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Page 45
From the cottage's interior came several high-pitched female squawks,
punctuated by the ominous sounds as of violent thumps being rained upon a
soft body, and suddenly the portal disgorged Lee--in erratic haste. His
hat presently followed. Dazedly awhile he surveyed the grinning trio of
witnesses to his discomfiture; then, picking up his battered head-piece
he crammed it down upon his bald cranium with a vicious, yet abject,
gesture.
"Th' missis seems onwell this mornin'," he mumbled apologetically to
Slavin, "I take it yore not a married man, Sarjint?"
"Eh?" ejaculated that worthy sharply, his levity gone on the instant.
"Who--me?" Blankly he regarded the miserable face of his interlocutor,
one huge paw of a hand softly and surreptitiously caressing its fellow,
"Nay--glory be! I am not."
"Har!" shrilled the Voice, its owner, fat red arms akimbo, blocking up
the doorway, "Nick, me useless man! ye kin prate t' me 'bout arrestin'
hoboes. I tell ye right now--that hobo that was a-bummin' roun' here
t'other mornin's got nothin' on you fur sheer, blowed-in-th'-glass
laziness."
"Fwhat?" Slavin violently contorting his grim face into a horrible
semblance of persuasive gallantry edged cautiously towards the irate
dame--much the same as a rough-rider will "So, ho, now!" and sidle up to
a bad horse. "Mishtress Lee," began he, in wheedling, dulcet tones,
"fwhat mornin' was that?"
That lady, her capacious, matronly bosom heaving with emotion, eyed him
suspiciously a moment. "Eh?" she snapped. "Why th' mornin' after th'
night of racket between them two men at th' hotel. Th' feller come
bummin' roun' th' back-door fur a hand-out--all starved t' death--just
before I took th' train t' Calgary." She dabbed at the false-front of
red hair, which had become somewhat disarranged. "La, la!" she murmured,
"I'm all of a twitter!"
"Some hand-out tu," remarked Slavin politely, "from th' face av um. . . .
Fwhat was ut ye handed him, Mishtress Lee, might I ask?--th' flat-iron or
th' rollin' pin?"
"I did not!" the dame retorted indignantly. "I gave him a cup of coffee
an' sumphin' t' eat--he was that cold, poor feller--an' I arst him how
his face come t' be in such a state. He said sumphin 'bout it bein' so
cold up in th' loft he come down amongst th' horses 'bout midnight--t'
get warmed up. He said he was lyin' in one o' th' mangers asleep when a
feller brought a horse in--an' th' light woke him up an' when he went t'
climm outa th' manger th' horse got scared an' pulled back an' musta
stepped on this feller's foot--fur th' feller started swearin' at him an'
pulled him outa th' manger an' beat him up an'--"
But Slavin had heard enough. With a most ungallant ejaculation he swung
on his heel and started towards the stable, beckoning hastily to Yorke
and Redmond to follow.
"Yu hear that?" he burst out on them, with lowered, savage tones. "I
knew ut--I felt ut at th' toime--that shtinkin' rapparee av a hobo was
lyin'--whin he said he did not renumber a harse bein' brought back. We
must go get um--right-away!" His grim face wore a terribly ruthless
expression just then. "My God!" he groaned out from between clenched
teeth, "but I will put th' third degree tu um, an' make um come across
this toime! Saddle up, bhoys! while I go an' hitch up T an' B.
Damnation! I wish Gully's place was on the phone!"
Some quarter of an hour later they were proceeding rapidly towards
Gully's ranch which lay some fifteen miles west of Cow Run, on the lower
or river trail. A cold wind had sprung up and the weather had turned
cloudy and dull, as if presaging snow, two iridescent "sun-dogs"
indicating a forthcoming drop in the temperature.
Yorke and Redmond, riding in the cutter's wake, carried on a desultory.
Jerky conversation anent the many baffling aspects of the case in hand.
Gully's name came up. His strange personality was discussed by them from
every angle; impartially by Yorke--frankly antagonistically by Redmond.
"Yes! he is a rum beggar, in a way," admitted Yorke, "not a bad sort of
duck, though, when you get to know him--when he's not in one of his
rotten, brooding fits. He sure gets 'Charley-on-his-back' sometimes.
Used to hit the booze pretty hard one time, they say. Tried the
'gold-cure'--then broke out again"--he lowered his voice at the huge,
bear-like back of the sergeant--"all same him. I don't know--somehow--it
always seems to leave em' cranky an' queer--that. Neither of 'em married
either--'baching it,' living alone, year after year, and all that, too."
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