Constable Grier’s Detail

Constable Grier’s Detail

by

Frank L. Packard. P. 0. Box 93 Lachine, P. Q.

From The Fonds of Frank L. Packard at The Library and Archives, Canada. Not found in published form and undated./drf. December 2018. Stillwoods.

Chapter I.

Forty miles due west of the Edmonton trail is Crucifix Cleft. Between the two, in a hollow where the prairie dips to meet the foothills of the Rockies, lies a long, low, ramshackle building known as “The Rest.” Its attractions were a bar and a card layout, and, incidentally, Stella, the daughter of Pop Sampson, the proprietor—but Stella was held in reverence and respect, and the men opined that she must have “took” after her mother, who was dead—seeing it couldn’t be otherwise!

As for Sampson, he was a hard visaged, wiry, tough looking character —and he did not belie his appearance. He had a reputation that placed him ace high for most things, as witness the little affair that almost resulted in the death and burial of young Sammy Cockrill of the Bar-X ranch. True, Sammy had accused Pop of abstaining cards under false pretenses, but that was all Sammy had done, because it was all he had chance to do, for he was very young and inexperienced, and he had made the accusation with his gun in his pocket.

But though Pop’s reputation spread out over a wide area and men went warily in his presence, though his reputation reached even to the officer commanding a certain post of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, a good many miles to the east, it had never, and very naturally so, come to Stella’s ears in any concrete or definite form. She knew her father was counted a bad man to meddle with, she had even overheard him being called hard names; she knew that men generally stood in fear if him, but that was all and it was all vague.

Sampson and “The Rest” thrived. Night after night the combination bar and card-room was filled with the men who thronged in from the surrounding ranches. Night after night the same card games, the same quarreling, the same endless, discordant jangle of brawling voices, the same Sampson with the same cigar cocked in the corner of his mouth, dealing “stud” at the same old table in the corner— until one evening a slim, tall figure in a red tunic blocked the doorway, and Sampson looked up to meet a pair of blue eyes gazing out at him from a boyish, sun-tanned face beneath a broad-brimmed, gray, Stetson hat.

“Huh!” grunted Sampson. “Makin’ rounds,”

Constable Grier leaned easily against the door-jamb, and glanced quietly around the room. Jt was still early and the long summer’s evening had hardly begun to dusk. The lamps had not yet been lighted, and in the half-twilight the heavy, undulating layers of tobacco smoke gave to the figures inside a grotesque and ghostlike appearance, out of which Sampson’s burly form, red-shirted, bulked big and ominous. The talk stopped following Sampson’s words. The men’s eyes were on the door,

“Yes,” said Grier. “Making rounds. I want to see Mr. Sampson.”

“That’s me,” replied Sampson promptly. “I suppose yuh want yer ‘complaint report’ signed eh, Well, all right, sonny, presently. I ain’t got any complaints as I know uv.”

“No I daresay not,” returned Grier quietly. “Step out here a minute, Sampson, will you? I’d like to talk to you a bit.”

“Can’t yuh talk from whar yuh are?” demanded Sampson.

“I could; but I prefer not to,” Grier answered sharply.

Sampson scowled, hitched once or twice in his chair, and scowled again at the imperturbable figure in the doorway. Then he got up and strode across the room. “You’re all-fired confidential, sonny, ain’t yuh?” he growled. “Well, now, get it off yer chest. What d’ye want?”

As Grier moved from the doorway and stepped a few paces away from the house to where his horse was standing, Sampson followed him. “What d’ye want?” repeated the proprietor.

Grier wheeled and faced the man, eyeing him steadily.

“You’ve got to clean up that shebang and clear,” he said in cool crisp tones.

“I got a what!” roared Sampson. “Yuh go to h—l!”

A tinge of red came into Grier’s cheeks and his eyes narrowed. “You heard me,” he said evenly. “One week to clear out; but the shutters go up tonight!”

“They do, eh? Yuh got yer nerve—yuh, an’ them that sent yuh; but mostly yuh. Yuh go back an’ tell ‘em so. Tell ‘em Pop Samson sed so. An’ if they don’t know who Pop Samson is, tell ‘em to come out here an’ try monkeyin’ with them shutters an’ they’ll find out!”

“They know who you are, all right,” Grier retorted coolly.

“That’s why I’m here—to see that the shutters do go up. I called you out to give you a chance to get rid of that gang in there, and do the thing in a way that would let you down as easy as I could. Now, then, Sampson, what do you say? Are you going in there and tell them you’re going out of the booze-ranch business, or shall I go in and tell them we’re putting you out of it?”

