The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Return of Blue Pete, by Luke Allan

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: The Return of Blue Pete

Author: Luke Allan

Release Date: April 29, 2008 [eBook #25230]

Language: English

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE***

E-text prepared by Al Haines

THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE

by

LUKE ALLAN

Author of "Blue Pete: Half-Breed," "The Lone Trail," "The Blue Wolf,"
Etc.

New York
George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1922, by George H. Doran Company

THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE. II

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I MAHON ON THE TRAIL II EVENING AT MILE 130 III THE MYSTERIOUS RAFT IV IGNACE KOPPOWSKI APPEARS V BLUE PETE, FRIEND AND LOVER VI THE HIDDEN MARKSMAN VII CONRAD FLASHES A GUN VIII A TRAGEDY OF CONSTRUCTION IX TORRANCE EVOLVES A PLAN X MAVY TAKES A RISK XI THE DESERTED CAMP XII SERGEANT MAHON SKIRTS DEATH XIII THE VISIT OF THE INDIANS XIV THE FIGHT IN THE SHACK XV KOPPY MAKES A THREAT XVI THE HEART OF A HALF-BREED XVII A PLOT DEFEATED XVIII THE CONSCIENCE OF A BOHUNK XIX THE BEAT OF A MOUNTED POLICEMAN XX INDIAN OR POLICEMAN? XXI BLUE PETE WORKS ALONE XXII NIGHT—AND THE MYSTERIOUS SPEEDERS XXIII RIFLES! XXIV THE SCHEMES OF A LEADER XXV BLUE PETE AND WHISKERS TO THE RESCUE XXVI SERGEANT MAHON'S VISION XXVII AN IRISHMAN AND AN ENGLISHMAN XXVIII THE SIEGE OF THE SHACK XXIX RETRIBUTION BEGINS XXX KOPPY PAYS XXXI BLUE PETE RETURNS

THE RETURN OF BLUE PETE

CHAPTER I

MAHON ON THE TRAIL

Sergeant Mahon emptied the barracks mail bag on the desk before Inspector Barker and stood awaiting instructions. The Inspector passed his hand over the small pile of letters and let his eye roam from one to another in the speculative way that added zest to the later revelation of their contents.

One from headquarters at Regina he set carefully aside. With an "ah!" of satisfied expectancy he selected one from the remainder and placed it before him. Mahon was mildly interested. The little foibles of his superior were always amusing to him. Eyes still fixed on the envelope, the Inspector commenced to fill his pipe.

"Spoiling for a job, Mahon?"

"Depends."

"Hm-m! Beautifully non-committal."

Mahon's interest was rising. The Inspector went on calmly cramming in the tobacco. When the job was completed to his liking, he thrust the pipe between his lips, flicked a loose flake from his tunic, and forgot to apply a match. Instead, he picked up the envelope and examined it on all sides. Mahon began to grow impatient.

Twice the Inspector turned the letter over. Mahon fretted. He could see on its face the Division headquarters stamp—Lethbridge—but why all this ceremony and pother about an official note that came almost every day? He recalled suddenly that his wife would be holding lunch for him—with fresh fish he had seen unloaded little more than an hour ago from the through train from Vancouver. He could almost smell it sizzling on the natural gas cooker.

"Hm-m!" The envelope was not yet broken. "I imagine this will interest you, Mahon."

Suddenly the Inspector dived into a drawer and, taking from it an official looking envelope, passed it back to the Sergeant. The latter accepted it with fading interest. The Assistant Commissioner at Regina was unfolding to Inspector Barker's immediate superior, the Superintendent at Lethbridge, an unexciting tale of crime. Crime was their daily diet, and this was located far beyond their district.

Somewhere away up north, hundreds of miles beyond the jurisdiction of the Medicine Hat unit of the Mounted Police, events of concern to the Police were happening along the line of the transcontinental railway now under construction. Certain acts of sabotage—tearing down railway trestles and bridges, undermining trains, displacing grade, tampering with rails and switches—were not only hampering construction but endangering life. And things were growing worse. In addition there was complaint of horse-stealing at one isolated camp.

The point of the letter was contained in the last paragraph. Could Superintendent Magwood spare an experienced bushman and trailer to go north and take temporary charge?

Mahon handed the letter back with a laugh.

"Bit of a joke, horse-stealing from contractors who only last year grabbed every stolen horse offered them. Retribution!"

The Inspector swung about on his swivel chair.

"We never discovered who got those horses."

"The ones Blue Pete stole?" A cloud came to Mahon's face. "Not exactly the contractors who got them, but there was no doubt where they went."

"I always regretted we had to hand over the search just there to a
Division that knows little about ranch horses," murmured the Inspector.
"Still—perhaps—" He stopped and shifted the letter he held from one
hand to the other, as if weighing it.

"We'd have made short work of it, sir."

"Even if we'd implicated your halfbreed friend?" The older man was peering beneath his iron-grey brows.

"I'm afraid nothing more was needed to implicate Blue Pete," sighed
Mahon.

"For a halfbreed rustler he seems to have stamped himself on your imagination, Boy." They had called Mahon "Boy" almost since he joined the force seven years before as a young man, packed with youthful vitality, frankness and ambition, and the nickname was dear to him.

"But he wasn't always a rustler. I remember him only for the two years he spent unofficially in the Force, the best rustler-buster we ever had. That was the real Blue Pete. That he died a rustler was due to crooked 'justice.' Poor old Pete! If only he hadn't had the Indian strain!"

"He wouldn't have been so useful to us. His uncanny scent on the trail—By the way, Mahon, strange we never found trace of him—his grave or something—when you're so certain how and where he died. And where's that ugly pinto of his? Whiskers, he called her, wasn't it?"

"Mira found the body, sir—that last letter she sent us said as much. She'd hide him from us—it's exactly the thing she would do. She was a loyal wife—"

"Not quite a wife."

"A wife as truly as absence of formal ceremony can make one. He's lying out there somewhere in the heart of the Hills he loved. . . . They were a sentimental pair."

"Almost too much sentiment in Mira Stanton for you," chuckled the
Inspector. "When I think of how near a thing it was—"

"I was a fool, sir." Mahon's face was red. "But it wasn't because I was too good for her. We'd never have