The early Northern dusk was falling when Beresford dropped into thestore again. Except for two half-breeds and the clerk dickering at thefar end of the building over half a dozen silver fox furs Morse hadthe place to himself.
Yet the officer took the precaution to lower his voice. "I want anauger and a wooden plug the same size. Get 'em to me without anybodyknowing it."
The manager of the C.N. Morse & Company Northern Stores presentlyshoved across the counter to him a gunny-sack with a feed of oats."Want it charged to the Force, I reckon?"
"Yes."
"Say, constable, I wancha to look at these moccasins I'm orderin' forthe Inspector. Is this what he wants? Or isn't it?"
Tom led the way into his office. He handed the shoe to Beresford."What's doin'?" he asked swiftly, between sentences.
The soldier inspected the footwear. "About right, I'd say. Thoughtyou'd find what you were looking for. A fellow usually does when hegoes at it real earnest."
The eyes in the brown face were twinkling merrily.
"Findin' the goods is one thing. Gettin' 'em's quite another," Tomsuggested.
The voice of one of the trappers rose in protest. "By gar, it iss whatyou call dirt cheap. I make you a present. V'la!"
"Got to bore through difficulties," Beresford said. "Then you'reliable to bump into disappointment. But you can't ever tell till youtry."
His friend began to catch the drift of the officer's purpose. He waslooking for a liquor shipment, _and he had bought an auger to borethrough difficulties_.
Tom's eyes glowed. "Come over to the storeroom an' take a look at mystock. Want you to see I'm gonna have these moccasins made from goodmaterial."
They kept step across the corral, gay, light-hearted sons of thefrontier, both hard as nails, packed muscles rippling like those offorest panthers. Their years added would not total more than twoscoreand five, but life had taken hold of them young and trained them toits purposes, had shot them through and through with hardihood andendurance and the cool prevision that forestalls disaster.
"I'm in on this," the Montanan said.
"Meaning?"
"That I buy chips, take a hand, sit in, deal cards."
The level gaze of the police officer studied him speculatively. "Nowwhy this change of heart?"
"You get me wrong. I'm with you to a finish in puttin' West and Whaleyout of business. They're a hell-raisin' outfit, an' this country'll bewell rid of 'em. Only thing is I wanta play my cards above the table.I couldn't spy on these men. Leastways, it didn't look quite square tome. But this is a bronc of another color. Lead me to that trouble youwas promisin' a while ago."
Beresford led him to it, by way of a rain-washed gully, up which theytrod their devious path slowly and without noise. From the gully theysnaked through the dry grass to a small ditch that had been built todrain the camping-ground during spring freshets. This wound into themidst of the wagon train encampment.
The plainsmen crept along the dry ditch with laborious care. Theyadvanced no single inch without first taking care to move aside anytwig the snapping of which might betray them.
From the beginning of the adventure until its climax no word wasspoken. Beresford led, the trader followed at his heels.
The voices of men drifted to them from a camp-fire in the shelter ofthe wagons. There were, Tom guessed, about four of them. Their wordscame clear through the velvet night. They talked the casual elementaltopics common to their kind.
There was a moonlit open space to be crossed. The constable took itswiftly with long strides, reached a wagon, and dodged under it. Hiscompanion held to the cover of the ditch. He was not needed closer.
The officer lay flat on his back, set the point of the auger to thewoodwork of the bed, and began to turn. Circles and half-circles ofshavings flaked out and fell upon him. He worked steadily. Presentlythe resistance of the wood ceased. The bit had eaten its way through.
Beresford withdrew the tool and tried again, this time a few inchesfrom the hole he had made. The pressure lessened as before, but in asecond or two the steel took a fresh hold. The handle moved slowly andsteadily.
A few drops of moisture dripped down, then a small stream. Theconstable held his hand under this and tasted the flow. It was rum.
Swiftly he withdrew the bit, fitted the plug into the hole, and pushedit home.
He crawled from under the wagon, skirted along the far side of it, ranto the next white-topped vehicle, and plumped out upon the camperswith a short, sharp word of command.
"Up with your hands! Quick!"
For a moment the surprised quartette were too amazed to obey.
"What in Halifax--?"
"Shove 'em up!" came the crisp, peremptory order.
Eight hands wavered skyward.
"Is this a hold-up--or what?" one of the teamsters wanted to knowsulkily.
"Call it whatever you like. You with the fur cap hitch up the mules tothe second wagon. Don't make a mistake and try for a getaway. You'llbe a dead smuggler."
The man hesitated. Was this red-coat alone?
Tom strolled out of the ditch, a sawed-off shotgun under his arm."I judge you bored through your difficulties, constable," he saidcheerfully.
"Through the bed of the wagon and the end of a rum keg. Stir yourstumps, gentlemen of the whiskey-running brigade. We're on the way toFort Edmonton if it suits you."
If it did not suit them, they made no audible protest of disagreement.Growls were their only comment when, under direction of Beresford,the Montanan stripped them of their weapons and kept guard on thefur-capped man--his name appeared to be Lemoine--while the latterbrought the mules to the wagon pointed out by the officer.
"Hook 'em," ordered Morse curtly.
The French-Indian trapper hitched the team to the wagon. Presentlyit moved beyond the circle of firelight into the darkness. Morse satbeside the driver, the short-barreled weapon across his knees.Three men walked behind the wagon. A fourth, in the uniform of theNorth-West Mounted, brought up the rear on horseback.