The savage rage in Sampson’s face died away, gradually a smile took its place and then he guffawed outright. “I sure was wrong to get riled at a joke,” he grinned. “A baby-faced kid like yuh clean me an’ the bunch out! Oh, yah got yer nerve, as I’ve afore remarked. Certain, I’ll tell ‘em what yuh said. Yuh mosey round for an hour or such an’ sniff the pra’rie, when yuh come back I’ll let yuh know how they take it.”

Grier’s blue eyes, steady and quiet, never shifted a hair’s-breadth from the other’s. “I’ll give you half an hour, Sampson.” he said significantly. “It makes no difference how the others take it. This is your hunt. You can spend the time cooking up plans with your cronies if you like; but if you’re wise you’ll spend it to better advantage.”

Without another word Grier swung on his heel, looped his horse’s bridle over his arm, and began to walk off along the trail; not, however, without having caught the flash of anger that swept across Sampson’s face, and seen Sampson’s hand creep toward his hip. For a hundred yards Grier walked without turning his head, his lips compressed into a hard, straight line, the heat of his pulse quickened. He could feel the bead; he knew that Sampson had drawn on the small of his back. And then the tension snapped. It was Sampson’s nerve that failed, and the signal of his defeat was his short laugh horse-like jeering.

At the sound, Grier’s features relaxed, and a grim smile of satisfaction played around the corners of his mouth. But without looking around he kept steadily on to a small butte that rose a short distance ahead. He climbed the little hill, and, throwing the bridle over the horse’s head, sat down on the ground.

It was growing too dark to see far now, just a few miles of prairie sweep, unbroken everywhere except for Sampson’s place.

Grier threw himself out at full length, his elbows on the ground, his chin in his hands, staring at “The Rest.” Sampson had gone inside. There was no sign of life without, save for the cowpunchers’ ponies that stood in a row before a sort of railing a little away from the house.

No special plan of action framed itself in Grier’s brain. It was no question of finesse, just straight from the shoulder and blunt—blunt as the orders he had received. “Give him a week to get his traps together and move out,” the O. C. had said, “Close up the bar as soon as you get there. He’s a nuisance, and a dangerous nuisance. They’re fighting and brawling all the time. Thurston of the Bar-X reports that a man of his was nearly killed there last month. Then there’s a lot of fire-water leaking over into that Indian reserve by Crucifix Cleft. It’s a safe bet Sampson if we can get anything definite to hold him on. It will be a lesson to that element out there. So if he offers any resistance, or gives you any provocation, bring him in. That’s all, constable.”

And Grier had saluted and gone his way as coolly and unconcernedly as he would go to perform the merest routine task. It never occurred to him that it was a pretty large detail for one man —nor to the O. C. either. They were accustomed to big details these man, as they must needs be when a force of five hundred was adequate to cope with the lawlessness of a territory that reached from the Arctic circle to the boundary of the United States, that covered the vast stretch of prairie east and west, and ruled with an iron hand in the mining camps of the Yukon. And the glory of the force was that the men did their work without fuss—of feathers, did it certainly, surely as death, relentlessly, with a grip that, once fixed, never loosened. For a time they might be eluded, but only for a time. Somewhere in the beyond, a month, a year, two years, in South America or in China, it mattered little where, the man who was “wanted” would sooner or later feel the hand of a “Rider of the Plains” laid upon his shoulders, and that would be the end,

“He’s a had egg,” said Grier to himself, thinking of Sampson, “but he’s got a yellow streak. Probably he’ll put up a holler, though. Guess there won’t be but one ending, and that’ll be to put the irons on him and tote him back to the post. Hello! What’s that?”

A figure was stealing around the side of “The Rest” from the rear, and then, striking off into the prairie, began to run toward him. For a moment he watched in puzzled amazement. Then Grier sat up straight.

“By the hokey!” he muttered. “It’s a girl!”

She came swiftly, lithely, straight for the butte, swerved at the bottom and, circling it, came up the other side, the crest just hiding her from the view of “The Rest” as she stopped, panting.

The breeze playing caressingly with some loosened strands of hair, little curls of a glorious golden brown, waved them about her flushed cheeks. Her dark eyes, bright, flashing, met Grier’s searching his face. Grier’s Stetson was in his hand as he stood up and turned to meet her.

