Sergeant Dick of the Royal Mounted Police A thrilling story of the Canadian woods

Two of the White Hoods staggered and nearly fell, and Sergeant Dick heard, he believed, _two distinct clangs_ as if the bullets had struck against iron or steel! Flinging themselves from the saddles immediately on firing, the two troopers sheltered behind their horses and let drive again up at the gang. And the fellow in the tree over Dick’s head came clambering down so hurriedly that his long white smock caught on one of the branches and was lifted up, exposing a coat of dull, gleaming iron. He was unable to free the entangled garment for a moment or two, and the amazed young police-sergeant saw plainly that he was wearing under it a rudely made breastplate and backpiece of armor, fastened together with straps at the side--a perfect iron corselet such as knights or rather men-at-arms wore in medieval days! Furthermore, hanging from the lower edges of this coat of iron were rounded pieces to cover the thighs, both back and front, almost to the knees. Surprised beyond measure at the revelation that the gang wore armor, Sergeant Dick remembered, however, at the same time that the notorious Ned Kelly gang of bushrangers in Australia in 1880 wore similar protection, and so were able for a long period to laugh at the bullets of the Mounted Police. Without a doubt these White Hood rustlers had got the idea of armoring themselves from the well-known story of the Kelly gang. Two more of the ruffians had staggered under the well-directed shots of the two troopers in the ravine. But now the gang had got over its surprise. It fired back in a volley, and one of the policemen’s horses reared, plunged wildly, and, breaking away, tore off down the road. Its master dodged quickly behind his companion’s horse. Some dozen or more troopers, now, however, came galloping noiselessly, like so many specters, round the bend in the ravine. They ranged themselves alongside the first two and poured in a deadly fire at the bandits. It was plain that the hoofs of all the police-horses were muffled. “Furies! Fly, lads! Run! We can’t fight so many,” shouted one of the White Hoods. The fellow hanging by his white smock from the tree wrenched himself free with a desperate effort and a savage oath, leaving a strip of the garment clinging to the branch. He made as if to spring upon Sergeant Dick, but two of the others dragged him off. “Dead min tell no tales,” howled another bandit, however, rushing at the prisoner with upraised knife in one hand and smoking rifle in the other. The knife would have been sheathed in the young police-sergeant’s breast; but, swift as thought, he raised his right foot and dashed it with all his force into the chest of his would-be murderer, even as the idea struck him that _the voice sounded strangely like a woman’s_. Woman or man, the White Hood was sent reeling heavily backwards, Sergeant Dick’s boot eliciting a ringing clang from the concealed coat of iron under the white smock. The knife went flying over the edge of the cliff into the ravine. Its owner went down flat on the back, but was promptly dragged upright by another of the gang who snarled: “Cuss it! ain’t ye got no sinse, Martha? Afore their very eyes! We must git, _woman_!” And then all ten fled, crouching, into the bushes, and were quickly swallowed up by these and the darkness. CHAPTER XXV--ON THE TRACK “Up the rocks, men, quick!” cried the inspector in command of the little _posse_ of police. Promptly the troopers swarmed forward from behind their horses, rushed to the side of the ravine, and began clambering up it. The majority of them chose a place where the cliff sloped gently back and was broken up into shelves and ledges like a natural stairway. A couple remained entrenched behind the horses, with their rifles leveled across their own animals’ backs, covering their comrades. The inspector led the rush up the rocks. No shots were fired at them, and it was plain that the White Hoods had fled the scene. The inspector topped the cliff first, a revolver in either hand. With eyes fiercely peering into the bushes and the darkness before him, he sidled up hurriedly to Sergeant Dick. “Thank heaven, we came this way, sergeant. We were just in the nick o’ time.” In another half-minute John Dick was free in body and limb again, and the inspector was shaking him by the hand, while the troopers could be heard beating the bushes all about and searching these with bulls’-eyes and electric torches to find the trail of the rustlers. A pleased shout denoted a discovery, and the inspector and Sergeant Dick at once made for the spot. “Inspector,” said Dick, quietly, as they went, “we needn’t trouble about following their trail. I know who two of the band are, or, at any rate, I believe I know who they are. And, what is more, I have discovered the band’s secret duffing-den, and can lead you to it.” “You know two of them, and where their duffing-yard is? Excellent! Who are the pair?” “Bill Seymour, the shepherd hereabouts on Lonewater Ranch, _and his wife_. At least, as I said, I have reason to believe that they are two of the gang.” “_And his wife!