On the morning after the corporal’s discovery, Gustave Wandle was leading his team to a drinking pool on the creek that crossed his farm. He was a big, reserved, fair-haired man, with a fleshy face that was redeemed from heaviness by his eyes, which were restless and keen. Though supposed to be an Austrian, little was known about him or his antecedents except that he owned the next half-section of land to Jernyngham’s and farmed it successfully. It was, however, believed that he was of an unusually grasping nature, and his neighbors took precautions when they made a deal with him. He had reached the shadow of a poplar bluff when he heard hurried footsteps and a man with a hot face came into sight.

“I’m going across your place to save time; I want my horse,” he explained hastily. “Curtis, the policeman, has ridden in to the settlement and told me to go up and search a muskeg near the north trail with Stanton. Somebody’s killed Jernyngham and hidden him there.”

“So!” exclaimed Wandle. “Jernyngham murdered! You tell me that?”

“Sure thing!” the other replied. “The police have figured out how it all happened and I’m going to look for the body while Curtis reports to his bosses. A blamed pity! I liked Jernyngham. Well, I must get to the muskeg soon as I can!” 58

He ran on, and Wandle led his horses to the pool and stood thinking hard while they drank. He was well versed in Jernyngham’s affairs and knew that he had once bought a cheap quarter-section of land in an arid belt some distance off. A railroad had since entered the district, irrigation work had been begun, and the holding must have risen in value. Now, it seemed, Jernyngham was dead, which was unfortunate, because Wandle had found their joint operations profitable, and it was very probable that Ellice and himself were the only persons who knew about the land. Wandle mounted one of the horses and set out for Jernyngham’s homestead at its fastest pace.

On reaching it, he soon found an iron cash-box in a cupboard and succeeded in forcing it with a screw-driver. It contained a few papers, among which were one or two relating to the purchase of the quarter-section, and Wandle put these in his pocket. The others he threw into the cupboard—Jernyngham’s carelessness was well known—and then hastily studied a railroad time-table. By starting promptly, he could catch a train at the station next after Sebastian, which he thought would be wiser, and reach a new wooden town of some importance in the evening. Having ascertained this, he hurried out and rode home, taking the cash-box with him. On arriving, he smashed it flat with an ax and flung it into his stove in which a fire was burning; then he made a hasty meal, changed his clothes, and saddling a horse, rode hard across the prairie. There was, he realized, some risk in what he meant to do, but it was not a very serious one, and he was thankful that the sale of land is attended by few formalities in western Canada.

When he reached his destination, business premises 59 were closed for the night, but after making inquiries he found a land agent who was recommended as respectable and trustworthy at a smart hotel. Wandle led him to the far end of the lobby, where they would not be disturbed, and sitting down at a table took out the papers.

“What’s that quarter-section worth?” he asked.

The agent told him and Wandle lighted his pipe and affected to consider. He thought Jernyngham had not suspected its value.

“Don’t you think you could get another three dollars an acre?” he suggested.

“It’s possible, if you will leave the sale in my hands; but I may have to wait for a suitable opportunity. There’s a good demand for land in the district now that they’re getting on with the irrigation scheme, but to insist on the top price will mean delay.”

“Could you sell it for me promptly at the figure you mentioned?”

“Why, yes,” said the agent. “I’ve a number of inquiries for farming land on my books. I shouldn’t wonder if I fixed the thing up in a week.”

“I can’t wait a week. There’s a pretty good haulage contract I could get, but it will take some financing, which is what brought me along; because I ought to see about it in the next few days. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll sell you that land to-night at the lower figure.”

The agent pondered.

“No, sir,” he said, irresolutely. “I’d only make a few dollars an acre on the deal, and I can get ten per cent. on my money right in this hotel.”

“You’d have to wait a year for it, wouldn’t you? What price will give you ten per cent. profit on this quarter-section? 60 You want to remember that you may get it in a few weeks, and you’d have first-class security.”

After making a rough calculation in his notebook, the agent looked up.

“As a rule, I prefer to buy for other people, but I can’t go back on what I said about land being in strong demand, and I’ll make you a bid. This is the most I can do.”

Wandle, after trying to raise the price, made a sign of acquiescence.

“We’ll let it go at that. I’ll get things fixed up as soon as the land-office is open in the morning.”