“You must go away. I—I came to tell you,” she hurst out breathlessly. “Please go, won’t you? And go now—quickly!”

Grier looked at her, his glance of admiration mingled with one of inquiry. “Go away?” he repeated.

“Yes”—she nodded her head, and went on hurriedly— “I heard them talking. I—I don’t know what you’re here for, but I am afraid they mean you harm, and they’ll—they’ll do as they say.”

Grier’s lips straightened ard his eyes grew hard with suspicion. “Did Sampson send you to tell me this?” he demanded coolly.

For an instant she regarded him half-scornfully, half in reproach. “Sampson is my father,” she said. “I am Stella Sampson. I saw you and father talking together a little while ago in the road. You must have angered him terribly. Then I watched you ride here, and afterwards—afterwards, he and Joe Chaffie came to the back of the house where I was. They did not see me. I heard enough to make me steal out and come to beg you to go away.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Grier, with his quick frank smile. “I beg your pardon for what I said. It was good of you to come, but I cannot go away until I have done my duty.”

Her eyes were on the ground, she was playing with her hands nervously. “Will you tell me what that—that duty is?” she asked hesitantly.

“I am to close up ‘The Rest,’” Grier answered, the blunt words softened by the deference of his manner.

The outcry, the protest he had expected did not come. Instead, almost a look of relief swept across her face.

“Oh, if it is only that,” she murmured. “I think—I should be glad. But you must not try it—alone. You cannot do it and—and something will happen. Oh, please, won’t you go?”

Grier shook his head. “You know I can’t, Miss Stella—no matter what happens. You know that, don’t you? I —”

“Stella! Stell-a! Whar in thunder’s that gal! Stell-aa-a!”

It was Sampson’s voice, roaring, bull-like. He was standing in the doorway of “The Rest.”

“That’s Pop,” said Stella in alarm. “If he knows I’m here it will make things worse. I don’t know what he’d do.”

“He can’t see you,” said Grier, reassuringly, “and he needn’t know. I’ll create a little diversion. The half hour is up. I’ll ride down. Good-bye Miss Stella, and—and thank you.”

For an instant he held her hand in a cool, firm clasp, then swinging himself into the saddle, rode down the butte toward “The Rest”.

He laughed a little grimly to himself as Sampson, noting his approach, turned and went hastily into the house. Grier loosened his revolver, hitching it into a handier position on his hip. “What a rotten life for a girl like that,” he muttered. “Her father ought to be horsewhipped for keeping her here. You bet your life I’ll close up the place! You bet I will!”

The door was shut as he drew up before “The Rest.” He dismounted, opened it, stepped inside and stared—into the muzzle of a revolver. Behind the blue-black steel of the barrel Pop Sampson leaned against the bar, the toe of one boot over the other resting negligently on the floor.

“Gents,” announced Sampson, “this ‘ere is the kid what claims to holf four aces in this ‘ere jack-pot. I ain’t disputin’ the same, only it’s the priv’lege uv the game fer the other feller, an’ I’m the other feller, an’ I’m callin’. Let’s see ‘em mister. Show ‘em up!”

Grier had halted just across the threshold, quiet, unconcerned, eyeing Sampson coolly, and now he turned to the other men in the room as a shout of laughter greeted the proprietor’s words.

“Mr. Sampson.” said he, “Remarks that it’s the privilege of the game to call the hand. Mr. Sampson is right; but likewise, before the show-down I’m entitled to know how many are sitting in. Now, then, gentlemen, the law says this outfit closes up tonight, and the law holds four aces every time! If you feel like staking your piles to lose, it’s your own funeral. If you don’t, then I’ll just ask you to get up and vacate the premises.”

“Yuh’ll do all the vacatin’ thar is done,” said Sampson, roughly. “Furthermore, I’ll plug the first man that gets out uv his seat. Now yuh git! Just hit the trail fer it hard, savvy. I’ll give yuh till Joe Chaffie, here, counts five. I don’t miss very often sonny. I’m counted some of a shot.”

Grier turned upon him with a grim laugh. “You’re playing the fool, Sampson, and you know it,” he said sharply. “Put up your gun and take your medicine like a man, instead of acting like a whining coyote. Shoot if you dare, and be damned to you! I don’t think you will—a member or two of the force don’t count for much, and they’re used to going out with their boots on, but—God help you afterwards, Sampson!”

