Helen looked up at the man beside her. All her laughter had gone. There was something like tragedy in her serious eyes.

Bill was staring at the paper.

"Why that's—that's an order for—liquor from O'Brien," he said, with the air of having made a discovery.

His brilliancy passed the girl by. She merely nodded.

"How—how did it get there?" she ejaculated.

"Why, some one must have thrown it there," Bill declared deliberately.

Again the man's shrewdness lacked an appreciative audience. The girl made no answer. She was thinking. She moved aside and leaned against the rough trunk of the mighty pine. She was still staring at the paper.

But her movement caught the man's attention, and the sudden realization of the proximity of the pine recalled many things to his mind. The pine. That was where he had seen Charlie, his first night in the valley. That was where the police were watching him. That was where he vanished. It was at the pine that O'Brien had warned him Charlie had gone to collect "greenbacks"—dollars. That was O'Brien's order, money enclosed. Charlie had found the order and money. Then, when he was interrupted by his, Bill's, shout he had thrown the order away.

The realization was like a douche of cold water, in spite of all he had seen and knew. Then he did a thing he hardly understood the reason of. It was the result of impulse—a sort of sub-conscious impulse. He reached out and took the weather-stained paper from the girl's yielding hands and deliberately tore it up.

"Why—why are you doing that?" Helen asked sharply.

Bill forced himself to a smile, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," he said. Then, after a pause: "I guess that order has been filled." A bitterness found expression in the quality of his smile. "I saw the liquor delivered at O'Brien's last night. I saw the 'runners' at work. Charlie was with them. Say, where d'you paint from? Right here?"

Helen looked up into the man's face. The last vestige of levity had passed from her. Her cheeks had paled, and she was striving desperately to read behind the ill-fitting smile she beheld. Bill knew. Bill knew all that everybody believed in the valley. He had done what nobody else had done. He had seen Charlie at his work. A desperate feeling of tragedy was tugging at her heart. This great big soul had received the full force of the blow, and somehow she felt that it had been a staggering blow.

All her sympathy went out to him. Now she utterly ignored his question. She sat down at the foot of the tree and signed to him.

"Sit here," she said soberly. "Sit here, and—talk to me. You came out here this morning because—because you wanted to find some one to talk to. Well?"

Bill obeyed her. There was no question in his mind. She had fathomed his purpose, and he was glad. He replied to her challenge without hesitation, and strove to speak lightly. But as he went on all lightness passed out of his manner, and the girl was left with a full view of those stirring feelings which he had not the wit nor inclination to secrete for long.

"Say," he began, "you asked what I was doing here, and guessed right—first time. Only, maybe you didn't guess it was you I came out to find. I saw you leave your house, and figured you'd make the new church. I was going right on down to the new church. Yes, I wanted to talk—to you. You see, I came here full of a—a sort of hope, and—and in two days I find the arm of the law reaching out to grab up my brother. I've given up everything to come and—join. Now I'm up against it, and I can't just think right. I sort of need some one to help me think—right. You see, I guessed you could do it."

The man was sitting with his arms clasped about his knees. His big blue eyes were staring out over the valley. But he saw nothing of it.

Helen, watching him, remained quite unconscious of the tribute to herself. She was touched. She was filled with a tender feeling she had never known before. She found herself longing to reach out and take hold of one of those big, strong hands, and clasp it tightly and protectingly in her own. She longed to tell him that she understood his grief, and was yearning to share it with him, that she might lighten the burden which had fallen upon him. But she did neither of these things. She just waited for him to continue.

"You see," he went on, slowly, with almost painful deliberation, "I kind of feel we can think two ways. One with our heads, and the other with our hearts. That's how I seem to be thinking now. And between the two I'm all mussed up."

The girl nodded.

"I—I think I know," she said quietly.

The man's face lit for a moment.

"I knew you would," he cried, in a burst of enthusiasm. Then the light died out of his eyes again, and he shook his head. "But you can't," he said hopelessly. "Nobody can, but—me. I love old Charlie."