He left the hotel, satisfied on the whole, though he had sacrificed a dollar or two an acre and there was an element of danger in what he had done. The sale of the land must be registered, and the date would be two or three days after the one on which Jernyngham was killed. The latter’s homestead was, however, a long distance off, there was only one small weekly newspaper published in the district, and it was very probable that the agent would not hear of the affair until some time had elapsed, and then might not attach any importance to the fact that the victim’s name was that of his customer. Even if he did so, the small discrepancy in the dates would, no doubt, escape his attention. Wandle did not think he had much cause for uneasiness.

Reaching home the next day, he raked out his stove and found the cash-box. It had not fallen to pieces as he had expected, and he doubled it up again with the ax before he flung it into the ash pail. Then he lighted the stove and set about getting supper, for it was late in the evening. After finishing the meal, he threw some fragments of potatoes and a rind of pork into the pail and took it up 61 to carry it to the refuse heap, but stopped with a start when he left the house. It was getting dark, but two shadowy figures were riding up the trail and by the way they sat their horses he recognized them as police troopers. Putting down the pail, he waited until they dismounted near-by.

“You’re too late for supper, Curtis,” he said coolly. “I’ve just cleaned it up.”

The corporal glanced at the pail and in the dim light noticed only the domestic refuse.

“I’ve had some,” he answered. “I want a few minutes’ talk.” Then he motioned to his companion. “Hitch the horses, Stanton, and come in when you’re ready.”

They entered the house, followed presently by the trooper, and Wandle lighted his pipe. He felt more at ease with it in his hand and he suspected that he would need all his collectedness.

“Well,” he said, “what’s the trouble?”

“I suppose you know that Jernyngham’s missing?”

“I heard that he was killed.”

“Looks like it,” said Curtis. “You know the muskeg where the creek spreads out, about fourteen miles north?”

“I don’t; never been up so far.”

Curtis noticed the prompt disclaimer.

“Anyway, Jernyngham rode there and was knocked out with something heavy that must have left him stunned, if it didn’t make an end of him. He didn’t ride away after it, though his horse went on. The point is that it was led.”

“How do you know that?” Wandle asked.

“It’s my business to know these things. Think we can’t tell the difference between the tracks of a led horse and a ridden one? The only times two horses trot close 62 together at an even distance is when one’s rider has both bridles, or when they’re yoked to a wagon pole. However, I’ve come to ask if you can throw any light on the matter? You and Jernyngham were partners, in a way, weren’t you?”

“That’s so. Now and then we bought implements and horses, or hired a tractor plow, between us. As a matter of fact, Jernyngham owed me about five hundred dollars. Anyhow, I’m as puzzled about the thing as you must be.”

“Then you think we’re puzzled?” Curtis said in a significant tone.

Wandle laughed.

“It struck me as likely. You know there’s not a rancher in the district who would hurt the man. He was easy to get on with.”

“Did you know that he borrowed money on his holding and took it with him the night he disappeared?”

“I didn’t,” said Wandle, starting. “I’m not pleased to hear it now. I’ve a claim on the place and there are some pretty big storekeepers’ bills to come in.”

Curtis asked a few more questions before he took his leave. He passed near the ash pail as he went out and Stanton touched it with his foot, but they had mounted and reached the trail before either of them spoke.

“Well?” said Curtis.

Stanton smiled.

“Nothing much to be learned from him; the fellow’s about as sly and hard to get at as a coyote.”

“A sure thing,” Curtis agreed. “We’ll keep an eye on him; I’ve a suspicion he knows something.”

Then they trotted away in the moonlight, for it was a long ride to their camp beside the muskeg, which with the assistance of several men they were engaged in searching. 63

On the next afternoon, Prescott was at work in the summer fallow, sitting in the iron saddle of a gangplow, which four powerful horses hauled through the crackling stubble. It was fiercely hot and he was lightly clad in thin yellow shirt and overalls. A cloud of dust rose about him from the parched soil, and the broad expanse of wheat which the fallow divided glowed with varied colors as it rippled before the rush of breeze, the strong greens changing to a silvery luster as the lush blades bent and caught the light. Farther on, there were faint streaks of yellow among the oats; the great stretch of grass was white and delicate gray, the rows of clods behind the plow rich chocolate-brown.