“A WHININ’ coyote, am I?” flashed Sampson, furiously. “To blazes with yuh an’ the force! Put me out uv my own house, would yuh!”—he turned fiercely to the bartender behind him—“Didn’t I tell you to count ’em, an’ don’t be too slow between counts, neither!”

“One!” said Chaffie, a little hesitantly.

A silence fell on the room. The men at the tables were straining forward, staring tensely.

“Two!” counted Chaffie, with more confidence.

“Count ‘em faster,” snarled Sampson; but in his voice there was a trace of uneasiness.

“Three!”

In Sampson’s eyes Grier read the certain knowledge that the other would shoot. His face whitened just a little, but did not move. Erect and straight as a ramrod he stood—playing the game of nerve.

“By the humpin’!” exclaimed a man in the back of the room, “the kid’s sure the goods. Better git, son—thar ain’t no call to git hurt.”

Then Grier laughed, and his voice rang out cool, contemptuous, stinging, lashing Sampson like a whip-cord, shaking, as he meant to shake, the proprietor’s nerve already on its edge. “You’ve got a yellow streak, and you’ve got it bad. There’s a suit down at Barracks made of gray and black squares that’ll fit you nicely, and by and by we’ll make the change. Don’t let your gun wobble like that when you’ve got the drop on anyone— ‘tain’t safe!”

Sampson’s features were convulsed with rage, his lips parted, showing his teeth like those of an angry cur. “Yuh will, eh, yuh—”

“Four!” said Chaffie, and edged further along the bar.

Grier’s arms were hanging straight down at his side. He measured the distance between himself and Sampson.

“Fi—”

There was a blinding flash, the roar of the gun in Sampson’s hand, a yell, and then a terrible crash. Like lightning Grier had ducked almost to the ground, then launched himself in a low dive straight at this man. His arms wrapped themselves like hands of iron around Sampson’s legs, just above the knees—an upward heave—a straining of the muscles forward—and Sampson went down before the tackle, dropped in his tracks, quick as the winking of an eye.

With a rapid movement Grier shifted his grip, and as he flung himself full on top of the other his hands closed upon Sampson’s throat. There was a queer, singing noise in his ears, then shouts and yells, the overturning of chairs, the rush of feet. Hands clutched at him to drag him away. He hung grimly on like a bull dog. They were pounding at him now, tearing at him, kicking him, and then—

“You cowards!”

It was a girl’s voice. It came to him clear and distinct, even above that curious ringing in his ears.

“You cowards!” she cried again, her voice crisp with scorn.

“You Sam, and Boss, and you, Slim Johnston, are you going to stand around and watch one man fight a mob?”

There was a rush, oaths, and blows, as the two factions met above him, and the next moment he and Sampson were buried at the bottom of a struggling heap. Sampson was choking. Grier could hear the gurgle in the man’s throat as his own face was pressed against the other’s. Mechanically he unlocked his hold. Then the weight above lifted. There was a little click of steel as Grier shook himself free, and in his hand as he sprang to his feet was an ugly looking 45; but still more ugly, more significant, were the manacles on Sampson’s wrists!

Grier backed to the bar, and leaned a little dizzily against it. He knew now the meaning of that ringing in his ears. His hand that he put to his side was red, dripping wet. Sampson had not missed. Well, they wouldn’t know it—not until his work was done. He looked grimly at Sampson, purple of face, panting, swaying unsteadily where they had dragged him to his feet; looked at the circle of faces around him; at Stella, who would not look at him, standing white-faced, her eyes fixed upon her father’s wrists.

“Gentlemen,” said Grier, breaking the silence. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful-like. I owe some of you thanks for your assistance, but I don’t know which of you it is. Therefore, I can’t discriminate. The law says this place is closed. I’ll ask you to be good enough to vamoose.” He lifted the muzzle of his revolver and swept it slowly around the circle. “Perhaps Mr. Chaffie will be so kind as to count for us. Make ten, Mr. Chaffie, so’s not to hurry the exodus too much, the door’s narrow.”

But Mr. Chaffie did not count—it was not necessary. The room emptied quickly, the men filing out, the rougher element with a curse and a snarl, the others quietly, with glances of admiration at the man in the red tunic, torn and disheveled, who leaned against the bar.

“You wait a minute, Chaffie,” said Grier to the bartender, who was the last in the line. “Come over here.”

The man obeyed with a sulky air, scowling as Grier disarmed him.

“Now go shut that door—on the inside!”

Again the man obeyed.