_” “Yes. And she’s not the only woman in the gang. There are several. They disguise themselves as men, of course, and are the wives and--and daughters, I believe, of the others.” “You suspect others than the Seymours, then?” “I do; but I will not name any others yet for fear I am making a dreadful mistake. If you will allow me _carte blanche_ in the matter, however, inspector, and not ask me to name these other suspects right away, I will take means to verify my suspicions within the next twenty-four hours.” “Do as you please, sergeant. I will not interfere with you,” replied the inspector, whose name was Medhurst. “Now what we must do is at once divide our forces, I suppose, and let one party make for the Seymours’ hut, to lay them by the heels, and the other accompany you to this duffing-yard you say you’ve discovered.” “I think we can kill the two birds with the one stone, inspector,” replied Sergeant Dick, who had been studying the positions of the stars while he was talking. “We are on the northwest side of the cliffs of the Wonderful Echo, are we not? And not far from the Seymours’ shanty?” “That is so. The Indians and trappers round here call these curious terraced heights just along to our right the Cliffs of the Wonderful Echo. Their name on the map, and of the whole range, is the Waikuta Hills.” “Well, I believe the entrance to the secret duffing-yard of the gang is close beside the Seymour shanty. Let us make a move thither at once. If we lose no time we may find the entire gang at the shanty, for they can have no idea, I think, that I suspect even the two Seymours.” “You wouldn’t advise dividing our force--sending a few of the men along the trail the fellows have left?” “No, for two reasons, inspector. First, because I must tell you the band wear armor under their white smocks and hoods.” “What!” “It is true. They wear coats of mail, capable of stopping a bullet, just like the Kelly Gang of bushrangers did in Australia. You’ve read of Ned Kelly, the iron bushranger?” “Yes, yes.” “Well, this gang all wear a similar kind of armor. Evidently they got their idea from the Kelly Gang. And with them thus protected, we’ll need all the men we’ve got, inspector, if not more, to capture or wipe them out.” “By Jove, yes, in that case.” “My other reason against your sending any of the troopers to follow the trail is that the fellows are bound to blind it effectually, as they have done before.” “Just so, or it might mean sending the men to their death; the White Hoods might form an ambush, and, iron-clad as they are--” He broke off, and added, “I will send a man on to Paquita for reënforcements, and we’ll make for the Seymours’ place.” Without further delay, one of the two troopers with the horses in the ravine was sent galloping on down the road, south towards the Indian Reservation. Inspector Medhurst, Sergeant Dick, and the troopers around them returned to the man’s companion; and, all mounted, Dick being taken up behind the inspector, who rode a big, powerful bay, strong enough to carry them both a good few miles without turning a hair. Northward, then, they struck, back along the road leading towards Lonewater, the way they had come. Only a short distance did the road skirt the line of hills, then these turned sharply eastward, while the road continued on northward. The hoofs of the horses, being muffled, had made no sound on the road. And the party now quitted this and followed the cliff-line, striking across an undulating meadow-like country, or prairie, broken up here and there by wooded hills or “buttes.” As they rode at the gallop, it was not easy to carry on a conversation. Nevertheless, Sergeant Dick and Inspector Medhurst were able to exchange occasional remarks on account of the way they were riding; and the former explained that he had heard the ringleader of the White Hoods call one of the others “Bud.” “Bud!” exclaimed the inspector. “That’s Bill Seymour right enough. He goes by the nickname of ‘Bud’ among his friends. He’s better known as ‘Bud’ Seymour than Bill, as a matter of fact.” “That so? I didn’t know that, but when the Arnolds were directing me as to my best way of getting to Lonewater, they mentioned Bill Seymour--I was to make a half-way call at his place--and one of the sons chanced to refer to him once as ‘Bud’ Seymour. His wife, too, I understand, is named Martha, and one of the White Hoods, who was certainly a woman, the fellow ‘Bud’ called ‘Martha,’ as he helped her to her feet just before they vamoosed.” “That’s good enough,” gleefully crowed Inspector Medhurst. “Seymour and his wife are members of the gang, sure enough.” Medhurst went on to explain that the foreman of the Lonewater Ranch had been visiting the Seymours earlier in the evening, and, on his way eastward to pay his respects to the Arnolds, had seen three of the White Hoods riding towards him. “They did not see him,” said the inspector. “He had just pulled up among some trees to light his pipe, and he hid himself and his horse, and waited until they had passed by. Then he postponed his call at ‘Water Castle,’ and made back to Lonewater at top-speed to rouse us out after the fellows. From the direction the three were taking, he concluded they were making round the hills for the Paquita Road, and so we came this way. I thought they might be after the Paquita and Lonewater stage, and so ordered the horses to be muffled, and lucky for you, sergeant, that I did, eh?” “Yes, indeed, sir. The foreman of Lonewater saw only _three_ of the gang. H’m!” Neither of the pair said anything further until, presently, the inspector whispered that they were close to the Seymours’ shanty, and silently signaled to the troopers behind to halt and dismount. “We’ll creep up to the place on foot and try to carry it at a rush, in case they are all inside,” he added. As before, two troopers were left with the horses, and the pair were instructed to prevent the animals from neighing. Ten in number, the rest of the police were spread out in a long line, with the inspector at one end of it and Sergeant Dick at the other, and they crept forward through the darkness and the billowy grass. The pace was purposely slow, and each man put his heel on the ground before the toe at every step, thus making no noise. The high, beetling cliffs on the right hand overshadowed them all, but, before they had advanced fifty yards, Sergeant Dick saw the blacker outline of the log-hut cutting the skyline. All was in darkness as if the inmates were asleep or absent.