CHAPTER VI
CONNIE GETS UP IN THE MORNING
With the faintest grey of approaching dawn, the boy rolled his blankets and, without stopping for breakfast, stole noiselessly away—intent only upon placing distance between himself and the cabin in the timber. He was fairly bursting with importance. Here was he, Connie Morgan, the youngest and newest of all the officers of the Royal North-west Mounted Police Force, in possession of the key to the Cameron Creek mystery! He had listened to the talk of the barracks, and knew that for years the men of the Mounted had been trying to "get something on" this gang of outlaws—and, always they had failed. But the Mounted never "quits"—not a man in the Service but knew that some day the gang would be bested—and not a man in the Service but longed to be the means of its undoing.
For two hours the boy plodded onward and then sat down to a cold breakfast. He got out his police map and searched for Henderson's Creek. It was not there. Connie was in a dilemma—Should he summon McKeever? Or, should he go it alone?
"I'll go it alone, anyway, for a while," he decided. "If I shoot now, other ears besides Dan's would hear it, and it would be all off, for this trip."
Folding his map, he shouldered his pack and struck off along the rock wall. Suddenly he halted. So engrossed had he become with his problem that he had failed to notice that his feet were following a well-defined trail! He proceeded more cautiously, now, pausing frequently to listen. Only silence. The trail bent sharply to the wall and the boy found himself before a narrow crevice, or crack, in the solid rock. The trail ended at the crevice whose floor slanted upward at a gradient so steep as to be a veritable stairway. Only for a second, Connie hesitated, and then plunged into the opening.
Up, up, he climbed, following the steep windings of the crack. The click of his boot-heels sounded like thunder in his ears.
"If I meet one of 'em coming down, it will be Good Night, for one of us," he panted; "and it won't be me, either," he added, as he glanced toward the holster where the rubber-plated butt of his Service revolver showed within easy reach of his hand. Without warning, his head and shoulders emerged into bright sunlight, and before him, not ten yards distant, was a cabin. Back into the crack he popped, and held his breath« Silence. He removed his cap and cocked a scrutinizing eye over the edge—the cabin looked tenantless, and he saw that it was a very small cabin, and that it was cunningly built upon the rim of the high cliff, but cleverly concealed from the valley below by a thick growth of scraggy cedars, that extended out over the edge. Toward the south and west the ground slanted abruptly into the timber. The valley lay to the northward, and on the east, a higher shoulder of rock cut off all view. Warily the boy drew himself up and, after a reassuring survey, crossed noiselessly to the door. It was of heavy whip-sawed timber, and instead of windows there were narrow slits between the logs. "Loopholes," thought Connie, and noticed that the slits commanded the head of the trail, and of another trail that led into the timber to the southward. "It's like a fort," he muttered, and placed his eye to a slit. Inside were a bunk, a small stove, a rack containing a
"Crossing swiftly to the rack of rifles, he removed the cartridges."
dozen rifles, and along the farther side, several stout casks. "The cache!" he breathed, and slipping the heavy iron hasp from its staple, pushed open the door and entered. Crossing swiftly to the rack of rifles, he removed the cartridges from magazines and chambers, replaced the guns, carried the cartridges, together with twenty-five or thirty unopened boxes of ammunition to the cliff, and tossed them over the edge. Returning to the cabin, he closed the door, slipped the hasp over the staple as he had found it, and retired to the shelter of the timber to think. The boy had formulated no plan—the removal of the cartridges had been done on the spur of the moment—they were guns of the enemy, and therefore were safer empty,—he had drawn the fangs of the serpent—that's all. But, for all that, he was in a serious quandary—undecided as to his next move. Should he summon McKeever? Or explore the trail that entered the timber—undoubtedly, the trail to the mysterious Henderson's Creek? Connie gazed out across the valley of Cameron Creek. Because of his forced march in the early grey of the morning, he reasoned that the older officer would be still above the mouth of the cleft and in all probability would remain within sound of his shots for several hours to come. The small jaw clamped shut, and the boy stepped into the trail that slanted steeply toward the south.
