CHAPTER XXXVII
NEAR THE END OF A LONG CROOKED TRAIL
When West awoke, Morse was whittling on a piece of wood with his sharphunting-knife. It was a flat section from a spruce, and it had beentrimmed with an axe till it resembled a shake in shape.
The outlaw's curiosity overcame his sullenness at last. It made himjumpy, anyhow, to sit there in silence except for the muttering of thesick man.
"Whajamakin'?" he demanded.
Morse said nothing. He smoothed the board to his satisfaction, thenbegan lettering on it with a pencil.
"I said whajadoin'," growled West, after another silence.
The special constable looked at him, and in the young man's eyes therewas something that made the murderer shiver.
"I'm making a tombstone."
"What?" West felt a drench of ice at his heart.
"A marker for a grave."
"For--for him? Maybe he won't die. Looks better to me. Fever ain't sohigh."
"It's not for him."
West moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "You will have yore li'ljoke, eh? Who's it for?"
"For you."
"For me?" The man's fear burst from him in a shriek. "Whajamean forme?"
From the lettering Morse read aloud. "'Bully West, Executed, SomeTime late in March, 1875.'" And beneath it, "'May God Have Mercy onHis Soul.'"
Tiny beads of sweat gathered on the convict's clammy forehead. "Youaimin' to--to murder me?" he asked hoarsely.
"To execute you."
"With--without a trial? My God, you can't do that! I got a right to atrial."
"You've been tried--and condemned. I settled all that in the night."
"But--it ain't legal. Goddlemighty, you got no _right_ to actthataway. All you can do is to take me back to the courts." The heavyvoice broke again to a scream.
Morse slipped the hunting-knife back into its case. He looked steadilyat the prisoner. In his eyes there was no anger, no hatred. But backof the sadness in them was an implacable resolution.
"Courts and the law are a thousand miles away," he said. "You knowyour crimes. You murdered Tim Kelly treacherously. You planned tospoil an innocent girl's life by driving her to worse than death.You shot your partner in the back after he did his best to help youescape. You tortured Onistah and would have killed him if we hadn'tcome in time. You assaulted my friend here and he'll probably die fromhis wounds. It's the end of the long trail for you, Bully West. Insideof half an hour you will be dead. If you've anything to say--if youcan make your peace with heaven--don't waste a moment."
The face of West went gray. He stared at the other man, thehorror-filled eyes held fascinated. "You--you're tryin' to scare me,"he faltered. "You wouldn't do that. You couldn't. It ain't allowed bythe Commissioner." One of the bound arms twitched involuntarily. Theconvict knew that he was lost. He had a horrible conviction that thisman meant to do as he had said.
The face of Morse was inexorable as fate itself, but inside he was ariver of rushing sympathy. This man was bad. He himself had forced thecircumstances that made it impossible to let him live. None the lessTom felt like a murderer. The thing he had to do was so horriblycold-blooded. If this had been a matter between the two of them, hecould at least have given the fellow a chance for his life. But notnow--not with Win Beresford in the condition he was. If he were goingto save his friend, he could not take the chances of a duel.
"Ten minutes now," Morse said. His voice was hoarse and low. He felthis nerves twitching, a tense aching in the throat.
"I always liked you fine, Tom," the convict pleaded desperately. "Me'n' you was always good pals. You wouldn't do me dirt thataway now. Ifyou knew the right o' things--how that Kelly kep' a-devilin' me, howWhaley was layin' to gun me when he got a chanct, how I stood up forthe McRae girl an' protected her against him. Goddlemighty, man, youain't aimin' to kill me like a wolf!" The shriek of uncontrollableterror lifted into his voice once more. "I ain't ready to die. Gimme achance, Tom. I'll change my ways. I swear I will. I'll do like you sayevery minute. I'll nurse Beresford. Me, I'm a fine nurse. If you'llgimme a week--jus' one more week. That ain't much to ask. So's I cangit ready."
The man slipped to his knees and began to crawl toward Morse. Theyoung man got up, his teeth set. He could not stand much of this sortof thing without collapsing himself.
"Get up," he said. "We're going over the hill there."
"No--no--no!"
It took Morse five minutes to get the condemned man to his feet. Thefellow's face was ashen. His knees shook.
Tom was in almost as bad a condition himself.
Beresford's high voice cut in. In his delirium he was perhaps livingover again his experience with Pierre Poulette.
"Maintiens le droit. Get your man and bring him in. Tough sledding.Never mind. Go through, old fellow. Bring him in. That's what you'resent for. Hogtie him. Drag him with a rope around his neck. Get himback somehow."
The words struck Tom motionless. It was as though some voice werespeaking to him through the sick man's lips. He waited.
"Righto, sir," the soldier droned on. "See what I can do, sir. Havea try at it, anyhow." And again he murmured the motto of the MountedPolice.
Tom had excused himself for what he thought it was his duty to do onthe ground that it was not humanly possible to save his friend andbring West back. It came to him in a flash that the Mounted Policewere becoming so potent a power for law and order because they neverasked whether the job assigned them was possible. They went ahead anddid it or died trying to do it. It did not matter primarily whetherBeresford and he got back alive or not. If West murdered them, otherred-coats would take the trail and get him.
What he, Tom Morse, had to do was to carry on. He could not choose theeasy way, even though it was a desperately hard one for him. He couldnot make himself a judge over this murderer, with power of life anddeath. The thing that had been given him to do was to bring West toFaraway. He had no choice in the matter. Win or lose, he had to playthe hand out as it was dealt him.
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