all the way back to the cave blue pete pondered over the situation. the attack was four days off. there was little time if the i.w.w. plans were to be defeated with certainty and completeness. reinforcements must be brought from other police posts--therein alone lay certain safety.
the halfbreed hesitated before the idea of more mounted police about until he had completed his work; and they might be summoned any time by wire from the gravel pit at mile 135, where a ticker had just been installed for the work of filling in the trestle. also he paused before the indignity of calling in reinforcements to defeat a lot of blundering fools and cowards. deep within him was the conviction that nothing more was required than his own unerring rifle. only the matter of those ninety-two rifles and the presence of tressa torrance forced him to consider the situation worthy of prolonged thought. he decided to take the night to think it over. to-morrow after dark would be ample time to carry out any plan that seemed wise.
the result of a wakeful night was the decision to carry the story to torrance and leave the rest in his hands. that plan, too, fitted in with certain undefined ambitions of his own. he did not want the police to know far enough ahead to nip the whole affair in the bud. blue pete loved a scrap; he had also certain definite debts to pay to koppy, and the thought of a lot of bohunks within range of a licensed rifle made him smile happily. an inborn decency craved to teach these brutes decency in the only way he knew.
all day long he fought a crowding impatience. he had early come to the decision to keep mira in the dark. she would take the threatened attack more seriously than it deserved, and perhaps forestall his plans--probably run to the police right away. besides, he did not want her to be involved in the battle that promised.
certain fantastic schemes popped in and out of his head during the day, and one of them he discussed with mira, without letting her know its immediate origin. if he shot the leaders of the bohunks himself--picked them off from hiding, as he easily could--trouble would cease. the work would run through to completion with greater certainty and speed, and he and mira would be starting back for freedom in a fortnight. but mira killed the plan in a few words; blue pete was ever apt to ignore the law in his dislike of certain forms of lawlessness.
at one stage he thought it would be sufficient to appear at torrance's shack just before the attack and add his rifle to the defence.
on the other hand, were the story taken to the police they would ignore everything in the pursuit of the leaders of the promised battle; and that might well mean the postponement of the completion of the trestle to the following summer. and blue pete could not face that. besides, those rifles must be captured.
the halfbreed accordingly determined to make his report to torrance, and if the contractor treated it too lightly, he could then inform the police.
with that in view he set out late in the evening for the trestle. he had delayed until the shadows were deep enough to protect him from prying eyes. mahon's evident suspicions demanded extra precautions in approaching the shack. for no reason of which he was conscious he chose to follow the edge of the river bank.
by the time he reached the height overhanging the camp the lighted canvas and open doorways were brilliant spots in the darkness. yet instantly he experienced a feeling of discomfort. and feelings like that were always his guiding motives. he could not explain the cause of his worry, for the sounds of camp life seemed little less than usual, but he paused a long time above the dotted scene, eyes and ears alert. feverishly he sought koppy's shack. when he found it empty, the light burning and the door open, he dropped back into the shrubbery and began to climb swiftly downward toward the camp. he knew now that more lights than usual burnt there, that the few discordant instruments strumming and blowing were overexerting themselves. certainly the bohunks were not in bed.
crawling rapidly about, avoiding patches of light, a thrill like fear flooded him. with a stifled exclamation he leaped up and retraced his steps to the higher level, climbing with the assurance and agility of a mountain goat.
no longer did he think of silence. the lifelong instinct fell from him like a cloak. speed--speed--that was everything. when the trees closed him in he realised that he was not alone. other moving forms everywhere enabled him to run openly.
a group came toward him, and blue pete threw himself flat. and as they passed he caught their outline against the lighter western sky, where still remnants of day lingered.
every one carried a rifle!
he waited for nothing more. as he had never run before he sped through the bush, bearing due south-east toward the deserted end-of-steel village, avoiding trees and fallen logs with uncanny ease. some heard him and paused in their course, but they were keyed up to serious work, and there were so many of their friends abroad. probably a messenger of their leader's on pressing duty.
half a mile to the east blue pete pulled up. two piercing whistles he sent in rapid succession into the night, and in a moment repeated them. then he resumed his running, shifting direction toward the grade, where the course would be clearer. at intervals he whistled the shrill double blast.
many a bohunk heard the whistle and shivered without knowing why. conrad, returning from the trestle down the long slope to his shack, stopped and wondered, though it was dim and far away by then. koppy and his immediate friends lifted guilty heads and questioned each other. werner, nerves jangling, thoughtlessly pleaded the superior advantages of next tuesday; and then bethought himself and advised more precipitous action. nothing within a day's hard ride could stop koppy now--one hundred rifles against four or five.
blue pete was running steadily now. rifle hanging loose, he swung in and out among the trees as if every obstacle were limned in daylight. early in the race he had discarded his blanket. his feet shrank from the rough way in their unaccustomed moccasins. only once did he falter: a vagrant thought pulled him up, to feel anxiously at his cartridge belt. smoothly, without panting, stooping in the loose lope of the indian, he swung along.
he was whistling less frequently, conserving his breath for a possible three-mile race; but his head kept turning to listen.
presently a great sigh of relief, like a sob, fluttered between his lips. almost at the edge of the clearing along the grade he slowed down.
and then, running so quietly, the ugly little pinto, whiskers--the marks of the pinto long since gone before the half breed's doctoring hand--was cantering at his side. without a break in his stride blue pete leaped to the bare back, one hand dropping to pat the arched neck.
"bully ole gal, whiskers! i knowed yuh'd hear. yer ears is allus skinned fer the whistle, ain't they--an' eyes like a cat's, same as yer boss, eh? yuh got to git some now, ole gal. yuh ain't had a real run fer so long mebbe yuh're gittin' a bit seedy, like me. well, yuh got a coupla miles right on yer tip-toes. git goin', ole gal."
close along the grade the little pinto lay low to its stride, and the halfbreed's feet seemed to be brushing the ground as he leaned forward to whisper encouragement in the flicking ears.
