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Page 65
Presently the sergeant faced round with a dreary sigh. "Come on thin,
Docthor," he murmured heavily, "wid me an' Yorke."
Making a wide detour they circled the ranch and wormed their way
cautiously through the dense scrub on its eastern side. Suddenly, with a
warning gesture to his companions, the sergeant halted. They had reached
the verge of the scrub and the front of the ranch-house faced
them--barely twenty yards distant. They could discern a faint light
glimmering around the lower edge of one of the windows.
"He is in!" whispered Slavin exultantly. "Blinds down though. 'Tis a
quare custom av his. Come on thin, Yorkey, me bould second-in-command!
In a mighty few short minuts we shall know"--his jaw dropped--"fwhat we
shall know! . . . Arrah thin, Docthor!"--he silenced a violent protest
from that adventurous gentleman, who made as though to accompany
them--"if ye wud help us in best fashion--shtay right here, an' mark
fwhat comes off. If we shud happen tu get ut in th' neck . . . just yu'
beat ut back tu Lanky! Ye know fwhat tu du--thin. I'll lave me carbine
here awhile."
He stepped clear of the brush and, revolver in hand, advanced softly upon
the low, one-story, log-built dwelling. Yorke followed a few steps in
his rear, with his carbine held in readiness at the "port-arms."
Reaching the door, the sergeant rapped upon it sharply. There was no
response from within, but--the light vanished on the instant. Yorke
stepped warily to the side and covered the door with his weapon. A few
tense moments passed, and then Slavin rapped again. Heavy footfalls now
sounded, approaching the door from the inside, halted, and then, through
the panels came Gully's hollow, booming bass: "Who's there?"
"Shlavin of th' Mounted Police, Gully. Opin up! we wud shpake wid ye."
"What do you want? What's your business at this hour of the night?"
"Fwhat do we want?"--the sergeant uttered mirthless chuckle--"fwhy 'tis
yu' we want, Gully--for murdher! Come off th' perch, man, th' jig's up!
There's a bunch av us here--we've got yu're shack covered properly--wid
carbines--north, east, south, an' west--ye can pull nothin' off. Come
now! will ye pitch up an' act reasonable? 'Tis no manner av use ye
shtartin' in tu buck th' Force. Juty's juty--ye know that."
"Have you got a warrant, Sergeant?"
"Eyah!" came Slavin's sinister growl. "We've bin fishin', Gully, up in
th' big pool beyant. _Well_ ye must know that pool. Fwhat we caught
there is our warrant. Opin up now, will ye? else we bust yu're dhure in!"
"Slavin--Sergeant! You and Yorke whom I've known all this time--good
fellows"--the deep, imploring tones faltered slightly--"do not push me to
it, man! You and your men go away and leave me in peace this night.
Christ knows! I don't want to do it but--if you persist in forcing an
entrance in here without a warrant--why! I'll pull on your crowd till
there's not a man left."
"Gully!" the sergeant's voice shook with passion at the other's threat,
"ye bloody murdherin' dog! Ye dhirty back-av-th'-head gun-artist!
Thryin' for tu come th' 'good-feller' over us av th' Mounted! There's
on'y wan answer tu that, an' ye know ut. Now, will ye opin up this
dhure, or I'll bust her down!"
And, as if to enforce his command, Slavin set his huge shoulder against
the door and gave a heave which caused the stout wood to crack ominously.
"Look out, Burke!" cried Yorke suddenly. His right arm shot out and
jerked the maddened Irishman violently towards him. His hasty action was
only just in time.
Bang! bang! Two muffled shots detonated within, and white splinters flew
from a spot in the door covered a moment before by the sergeant's broad
breast. With a startled oath Slavin flung up his gun, as if to fire
back; but Yorke clutched his arm and arrested the action.
"No, no, Burke!" he hissed warningly, "no use doing that! You bet he's
not there now. Lying 'doggo' behind the logs, most likely. You'd only
blow a hole in the door that he could pick us off through after. We're
proper marks in the moonlight here! Let's back up, and keep the front
covered."
Slavin, balked of his prey, rumbled in his throat awhile, like some huge
bear; then, adopting Yorke's suggestion, he slowly backed up with the
latter to the sheltering brush, where they rejoined the expectant,
anxious doctor.
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