"What does your head say?" asked Helen abruptly.

"My head?" The man released his knees and pushed back his hat, as though for her to read for herself. "Guess my head says I best get aboard a train quick, and get right back East where I came from, and—stop there."

"And leave Charlie to his—fate?" suggested the girl.

The man nodded.

"That's what my head says."

"And your heart?"

Helen's gray eyes were very tender as they looked into the troubled face beside her.

Bill's broad shoulders lifted, with the essence of nonchalance.

"Oh, that says get right up, and shut off the life of every feller at the main who tries to do Charlie any hurt."

A sudden emotion stirred the girl at his side, and she turned her head away lest he should see that which her eyes betrayed.

"The head is the wisest," she said without conviction.

But she was wholly unprepared for the explosion her words invoked.

"Then the head can be—damned!" Bill cried fiercely. And in a moment the shadows seemed to fall from about him. He suddenly sprang up and stood towering before her. "I knew if I talked to you about things you'd fix me right," he cried, with passionate enthusiasm. "I tell you my head's just a fool thing that generally butts in all wrong. You've just made me see right. You're that wise and clever. And—and when I get fixed like I've been, I'll always need to come to you. Say, there isn't another girl in all the world as bright as you. I'm going to stop right here, and I'll smash every blamed policeman to a pulp if he lays hands on Charlie. Charlie may be what he is. I don't care. If he needs help I'm here to give it. I tell you if Charlie goes to the penitentiary I go with him. If they hang him, they'll hang me, too. That's how your sister feels. That's how I feel. That's how——"

"I feel, too," put in Helen quickly. "Oh, you great Big Brother Bill," she went on, in her sudden joy and enthusiasm. "You're the loyalest and best thing I ever knew. And—and if you aren't careful I'll—I'll give you one of my daubs after all. Come along. Let's go and look at the new church. Let's go and see how all the pious, whited sepulchers of this valley are getting on with their soul-saving business. I—I couldn't paint a thing to-day."



CHAPTER XX

IN THE FAR REACHES

Charlie Bryant's horse was a good one, far better than a rancher of his class might have been expected to ride. It was a big, compact animal with the long sloping pasterns of a horse bred for speed. It possessed those wonderful rounded ribs, which seemed to run right up to quarters let down like those of a racehorse. It was a beautiful creature, and as it chafed under the gentle, restraining hand of its rider its full veins stood out like ropes, and its shoulders and flanks were a-lather of sweat.

They were traveling over a broken country a few miles up the valley. There was no road of any sort, only cattle tracks, which, amid the wild tangle of bush, made progress difficult and slow.

The man's eyes were brooding, and his effeminate face was overcast as he rode. The wild scene about him went for nothing, even to his artist eyes. His thoughts were full to the brim with things that held them concentrated to the exclusion of all else. And, for all he thought, or saw, or felt, of his surroundings, he might have been footing the superheated plains of a tropical desert.

He was thinking of a woman. She was never really out of his thoughts, and his heart was torn with the hopelessness of the passion consuming him. No overshadowing threat could give him the least disquiet, no physical fear ever seemed to touch him. But every thought of the one woman whose image was forever before him could sear and lacerate his heart almost beyond endurance.

He had no blame for her at any time. He had no protest to offer that her love, the love of a wife for a husband, was utterly beyond his reach. How could it be otherwise? He knew himself so well for what he was, he had so subtle an appreciation of all he must lack in the eyes of a big spirited, human woman, that, to his troubled mind, the situation as it was had almost become inevitable.

Now as he rode, he thought, too, of his newly arrived brother, and the hatefulness of personal comparison made him almost cringe beneath their flagellations. Bill, so big of heart and body, so lacking in the many abilities which go to make up the man in men's eyes, but which count for so little in a woman's, so strong in the buoyancy and fearlessness that was his. He felt he could almost hate him for these things. Bill had not one ugly thought or feeling in the whole of his nature. Temptation? He barely understood the word, because he was so naturally wholesome.

