# Connie Morgan with the Mounted/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII
AN AMENDED REPORT
It was almost dark when Connie Morgan swung his outfit in toward the little cabin on Coal Creek. As the dogs stopped at the sharp word of command the door flew open and a man appeared on the threshold. The man was Brek Wiley and Connie knew that his keen eyes had taken in at a glance every detail of the outfit.
"Onharness an' come in," he invited surlily, "grub'll be ready when my pardner gits back."
As Connie entered the room the man slipped a pan of baking-powder bread into the oven.
Prospecting?" asked the boy as he seated himself on a case of canned goods, behind which he saw the butt of a service revolver protruding from its holster.
"Uh-huh, that is, we was. We're a-waitin* fer water now to clean up the dump with."
​"You haven't done any digging lately, I see. Your dump is pretty well snowed under."
The man shot him a sidewise glance: "Not fer quite a spell," he answered. "The gravel kind o' run out an' we figgered on seein' how she shows 'fore we go no deeper. Spring's so late, though, it looks like it never would git here."
"That meat smells good"; Connie eyed the thick moose steak that sizzled in the frying-pan. "I've been kind of low on fresh meat."
"Where ye headin', an' what might yer name be?" queried the man as he turned the steak in the pan.
"Connie Morgan, and I'm——"
The fork clattered noisily upon the floor as the man regarded him with out-popping eyes: "Connie Morgan—Sam Morgan's boy, that's with the Mounted? That got the best of Bill Cosgrieve an' his Cameron Crickers, an' fetched in Notorious Bishop, an'——"
Connie laughed: "That's me. And this time I'm after poachers. How's the hunting?"
Brek Wiley was a man schooled to emergency. Stooping, he recovered the fork from the floor and wiped it carefully upon the sleeve of his shirt.
​"I don't know how ye fellers does it," he said, looking squarely into the eyes of the boy, "but ye sure come to the right place when ye come to Coal Crick. They's be'n a sight o' moose kilt in this here valley 'thin the last month or so. I hain't a informer, mind ye, an' I don't b'lieve in makin' no trouble fer no man. But, a word to the wise is foolish, as the feller says, an' if I was a-huntin' poachers, when I hit the forks, 'bout six or eight mile above here, I'd foller the north prong—that's all. It's a doggone shame a-killin' off all the moose an' caribou, that-a-way, an' what they don't kill they run out of the country. It's got so me an' my pardner's got to take a hull week fer to kill us a moose fer meat, an' when we come here we c'd step out the door an' git one most any time." The man slid the frying-pan to the back of the stove. "An' that reminds me—it's grub time an' he hain't showed up yet. Guess I'll jest step out an' see what's a-keepin' him."
"You needn't mind, Brek. Shorty can find his way back." There was a hard note in the boy's voice and at the words the man whirled midway of the floor—whirled to stare into the muzzle of the service revolver which the ​boy had slipped from its holster behind the canned goods' case.
"What ye mean?" he snarled. "An' what's the meanin' o' the gun play?"
"It means that your game is up, Brek Wiley. It means that you are under arrest for violating the game law of the Yukon Territory, and that you are caught with the goods." As the boy spoke the door opened and Shorty Peters stood staring open-mouthed at the grim tableau.
"Come on in, Shorty, and shut the door. It's cold. I've just been telling Mr. Brek Wiley that he is under arrest for poaching."
Mechanically Peters entered and closed the door still staring uncomprehendingly from one to the other.
"As I was saying," continued the boy, once more addressing Wiley: "It means that Constable Peters has taken his time and worked up an iron-clad case against you. He's got all the evidence he needs, and then some. It's about as pretty a piece of work as has been put over in B Division in a long while."
Beside the door Shorty Peters listened incredulously to the boy's words. Suddenly he ​stepped forward and cleared his throat gruffly: "But——"
"That's all right, Shorty," interrupted Connie, speaking rapidly, "I tell you the Superintendent will be tickled with this job. They'll make you a Corporal for this."
At the words Brek Wiley turned upon the astounded Shorty and from his lips poured a perfect tirade of vituperation and invective. And as the man's words flowed his rage increased until in a very paroxysm of fury he turned on Connie, who noted with satisfaction that the man's abuse had angered Peters.
"But it's a lie!" he roared. "I tell ye it's a lie! Shorty's a deserter! An' him an' me throw'd in together to sell meat. I kin prove it by Swede Johnson, an' Tom Ashley, an' them contractors. I hain't no fool! He's in as deep as me. He done his share of the killin', an' the deliverin', too, an' he got his share of the money."
Connie laughed: "Of course he did, and that's the best evidence he's got. And if he hadn't done his share of the killing he'd never have got any evidence on you. And you fell for the 'deserter' game like any chechaka! Dan McKeever could ​never have worked that—you know him too well. But Shorty did, and you grabbed the bait like a hungry salmon." The boy shot a glance toward Peters who was studying the floor intently, and continued with scarcely a pause. "If you had been really smart, Wiley, you would have known that no man in his right senses would desert the Service and throw in with you. Why, he'd know in a minute that it would be only a question of time before we'd get him. But aside from all that there is something you don't know anything about—something that you couldn't understand if I should tell you: It's the Honour of the Mounted—but in the Service we know what it means. We'd give our lives for it." He paused and turned to Peters, "Wouldn't we, Shorty?" he asked suddenly.
The man jerked himself erect: "You bet we would, kid!" he exclaimed, huskily. And Brek Wiley glancing into his face knew that he meant what he said.
The journey down Coal Creek was made without incident except that the usually loquacious and light-hearted Shorty maintained a tight-lipped silence upon which Connie did not seek to ​intrude. At No Luck the man disappeared to return an hour later wearing his service uniform, and thereafter the boy noticed that Shorty's eyes gleamed balefully whenever they rested for a moment upon the back of Brek Wiley who was made to break trail ahead of the dogs.
