' as it's comin' dark, you'd better camp here along with me till mornin'."
"Sure will," replied Connie. "We'll pack our blankets and grub from the canoe."
The stranger helped with the packing, and the three sat down to a supper of bacon and bannock and tea. "Come far?" asked the man at length.
"Uh-huh, pretty far," answered Connie, with a wave of his hand toward the mountains to the westward.
"What's the good word with the Mounted?" asked the man, casually. "Anythin' in p'tic'lar stirrin'?"
"Yes," answered the boy. "There's a big patrol out. They're strung along the divide for a couple of hundred miles to pick up a man called Notorious Bishop. He escaped from Stony Mountain about a month ago and we got the report that he crossed the Mackenzie and was prob'ly heading for Alaska." While Connie talked the man laid aside his cup and plate and deliberately filled his pipe, and the boy noted with admiration that the hand which held the glowing brand to the bowl was as steady as a hand of stone. The man puffed at his pipe and tossed the brand back into the fire.
"This here party, Notorious—which did you say?"
"Bishop," supplied Connie.
"Yeh, Bishop. What for lookin' hombre is he? Would you know him if you seen him?"
"Sure I'd know him!" exclaimed the boy. "We've got his picture at headquarters and his description, too."
"I was over on the other side about a month back, myself. Was working some creeks along the Carcajo."
"Did you see anybody over there?" eagerly inquired the boy. "Any white men, I mean."
"Yeh, they was a couple or so. What did he look like, this here Notorious gent?"
"Medium height, light hair, blue eyes, smooth face, weight about one hundred and sixty, and two gold teeth," described the boy, glibly remembering one of the photographs taken five years before. A description that Connie knew could by no stretch of the imagination be said to fit the man before him. "Why, do you think you saw him?" he asked eagerly.
The man appeared to consider: "Well, let's see. There was a couple of free-traders, but them wasn't him 'cause one wore a black beard and one was about six foot. Then they was a prospector on a creek called Willow Bunch he was light-haired all right, but he didn't weigh no more'n a hundred an' twenty or thirty, he couldn't of be'n him, neither. That's all I seen except Injuns. If you fellows got all the passes watched 'taint likely he could of got acrost to this side, nohow."
"You bet he won't!" assented Connie. "He'll never get by. Why, all the good men of B Division are strung up there among the mountains!"
"An' what you doin' way down in here?" asked the man.
Connie grinned: "Who me? Oh, I don't count, I'm just hiking back to Dawson to report. You don't happen to be going down Dawson way, do you?" he added.
"Well, I do'no," answered the man. "I ain't had no luck on the McQuesten, an' I never had none acrost the divide. I was figurin' maybe I'd winter on some of these here creeks if I could strike a colour, and maybe I'd go on over into Alaska. This here country has been worked out though."
"Sure has," assented Connie, "and if you are going over to Alaska you had better make up your mind pretty quick. That is, unless you want to mush down the river. 'Cause the last boat leaves on the fifteenth of September, and it's about the first now."
"Third," corrected the man.
"Well, the third then. It will take a good week, and maybe more, to reach Dawson. There's plenty of room in our canoe, if you want to go along."
The man considered the proposition. "Well, I'll study about it an' let you know in the mornin'," he said at length. "Anyhow I'm obliged to you, whether I go long, or whether I don't."
"Suit yourself," replied Connie indifferently. "Guess we'd better roll in now. I want to get an early start."