But more than these things it was the memory of that which, since his earliest youth, had looked back at him out of the mirror, that robbed Charlie Bryant of so much peace now. That, and the weakness which seemed to fit the vision so well. Whereas Bill, this child of the same parents, was all that might be, his own form and manner made him shudder as he thought of them. Then there was that devil haunting him, and from whom there seemed to be no escape.

How could he ever hope that Kate Seton would do more than lend her strong, pitying affection for his support? How could she ever look to him for support and guidance? His sense of proportion was far too acute to permit so grievous an error.

In some perverse way his mentality was abnormally acute. He saw with eyes which were inspired by a brain capable of vast achievement, but which possessed none of that equipoise so necessary for a well-balanced manhood. And it told him all that, and forced conviction upon him. It told him so much of that which no man should believe until it be thrust upon him overwhelmingly by the bitter experiences of life. His whole brain was permeated by a pessimism forced upon him by a morbid introspection, resulting from an undue appreciation of his own physical and moral shortcomings.

Yet with it all he bore no resentment except against the perversity of such a lot as his. And in this lay the germ of a self-pity, which is a specter to be dreaded more than anything else in life. While deploring the conditions under which he must live, robbed, as he believed he was robbed, of the possibility of winning for himself all those things which belong to the manhood really existing beneath his exterior of denial, he yet felt he would rather have his bread divided than be denied that trifling food which made it possible for him to go on living.

Kate's tender pity, Kate's warmth of affection, an affection she might even bestow upon some pet animal, was preferable to that she should shut him entirely out of her life. It left him free to drink in the dregs of happiness, although the nectar itself was denied him.

He could accept such conditions. Yes, he could almost be satisfied with them, since he believed no others to be forthcoming. But, and a dark fury of jealousy flooded his heart as he thought, he could not witness another drinking the nectar while he was condemned to the dregs. He felt that that way lay madness. That way was more than could be endured. He could endure all else, whatever life had in store for him, but the thought that he must stand by while Kate be given to another was more than his fate, for all its perversity, could expect of him.

From his veranda that morning, as on the morning before, Charlie had seen Kate and Stanley Fyles walking together. More than that he had heard from Kate herself of her admiration of the police officer. And, in these things, so trifling perhaps, so commonplace, he had read the forecast of a mind naturally dreading, and eaten up by suspicion. He would have been ready to suspect his own brother, had not a merciful providence made it plain to him that Bill possessed interest solely in the laughing gray eyes of Kate's sister.

Now, as he rode along, he saw dull visions of a future in which Kate no longer played a part. A demon of jealousy was driving him. He longed impotently for the power to rob the man of the possibility of winning that which was dearest to him. In the momentary madness which his jealousy invoked he felt that the death of this man, his life crushed out between his own lean hands, would be something approaching a joy worth living for.

But such murderous thoughts were merely passing. They fled again before the pessimism so long his habit. It would not help him one iota. It would rob Kate of a happiness which he felt was her due, which he desired for her; it would rob him of the last vestige of even her pitying regard.

Then he laughed to himself, a laugh full of a hatefulness that somehow did not seem to fit him. It was inspired by the thought of how easy it would be to shoot the heart out of the man he deemed his rival. Others had done such things, he told himself. Then, with a world of bitterness, he added, far better men than himself.

But he knew that no such intention was really his. He knew that beneath all his bitterness of feeling, and before all things, he desired Kate's happiness and security. A strange magnanimity, in a nature so morally weak, so lacking in all that the world regards as the signs of true manhood, was his. Even his life, he felt, would be small enough price to pay for the happiness and security of the only woman who had ever held out the strong arm of support and affection for him to lean upon, the only woman he had ever truly loved.