Evidently, on this side of the divide the gang felt secure from interference, for little precaution had been taken to blind the trail which wound and zigzagged down the steep descent. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Connie heard the sound of running water, and the next moment, came abruptly upon the bank of a narrow stream.
At the foot of the trail was a broad, flat rock that evidently did service as a wharf, for littered about were bits of rope, a broken boat-pole, or two, and the staves and hoops of several casks, probably the result of a mishap in landing. The boy's eyes sparkled with pride, he had tracked the gang of whisky-runners to their lair, and now all that remained was to summon McKeever and gather them in. He turned to retrace his steps, then suddenly paused, tense as a pointer—listening. Yes, there it was again, and apparently but a short distance down stream—the unmistakable sound of voices! Like a shadow the boy slipped into the underbrush beside the trail and crawled beneath a low killikinick bush that had just burst into full leaf. Small as he was, at that moment Connie Morgan wished himself smaller, and watched with envy a thick black beetle burrow from sight beneath a piece of bark. The voices were close beside him and, peering through his screen of leaves, the boy made out the forms of three men—and the foremost of them was Bill Cosgrieve.
"—prob'ly up Cameron Crick, now," the outlaw was saying. "Him an', that kid they've took onto the force. I seen him in Dawson, an' he slipped down river in a speed boat. When I come down river yeste'day the speed boat was tied up in front of the police cabin—but the cabin was empty. Crane'll keep an' eye on 'em though. He'd ort to report today."
"Le's tote this here cargo to the cache, an' git shet of it," suggested one of the others. Cosgrieve turned on him fiercely:
"Who's runnin' this outfit—me, or you?" he rasped, and then, to the other man: "Come on, High Light, me an' you's goin to the cache an' git breakfast. You stay an' make the boat fast, McCarty, an' when she's ready, I'll fire three shots an' you come on up. Then you an' High Light go back an' stay with the boat, an' I'll slip down on Cameron an' see if them p'lice has got through nosin' around. Doggone 'em! They can't leave a man turn an honest dollar! But they've got to git up early in the mornin' to git Bill Cosgrieve—an' you c'n bet your sweet life on that!" The man led the way up the trail, followed by High Light Hank, and Connie grinned to himself as he watched them disappear: "Early in the morning is right, old hand. You sure know where yours is coming from—but you don't know when!"
With an eye upon McCarty who was busy with the boat, the boy removed his boots and, stealthily as an Indian, followed Cosgrieve and High Light Hank up the trail. "I'm in a pretty fix, now," he soliloquized; "I can't signal Dan, and the chances are, I can't make the trail to Cameron Creek without being seen from the cache." He remembered the long rifle-slits that covered the heads of the two trails. "Anyway they can't shoot—they didn't pack guns, and those in the cache—Gee! Won't they be sore! Just the same, I wish they hadn't happened along so soon." A half-hour later, the boy watched from the edge of the timber while Bill Cosgrieve and High Light crossed the short open space and entered the cache. And then, the very smallness of the cabin made for the rum smugglers' undoing, for when they entered, they closed the door behind them to make room. Like a flash, a small figure shot from the timber, and, noiseless as a shadow, darted across the open. There was a grating of iron as the hasp slipped over the strong staple. The "King of Cameron Creek" heard the sound and, with a loud cry, sprang to the door and wrenched mightily. But the staple and hasp held—would have held to the pull of forty men—and through the rifle-slits came the sound of a laugh—a light, boyish laugh, as Connie Morgan drove a stout plug into the eye of the staple.
High Light leaped to the gun rack, and the next instant the wicked blue-black muzzle of a rifle protruded from a slit. Then, a small hand covered the muzzle, and a small face appeared at the opening.
"You mustn't shoot folks," said a boyish voice. "It isn't nice, and besides, you are under arrest"
"Who in the name of Sam Hill are you?" roared the man behind the gun. "Open that door, or I will shoot!"