“Get a chair, and help Miss Stella make her father comfortable.” As Grier spoke, a wave of giddiness swept over him, and he clutched at the bar more firmly. He watched Chaffie and Stella as they busied themselves with Sampson, and wondered a little if the man were badly hurt. The torrent of invective that now burst from Sampson’s lips relieved his anxiety on that score.

“Yuh through with?” growled Chaffie.

“Not yet, my bucko!”—Grier waved his hand around the bar, then the muzzle of his gun came in a line with Chaffie’s eyes. “Smash ‘em!” he ordered curtly. “Every last bottle! Pull the bungs from every barrel! Now look sharp—I’m in a hurry.”

And then to the accompaniment of Sampson’s curses, bitter and unrestrained, came the crash of broken glass, the gurgle of liquids flowing from the open bungs, the splash and crunch of Chaffie’s feet, and now and then, Grier’s sharp, quick command.

At last the wreckage was complete, and the place reeked with the smell of it. “Get out!” said Grier to Chaffie.

And Chaffie lost no time in getting to the door.

Grier turned and looked at Sampson and the girl. Stella’s eyes met his steadily for a moment and then dropped. He answered the question he had read in them brusquely.

“We’ll bunk here tonight. Sampson will sleep in the same room with me. Tomorrow, we’ll go in to the barracks.”

The only response was a growl and an oath from Sampson.

Stella broke the silence that followed.

“You told some of the men you owed them thanks for their assistance. Don’t think that—”

Grier shook his head. “I owe you my life. Miss Stella,” he broke in quickly. “There’s nothing that I’m free to do I wouldn’t do for you, and do gladly, but I can’t do this. Your father’s got to come. It’s orders, and my duty and—” Grier stopped and staggered weakly to a chair. He had reached the limit of his endurance. There was a little pool of blood on the floor where he had stood.

“Ha! I got yuh, did I?” jeered Sampson, “thought ‘twas blamed queer I’d missed.”

Grier did not answer, the room was going round, his senses were reeling, and then everything was blank.

When he opened his eyes he was lying on a mattress on the floor, his wound was bandaged, and beside him was a pitcher and a glass. Sampson’s angry tones broke in upon his consciousness.

“Take ‘em off, I tell yuh, now yuh got the key, d’ye hear!”

“No,” said Stella. “I told you that I wouldn’t—not until you’re far enough away to do no more harm. Oh! you’re—you’re better—” she had turned quickly as Grier raised himself to his elbow.

“Yes thanks,” said Grier; then grimly: “What are you doing with my prisoner?”

“Father and I are going away,” she answered, holding up the key to the handcuffs. “I—I took this. Your wound is only a flesh wound, it’s bled a good deal, but if you keep quiet tonight, you’ll be all right in the morning. Your revolver is out on the kitchen table.”

“I ain’t goin’ now!” snapped Sampson. “What’s the use, he’s down an’ out!”

Stella whirled on him like a flash. “You go to that door and out!” she cried, “This constable is not the only in the force. Next time you’d be wanted for something worse than you’re wanted for now. This ends here. You go, or I’ll give him back his revolver and key.”

And Sampson, muttering savagely to himself, his face black with rage, crossed the room sullenly. At the door he swung around “I’ll get yuh yet!” he swore, shaking his manacled fists.

“You’re a fool,” was Grier’s cool retort, “you don’t know when you’re in luck.”

“Good-bye,” said Stella.

“Just a minute, Miss Stella,” said Grier, detaining her. “Will you get me a piece of paper and a pencil?”

She brought them to him, and Grier, placing the paper on the floor, scrawled a few words. “You’ve made yourself a deputy,” he smiled, handing it back to her. “Will you tack that on the door as you go out.”

She read it and nodded slowly. “Good-bye,” she said again. “I hope you’ll be all right in the morning.”

“Good bye,” he answered, taking her hand, “You’re the pluckiest girl I ever met—and the whitest.”

She drew away, her cheeks a little brighter, and then with a shake of her head she was gone.

“I ain’t sure,” said Grier to himself a moment later, as he listened to the sound of hammering on the door. “I ain’t sure I’m sorry the old man plugged me. It would have been hell to tote her father in!”

And that night, for the first time in many months, quiet lay upon “The Rest.” The late comers seeing the white paper on the door in the moonlight rode up to it and struck a match, then wheeling their ponies, went their way. The words were few and terse:

“Closed by order of the law.

John Grier, Constable, R. N. W. M. P.”

The End.

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