The boy knew that his brother officer was thinking as he had never thought before, and that the decision he arrived at by the time they reached the big river would be the shaping decision of his life. And neither by word nor look did Connie intimate that he entertained so much as the slightest doubt of the other's sincerity.
Twenty miles above its mouth, they swung from Coal Creek and cutting through the hills came out upon the Yukon at some distance above Fortymile. And when the boy saw Shorty turn resolutely toward Dawson, he knew that from that moment the Mounted could boast no stauncher officer than Constable Peters. When they had camped for dinner on the river trail Connie turned to the Constable: "Well, Shorty, I'll be leaving you here," he said; "I'm going the other way."
Peters regarded him with amazement.
​"Goin' the other way!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean? Wasn't you detailed to patrol Coal Creek after poachers?"
Connie laughed: "No, I wasn't detailed for anything. I'm 'on my own,' now. My time was up last week, and I'm heading for Eagle. I just cut across to the head of Coal Creek on a hunch. I didn't have any authority to arrest anybody. You'll have to take the prisoner in—anyway, he's your prisoner. You've worked up the evidence."
"On your own!" muttered the Constable as if unable to grasp the idea. "You mean that—that you ain't goin' to re-enlist? That you're quittin' us fer good?"
Connie nodded: "Yes," he answered, "I've got to get back to Alaska. You see I've got a mine there and I expect my pardner will be coming inside again this year. You won't have any trouble taking Wiley in." The boy thrust out his hand. "So long, Shorty. Your time's up this spring, too—but I suppose you'll re-enlist!"
Shorty, who had been studying minutely the toes of his mukluks raised his eyes to the boy's. "You bet, I'm goin' to re-enlist," he answered gruffly. "That is, if—" he stopped abruptly and gripped ​the outstretched hand of the boy. "I'll take him in, all right," he said. "They might be some chanst that strawberries'll be ripe along this here river tomorrow, but they ain't no chanst I won't take Brek Wiley into Headquarters—an' don't you ferget it! So long, kid. We'll sure miss you back here. You've done some big things over here in the Yukon—things that'll be remembered an' talked about. But they's other things—things that mebbe won't be talked about, that you've done. An' mebbe them things is bigger than the ones that is. An' say, kid," he added, as Connie swung his dogs toward Eagle, "whenever you get one of them hunches—you play it—see!"
Finding the police station at Fortymile vacant, Connie took the receiver from the hook, called Headquarters, and for an hour held earnest conversation with the Superintendent.
Late the following evening Constable Peters turned Brek Wiley over to the officer in charge of the guard room and proceeded to make out his report. At its conclusion he noticed that a light still burned in the office of the Superintendent. He opened the door and crossing to the desk saluted and turned in his report. The ​grey-haired Superintendent picked up the paper and read:
"The Officer Commanding
B Division, R. N. W. M. Police,
Dawson, Y. T."
Sir:
I have the honour to submit the following report. On March 1st, I deserted the service and threw in with one Brek Wiley for the purpose of killing moose and caribou out of season and selling same to Swede Johnson, Tom Ashley, and Contractors Kirby and Jones. We went to the head of Coal Creek and set up a camp. We killed nine moose and seven caribou, part of which we delivered to above parties, and the rest is cached on Coal Creek.
Three days ago ex-special Constable C. Morgan arrested Brek Wiley in the cabin on Coal Creek and supposing I was in the service and was working on the case, turned him over to me.
I brought the prisoner in and can produce evidence that will convict him of violation of the game law. I am equally guilty, and I hereby surrender myself on charges of desertion from the service of the R. N. W. M. PoHce, and violation of the game law.
I have the honour to be, sir.
Your obedient servant, J. H. Peters, Constable.
Twice the Superintendent read the words from ​beginning to end, then scowling darkly he placed the paper upon the desk and drew a blue pencil through line after line. At length he looked squarely into the eyes of the man who stood before him at attention.
"Your reports are too long, Peters," growled the superintendent.
"Your reports are too long, Peters," he growled, and extended the paper toward the Constable who read:
"The Officer Commanding
B Division R. N. W. M. Police,
Dawson, Y.T."
Sir:
I have the honour to submit the following report. … Three days ago ex-special Constable C. Morgan arrested Brek Wiley in the cabin on Coal Creek and … turned him over to me.
I brought the prisoner in and can produce evidence that will convict him of violation of the game law. …
I have the honour to be, sir.
Your obedient servant,
J. H. Peters, Constable.
"But, sir," stammered the astonished Constable, "it's true—the desertion. I don't know how I come to do it—an' I was mighty ashamed of myself an' disgusted after I done it. But——"
The Superintendent interrupted him with a gesture—"Yes, yes! I know all about it. Morgan reported unofficially by phone from Fortymile. And I may as well tell you, Peters, that it is at his urgent request that I have allowed you to amend your report—that, and the fact that you were man enough to own up without a hint of excuse for your conduct——"
"But, sir—the kid—he didn't know! He ​thought I was straight all the time! It was that more than anything else that made me want to come clean."
The Superintendent smiled grimly: "Don't you think for a minute he didn't know all about you. You see he lay behind a rock and listened to a little conversation you had with Brek Wiley while you were quartering those last three moose."
"Now, what do you think of that!" gasped the astounded Peters, as the full significance of the boy's course dawned upon him.
"He—he's a great kid," he added thoughtfully as he turned toward the door.
"Yes," answered the officer commanding B Division, "he's a great kid, and we're going to miss him around here—a great kid. And, by the way, Peters, your enlistment papers are ready—if you want them."
THE END.