Chapter XXXVII: News From Outside

What happened after Dexter had delivered his prisoners into the keeping of his opportunely arrived comrades, Dexter never afterwards remembered. He may have suffered a sudden physical collapse, or perhaps he simply fell asleep while standing at attention before his officer. But when his eyes opened in reviving consciousness, he found himself stretched comfortably in a warm bunk with a blanket tucked about his chin. He might have been lying there for hours or for days. There was no way of guessing.

Stirring drowsily, he lifted himself on his elbow to gaze about him. He recognized the interior of the cabin where--ages ago, it seemed to him now--he and the outlaw Crill had sat up through the night playing cards together. The lantern was not burning, but the rays of a dying sun entered the open windows, breaking the gloom with ruddy streaks of light.

As his heavy-lidded eyes gradually began to function again, he made out the shapes of men, either seated or sprawled about grotesquely in the shadows. In the far corner, sitting with legs crossed and shoulders propped against the wall, he identified the giant figure of 'Phonse Doucet. The wizened, hangdog face of Norbert Croix was recognizable in the slanting glow of light beneath the west window. The red-bearded man was lying on the floor close by, with his bushy head on his arm. Next in line was Crill, his stout body slumped dejectedly against the logs of the wall, his head bowed to his chest, a picture of cowering abjectness. As Dexter surveyed the silent group before him, one of the men shifted his position, and he heard the clink of a chain. He perceived then that the four prisoners were shackled in pairs with handcuffs.

His glance ranged towards the farther end of the room, and he saw Archie Preston. The boy was seated on a stool under the north window, and he was bending over a newspaper spread on his knees reading by the failing light. Unlike the others, he was not manacled.

With mind still hazy from sleep, the corporal lay quiet for a while, gazing vacantly about the cabin. But presently it occurred to him that Devreaux and the other policemen were missing. And suddenly he found himself wondering what had happened to Alison. With an abrupt movement he cast off his blanket and sat up in the bunk. Some one had taken off his boots, he discovered; otherwise he was fully clad. The boots were lying by the bunk, and he pulled them on and fastened the laces. Then he stood up, buttoned his collar, and tried absently to smooth the wrinkles out of his tunic. He was running his fingers through his tousled hair, when he was aware that a shadow had darkened the open doorway. Looking around, he saw Colonel Devreaux entering the cabin.

The superintendent caught sight of Dexter, and he knitted his brows questioningly as he strode forward. "Waked up, have you?" he demanded. "How d'you feel?"

"All right, I guess." Dexter stretched himself and yawned, and his glance strayed towards the door. "Where's Alison?"

"Outside. She went for a walk with Brunswick and Devlin."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"More than thirty-six hours. You flopped while you were talking to me, and we got you into the bunk." The colonel reached forward and his stubby fingers touched his comrade's wrist. "You seem to have come around. But for a while yesterday we thought you were in for a long spell of it. We decided to camp here until you waked up naturally."

"I was done in, I guess. Hadn't slept much lately."

"Alison has told us all about you. You seem to have seen your job through. You haven't done half badly, Corporal--" Devreaux checked himself, stared the younger man up and down, and then for an instant his hard features yielded to a smile that was like sunshine breaking against the face of a weather-scarred cliff. "After to-day," he added quietly, "I think I can safely say--Sergeant Dexter."

A dark flush mounted to Dexter's temples, and a warm glow filled his eyes. To the men who served under Colonel Devreaux, his smallest word of commendation was like an accolade of knighthood.

"I--thank you, sir," the policeman managed to stammer.

"You finished off Owen Stark," remarked Devreaux, gruffly changing the subject. "Got him through the heart, and I don't imagine that he knew what hit him. I've a notion it was he who shot me last fall."

"Yes--he was the one. He boasted to me of his long-range marksmanship."

"In any event, Alison has told me the circumstances of his death," returned the superintendent. "She's willing to testify that you acted solely in self-defense. There'll be no difficulties for you in this affair."

"Alison saved my life twice," observed Dexter irrelevantly. "She's--"

He broke off speech abruptly as a light footstep sounded in the cabin entrance. Turning, he caught sight of a slender figure in knickers and frayed white sweater. "Good evening, Alison," he said with softening glance. "I was just telling the colonel how you jumped into that mess with Stark, just as he was about to let me have it. Nobody ever did a braver thing than that."

She faced him with a melancholy smile. "What else could I do?" she asked. "You were unarmed, and that man meant to shoot you without giving you a chance. I--I didn't stop to think. It all happened like something in a dream. Before I realized what I was doing the pistol was in my hand, and I had aimed and fired."

Dexter eyed her curiously for a moment. "Why did you take the revolver from my pocket?" he asked after a pause.

"Because your right arm was broken, and I didn't know whether you could shoot straight with your left hand," she answered without hesitation. "There was always danger of your falling asleep or of being caught off your guard, and I knew you were afraid of Crill." Alison cast a fleeting glance towards the opposite wall, where the handcuffed outlaw sat hunched in the shadow. "I'm not a bad shot," she added in a quiet voice, "and I thought that if anything happened--well, I'd be armed. And in a case of that sort I was ready to stand by the police."

Dexter searched her candid blue eyes, and gently nodded. "I only wondered--" he started to say, but before he could finish a sudden interruption came from the far corner of the room. A wild cry rang through the cabin, a stool was overturned clattering on the floor, and they faced about in amazement to see Archie Preston fling himself to his feet and stumble forward with a newspaper gripped in his shaking hands.

"Alison!" he burst out in unrestrained excitement. "This old paper that Sergeant Brunswick had in his pocket--it's--there's a story in it about _me_! Oh, it's too good--I can't believe that I've read it straight."

"What?" asked the girl, gazing in wonderment. "What do you mean, Archie?"

"This! Uncle Oscar! The doctor!"

"Yes!" she urged tensely, the color slowly draining from her cheeks. "What is it? What are you trying to tell me?"

"Why, this!" returned the boy with a hysterical catch in his throat. "Don't you understand? Dr. Borden, who attended Uncle Oscar when he died--he's been caught and sent to an asylum--insanity--homicidal mania. It's here--telegraphed from Duluth--it's here in this paper. He killed another man, and they've caught him!"

"Archie!" gasped the girl, her eyes grown wide and staring. "Tell me quick! You mean Dr. Borden--?"

"Here! Read it for yourself!" The boy thrust the newspaper in his sister's trembling hands. "Dr. Borden himself put the poison in our uncle's medicines. And now he's killed another patient the same way. He's crazy--has been crazy for months. And they've found him out and arrested him and sent him to an asylum."

Archie threw both hands above his head, and his chest heaved with a great sobbing breath. "I'm innocent, and it is proven," he exulted. "I can go back home. They can't hold me for a crime that another man committed."