Black Cat Weekly #37

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1North of fifty-five men have a long time to wait for summer, but when it comes it’s worth it. The sky shows a tender blue unknown to the lower latitudes, and the air stings like wine. On a crystal morning in late June, Sergeant Brinklow clad in singlet and breeches went to the door of the bunk-house to wash, while trooper McNab stretched himself luxuriously in his bunk preparatory to springing from it. The two of them had the hut to themselves, for the other two men constituting the detachment at Caribou Lake were out on patrol. With the addition of a single outpost at Spirit River Crossing and another down at Fort Enterprise, this little garrison policed a territory comprising quarter of a million square miles, more or less.

Though it was only five o’clock the sun was already high in the sky. The sparkle of the morning had entered into Brinklow’s veins and he was gayly whistling the Kerry Dances with the addition of sundry trills and grace notes of his own. As he swung open the door the tune was suddenly called in, and an exclamation of astonishment broke from him.

“For the lova mike, Mac, come look at this!”

The grizzled sergeant had himself under such good control generally, that a start of surprise from him meant something, and young McNab was quickly at his side. Brinklow was kneeling down, the better to examine something outside the doorsill. It was a rude picture that had been scratched with a pointed stick on a hard beaten patch of earth. McNab could make out a death’s head, and under it a wavy line bisected by a short straight line. Under that again was an arrow pointing north-west.

“This is some redskin work!” cried McNab.

“No!” said Brinklow with good-natured sarcasm.

McNab blushed slightly. “What do you make of it?” he asked.

“Picture writing,” said Brinklow. “All the red tribes are good at it.”

“Can you read it?”

“Sure! A skull means death anywhere on earth. The wavy line is a river. It’s a big river I take it from the thickness of the line, hence it must be the Spirit River. The little line would be Spirit River Crossing where the settlement is. The arrow is pointing in the exact direction of the Crossing.”

“But what does it mean, Brink?”

“It’s an anonymous letter, like. Somebody is telling us that there has been a death at Spirit River Crossing that needs looking into.”

“A murder?” suggested McNab with rising excitement.

“So you might think,” said Brinklow.

“Why in hell didn’t he come and tell us openly?”

“When you’ve been up here longer you’ll find out that the natives never do anything openly,” said Brinklow; “specially in dealing with white men. It’s the first rule amongst them that a white man is never to be told anything.”

“Then why did he tell us at all?”

“Well, there are several possible explanations of that. I would need a little more information before I picked on any one of them.”

“There must be plenty of men up here who have it in for you,” said McNab scowling. “Maybe it’s a trap.”

“Maybe it is,” said Brinklow cheerfully. “But at that, the police can’t take a dare of course.”

“Then you’re going to follow it?”

“Sure! . . . I can take one of the other lads with me,” he added, “if you don’t like the look of it.”

“Not on your tintype!” said McNab. “I was in on it first!”

Making haste with his washing and dressing, Brinklow went off to fetch the “old man.” “Barracks” at Caribou Lake consisted of three log shacks in a row facing the road; the bunk-house, the combined court and prison and the inspector’s residence. Brinklow had therefore less than a hundred feet to go.

McNab went into the lean-to kitchen to start the fire. His heart was greatly lifted up by the prospect of a journey with Brinklow. On the trail Brink was the companion incomparable. McNab had already been associated with him in the Shem Packer case, and the still more celebrated affair of Luke Darrow. Brink was far and away the most famous man on the force but he was still by his own desire only a sergeant. One of the rare men who was satisfied with his lot in life.

Hearing voices, McNab went back to the front door where he came face to face with Brinklow and Inspector Considine in dressing-gown and slippers. A surprise awaited them.

“Good God, it’s gone!” cried Brinklow. “You have nothing for it now but my word, sir!”

“Well, I can take that,” said the little inspector dryly.

The patch of earth in front of the doorsill had been carefully smoothed over.

“Gone!” echoed McNab. “I haven’t been out of the shack. I went back into the kitchen, but both doors were open.”

Brinklow pointed out how the artist had knelt out of sight around the corner of the shack, and reaching forward had rubbed out his work with his hand.

“Then he can’t be far,” said the inspector. “He’s taken cover in the woods yonder. If you and McNab look sharp you can pull him out.”

“If you don’t mind sir,” said Brinklow respectfully, “I’d like to draw him out a bit further. If we nab him, you know how they are, he will just turn dumb. And we can’t prove anything on him.”

“Very well,” said the inspector with his admirable composure. “But I don’t like it. It smells of an ambush. You are too valuable a man to be lured off by I don’t know who in this underhand manner. Mackworth had better go.”

McNab’s heart sunk, but Brinklow’s air of respectful confidence remained unshaken. He knew his own value. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but in case there has been a murder at the Crossing it’s clear that Corporal Anders don’t know anything about it, or his messenger would have got here as soon as this man. Well, if it’s a secret crime, it’s understood isn’t it, that that’s my department?”

“Go along with you, Sergeant,” said the inspector with a brusqueness that scarcely masked his affection, “if you want the job you know you can have it. . . . Just the same, I don’t like it,” he added. “I depend on you to take every precaution against accident.”

“Yes sir.”

An hour later Brinklow and McNab took to the trail, leading a couple of packhorses with their outfit.