"Don't be so inquisitive. What does it matter to you whether the gentleman's pistol is loaded or not?"

"All right, dad," objected Lucy rather rudely. "Keep your hair on. It would matter a heap if we was to be attacked by Indians or--or road agents; and I should be a lot more comfortable if I knew it was loaded.

I'm not just sure that it is."

The young man behind her appeared suddenly to be anxious on the same point, for he thrust his hand under the front of his coat and withdrew it quickly, staring in blank amazement at the weapon that it held.

"You minx!" he cried to the girl accusingly. "This is some conjuring trick of yours! This isn't my pistol at all. Mine was loaded--this is empty!"

Very smartly, very calmly, the girl's clerical companion laid a firm hand upon the weapon and took possession of it.

"Say nothing, Mr. Gaskell," he whispered. "I'll give it you back before we start. Here's the driver with your cup of tea. Don't drink it, d'you hear? It's liable to be drugged."

Alf Bulger climbed up by the wheel and handed Mr. Gaskell the steaming cup of tea. Gaskell paid him for it, thanked him, and raised the cup to his lips, alternately blowing into it and smelling at it, but not drinking.

"I believe you're right, sir," he said in an undertone when the driver had gone away, "but it beats me to know how you guessed it would be drugged. Do you mind emptying it over the far side?"

"Shove it under the seat to cool," Lucy suggested. "Dad's sure to throw it on somebody's head if he empties it. He's some absent-minded, see?"

During the further time of waiting, Gaskell was occupied in closely watching his two travelling companions. He had already decided that there was something very queer about them, and he was more than a little suspicious.

The girl's voice, for one thing, had made him suspicious. It was more like the voice of a boy than of a girl, and her back hair, although hidden by the thick folds of her veil, seemed to be extraordinarily short. As for the man beside her, whom she called her "dad," it was difficult to make him out in any way, or to be sure of him.

In spite of his clerical attire, his long, grey beard, and his general appearance of a respectable clergyman, it was yet possible to believe that he was an impostor--a wolf in sheep's clothing, a disguised bandit, who had boarded this coach with the secret purpose of taking forcible possession of the treasure chest.

Looking at him very attentively, Gaskell became aware that the man's eyes behind their blue spectacles were extraordinarily alert, that his face was much younger than he had at first thought, and that his grey beard contrasted rather strangely with the darkness of his hair.

Unquestionably he was disguised.

Gaskell became more and more nervous and desperately anxious for the safety of the treasure that he was guarding.

What if this strong-handed stranger and his girl companion should turn upon him and upon the driver in some lonely part of the trail, and, overpowering them both, make off with the strong box?

The driver, it was true, was armed, but then this man and the girl might also be prepared with weapons. And they might even have accomplices waiting for them at an appointed spot.

What puzzled Gaskell was that the stranger knew his name, and had warned him against drinking the tea, as if he were in some way anxious to protect him. But the fact remained that he had taken possession of his revolver.

Gaskell leant forward and touched his neighbour's arm. It was exceedingly muscular.

"Kindly give me back my pistol," he requested.

To his surprise, the weapon was politely handed back to him, with the remark--

"Why, cert'nly. You see, I have loaded it for you. You may need it later on. Keep it handy. Don't speak, either to me or the driver; and if anything happens, do what I tell you. I will see you through."

Gaskell leant back in his seat, wondering more than ever, but comfortably confident that whatever his travelling companions might be, they certainly had no designs against him. He resolved to trust them, while watching them carefully.

After the coach had started, they paid no further attention to him.

Neither did they speak to each other or to the driver.

Nothing suspicious occurred until they were galloping at a steady pace along the old buffalo trail between Hilton's Jump and Rattlesnake Ranch, when the girl with her veil partly lifted, and her eyes fixed upon the distant homestead, took out a large white handkerchief and waved it three times over her head. Was this a signal to some confederate? It seemed to be, yet nothing came of it. Gaskell's eyes were not keen enough to see a girl standing on the far-off verandah steps.

At sunset the team was changed at Mosquito Crossing. At full dusk the coach was rattling across the prairie trail, and an hour afterwards it was again among the hills, making for White Wolf Gulch.

As they entered the mouth of the gloomy defile the pace was slackened.

The driver cracked his whip with two cracks which sounded like pistol shots, and were echoed repeatedly from the cliffs; but he still held in his team.

Gaskell then became aware that something was going to happen. The supposed clergyman threw off his black coat and false beard and stood up, revealing himself in the familiar military uniform of the North-West Mounted Police. He bent forward and pressed the cold ring of a revolver muzzle against the driver's neck.

"Go ahead, Bulger!" he commanded. "Keep hold of those reins. Drop them and you'll be dropped yourself. I've got you, sure."

Bulger turned and caught a dim glimpse of the soldier policeman's face, glowering at him above the scarlet tunic.

"Silk! Sergeant Silk!" he cried, aghast at the sight.

Sergeant Silk took no notice of his consternation.

"Keep him at it Dannie," he ordered.

And Dan Medlicott, who lived on Rattlesnake Ranch, and had long been a friend of Sergeant Silk, having thrown off his disguising veil and hat and cloak, covered the driver with his revolver.

"And now, Mr. Gaskell," the Sergeant added, "stand by to defend that box. If any one touches it, shoot."

The four horses increased their pace to a quick trot, and the coach lumbered on.

Halfway through the gulch three masked hors.e.m.e.n rode out from their ambush and waited for the approaching vehicle to slow down and stop.

Instead of stopping, as they expected, Bulger, urged by Dan Medlicott, whipped up his team to a full racing gallop. Three shots flashed from the darkness. The bullets rattled against the coach and there was a smashing of gla.s.s as three further shots rang out.

Sergeant Silk replied to them very deliberately, showing himself to the men as he fired down upon them. He knew each one of the three, even in the dim light.

He saw Bill Allison's hat fall upon the trail, saw Hen Faxon's pistol drop from a shattered hand, while the third man, Red Derrick himself, plunged headlong from his saddle and rolled over, narrowly escaping the wheels as the coach dashed by.

"It's Sergeant Silk!" cried Bill Allison, in his surprise firing three harmless shots in quick succession.

Then Sergeant Silk sat down, calmly putting away his weapons, and adjusting his Stetson hat to complete his uniform.

"Your strong box is quite safe now, Mr. Gaskell," he said in his slow, level voice as he drew out his pipe. "Those three chaps will be arrested inside another hour. As for Bulger, here, their accomplice, he is already my prisoner."

"But you must have discovered their plot!" cried Gaskell. "You must have known all along that the rascals would be lying in wait for the coach!"

"Why, cert'nly," smiled Silk. "That is why I--why Lucy and I are here, your fellow-pa.s.sengers."

CHAPTER XI

MAPLE LEAF'S SCAR