"Oh, no, you won't!" laughed the boy, "I'm Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, and you are my prisoners." There was a swift movement within, and the voice of High Light rang loud:
"Don't shoot a kid, Bill! Duck kid!" And at the same instant, Connie heard the futile snap of a hammer descending upon a firing-pin, and, with the bellow of a wild beast, Bill Cosgrieve slammed the rifle onto the floor and reached for another—and another—and another—all the time yelling, and all but frothing with an insane rage, from the noise of which, Connie caught fragments of sentences: "Double-crossed—Imp o' Satan—stole them shells—trapped like a rat!" The passion wore itself out, the man subsided into low, vicious mutterings, and Connie peeked in at a rifle slit.
"Don't fuss, Willie. Eat your breakfast,—and don't bite the poker. I'm going to call McCarty, now—he'll want some breakfast, too." Then, suddenly dropping the note of mockery, the young voice sounded dry, and hard: "And you shut up! You try to warn him and it will go hard with you. In the Mounted we don't stand for fooling. One yip out of you, and you'll get yours—pronto!"
The boy walked to the edge of the cliff so that the sound would carry far out over the Cameron valley, and drew the revolver from its holster:
"Bang—bang! Bang!" He fired three shots—the same signal that would call McCarty would also bring big Dan McKeever—and bring him on the run!
Connie walked to the edge of the timber and seated himself upon a log close beside the trail. Ten minutes passed—twenty minutes—and then the sound of footsteps brought the revolver again from its holster.
"Hands up!" McCarty whirled and looked into the muzzle of the long-barrelled Service gun, behind which appeared the set face of a small boy—and the man noted that the boy wore the uniform of the Royal North-west Mounted Police. Swiftly, he elevated his hands. "March!" And the man, with hands reaching high above his head walked out into the clearing, followed closely by Connie.
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" he gasped, when his eyes took in the situation, and in spite of himself, he snickered. The sound threw Bill Cosgrieve into another fit of passion:
"Laff! You eediot! Laff, an' laff , an' laff! It means a long space fer you as well as me—Ondly, personal, I don't see where the joke comes in!"
"You can go sit on that rock, McCarty, " said Connie, indicating a boulder at the edge of the cliff. "You can't get away unless you jump over—and it's a good two hundred feet to the nearest rocks below."
"I ain't aimin' to git away, kid—leastwise, not that-a-way," he grinned, and lapsed into silence.
An hour dragged by before the sound of foot- steps on the rock floor of the trail from Cameron Creek reached the ears of the boy. Beckoning to McCarty, he motioned him to be seated close beside the head of the steep rock trail, and took his own position close behind him.
"Hey!" objected the man, "you goin' to use me fer a fort?"
"You're a good little guesser," assented Connie. "You see, I'm expecting my pardner, Sergeant McKeever, any minute. If that is he, you needn't worry that he will shoot. But, if it should happen to be one of your friends—well, I won't worry if he shoots, either."
Suddenly a man burst panting into the open: *'Beat it!" he cried, "The Mounted!"
"Reach!" commanded Connie, and with a gasp, the man saw the gun behind McGarty's back. He "reached" extending his arms to full length, and even standing on tiptoe, and the boy recognized him as Crane. There was a noise at the mouth of the crevice, and another man turned and whisked from sight, the clatter of loose rocks proclaiming his frenzied haste to be elsewhere. But he did not get far. A short, sharp word of command floated upward. Silence—and once more, the sound of footsteps. The man appeared again at the opening, only this time he, too, was reaching." It was the shaggy man, and behind him walked Sergeant Dan McKeever.
Hello, Dan!" called Connie, rising to his feet, we've got *em dead to rights! Three of 'em here—Cosgrieve and another in there, and some kegs, too—and more kegs in the poling-boat, down on Henderson's Creek! And evidence enough to include our friend Jap Kinkade along with 'em!"
Sergeant Dan McKeever gazed open-mouthed at the youngest constable.
"For the love of Mike, kid! I'm dreamin'! You—you—single-handed—rounded up the Cameron Creek gang! Got 'em with the goods, at last—Bill Cosgrieve, too! It ain't so—but it is! You little old sourdough, you! How'd you do it?"
Connie laughed; and affected an exaggerated yawn: "Oh, that's easy, son—when you get up early in the morning!"