Prescott, however, paid little attention to his surroundings. He was perhaps the only man in the district who had known Jernyngham intimately; he felt troubled about his disappearance, and he had had a disturbing interview with Wandle during the morning. The Austrian had contested his right to manage the farm, declaring that Jernyngham owed him money and had made certain plans for the joint working of their land which must be carried out. This did not so much matter, in a sense, if one could take Jernyngham’s death for granted; but Prescott could not do so and had, moreover, no intention of letting his property fall into the hands of a cunning, grasping fellow, who, he was fully persuaded, had no real right to it. If Jernyngham did not turn up, Prescott meant to discharge all his debts after harvest and, as the crop promised well, to send the balance to England as a proof that his friend had not been a failure in Canada. This might be some comfort to Jernyngham’s people.

He was considering the matter when he heard the 64 stubble crackle behind him and, looking around, saw Curtis riding up. Stopping his team, he waited until the corporal drew bridle.

“Have you found him yet?” he asked.

“We have not,” said Curtis. “It’s a big muskeg and quite deep. You know the place?”

“Oh, yes, I know it pretty well.”

Curtis looked at him sharply, but Prescott seemed to be musing.

“It’s a sad thing when you think of it,” he said after a few moments. “From the little he told me, the man had hard luck all through; and that Mrs. Jernyngham should leave him just after he’d sacrificed his future for her must have been a knock-out blow. Yet I’ve an idea that instead of crushing it braced him. It pulled him up; he showed signs of turning into a different man.”

“You knew him better than I did,” Curtis replied. “I heard at the hotel he’d asked you to look after his place, given you a share in the crop.”

“He did. I’d some words with Wandle about the matter this morning; Jernyngham warned me he might pretend he had a claim. However, that’s not to the purpose; somehow I feel convinced he’ll turn up again. What motive could any one have for killing him? The only man we might have suspected—the fellow who went off with Ellice—must have been on the train bound for St. Paul.”

“He was; we wired the conductor. But the thing’s quite simple—the motive was robbery. You remember that wad of bills?” The corporal paused before he added: “Where did you last see Jernyngham?”

“At the trail-forks near my place. He rode right on; I took the turning.” 65

“Did you see your man, Svendsen, or his wife when you got home?”

“I didn’t; they live at the back of the house. I put up the horses, slipped in quietly, and went to bed.”

“Then you can’t fix the time you got back?”

Prescott moved sharply, lifting his head, while an angry color suffused his face.

“Curtis, you can’t think—Jernyngham was my best friend!” Then he laughed indignantly. “You always struck me as a sensible man.”

The corporal regarded him with scrutinizing eyes, his manner stamped with official austerity.

“I’m forming no opinions—yet. It’s my duty to find out all I can about the matter and report. If there’s anything you’re open to tell me, I’ll make a note of it.”

Prescott’s face grew stern and his glance very steady.

“I can add nothing to what I’ve said, and I’m busy.”

Curtis rode away, but when he was out of the rancher’s sight he broke into a dry smile. He was an astute young man and knew his business, which was merely to investigate and follow the instruction of his chiefs at Regina. Unembroidered facts were what they required in the first instance, but later he might be permitted to theorize.

When the corporal had gone, Prescott went on with his plowing, but the crackle of the stubble and the thud of the heavy Clydesdales’ hoofs fell unheeded on his ears, and it was half-consciously that he turned his team at the head-land. He had a good deal to think about and his thoughts were far from pleasant. To begin with, the memory of Muriel Hurst had haunted him since she left; he recalled her with a regretful longing that seemed to grow steadily stronger instead of diminishing. He thought she had left an indelible mark on his life. Then 66 there was his impersonation of Jernyngham, which he had rashly agreed to, but did not now regret. If Colston had met Cyril on the night of the riot and had gone to his untidy dwelling, he would have been forced to send home an adverse report. Prescott was glad to think he had saved his friend from a farther fall in his English relatives’ esteem, though, knowing a little of the man’s story, he held them largely responsible for his reckless career. Their censoriousness and suspicion had, no doubt, driven him into wilder rashness.

Besides all this, the corporal’s manner rankled in his mind. He knew Curtis well and had a good opinion of his ability. It seemed preposterous that such a man could imagine that he had had any hand in Jernyngham’s death. Yet the corporal’s tone had been significant and the facts had an ugly look. He had seen Jernyngham secrete his money and had afterward ridden on with him, unaccompanied by anybody else. He could not prove when he returned to his farm, and it might be said that he stood to benefit by securing the management of Jernyngham’s property.

When he reached the end of the furrows his face was grim, but he steadily continued his plowing.