So a nightmare of thought teemed through his brain as he rode. Now he would fall into a sweat of panic as fantastic specters of hideous possibilities arose and confronted him, now only a world of grief would overwhelm him. Again a passion of jealousy would drive him to the verge of madness, only to be followed swiftly by that lurking self-pity which robbed him of the wholesome human instincts inspired by the spirit of battle in affairs of life. Then would come that overwhelming depression, bred of the long sapping of his moral strength, while through it all, a natural gentleness strove to soar above the ashes of baser fires.

It was with a sigh of relief, as his horse finally cleared a close growing bush, he emerged upon a small clearing. In the midst of this stood a corral. But, for the moment, he passed this by, and rode toward a log hut of ancient construction and design.

He drew the restive creature up and dismounted. Then he flung the reins over one of the posts of the old corral. The place was beyond the boundary of his homestead and belonged to a time when the valley knew few inhabitants beyond half-breeds and Indians. He had discovered it, and had turned it into the service of a storage for those things which were required only rarely upon his ranch, and at the more remote parts of it.

Inside the corral stood a wagon. It was an ordinary box wagon, but nearby stood a hay-rack, which signified its uses. Then there was a mower, and horse rake. There were other odds and ends, too, but it appeared obvious that haying operations were carried on in this direction, and this old corral so found its uses.

After glancing casually in the direction of these things Charlie passed round to the door of the hut. And herein his purpose became more obscure.

The place was heavily thatched and suggested long disuse. Its air was less of dilapidation than desertion, and lichen and fungus played a large part in such an aspect. The walls were low, and the heavy roof was flat and sloping. As the man drew near a flight of birds streamed from its eaves, screaming their resentment at such intrusion.

Charlie appeared not to notice them, so intent was he upon his purpose. He walked hurriedly, and finally paused at the doorway. For a moment he almost seemed in doubt. Then, with a thrust, he pushed the door, the hinges of which creaked protestingly as it opened inwards.

Another fluttering of wings, another chorus of harsh screams, and a further flight of birds poured from within and rushed headlong into the brilliant sunshine.

The place was certainly very old. A dreadful mustiness pervaded the atmosphere. The dirt, too, the heavy deposit of guano upon the floor, made it almost revolting. There was no furniture of any sort, while yet it conveyed the suggestion that, at some remote period, it had been the habitation of man.

A rough boarding lined the walls of logs very nearly up to the sloping roof. Rusty nails protruded here and there, suggesting hangers for utensils. A circular aperture in the roof denoted the presence, at one time, of a stove, possibly a cooking stove. And these things might well have raised in the mind a picture of a lean, black-haired, cadaverous man of low type, living a secret life amid the wilderness of this valley, with crime, crime against the laws of both God and Man as his object. Just such a man as is the notorious half-breed cattle thief.

Stepping over to the far end of the room, where the light shone down through the stovepipe hole in the roof, Charlie halted before the rough boarding at the angle of the wall. Then he reached out and caught the upper edge of the wooden lining, which, here, was much lower than at any other point, and exerted some strength. Four of the upright plankings slid upward together in a sort of rough panel, and revealed a shallow cupboard hewn out of the old logs behind them.

Within this opening a number of garments were hanging. There were several pairs of riding breeches, and an odd coat or two, besides other articles of man's outer attire. Added to these were two ammunition belts with holsters and revolvers.

Charlie stood gazing at the contents of the cupboard for some moments. Then he examined them, pulling each article aside as though to assure himself that nothing was missing. Each revolver, too, he withdrew from its holster and examined closely. The chambers were fully loaded. And having satisfied himself of these things he slid the boards back into their place. As they dropped back his expression was one of appreciation. No one could possibly have guessed, even from a narrow examination, what lay behind those rough, time-worn boards. Their fit was in perfect keeping with the rest of the wall lining.

He stood back and gave a final glance about him. Then he turned toward the door.

As he did so the sound of a soft whinny reached him. It came from his horse outside. A quick, startled light leaped into his dark eyes, and the next moment his movements became almost electrical. He reached the door on the run and looked out. His horse was standing with head held high and ears pricked. The creature was gazing fixedly in the direction from which it had approached the clearing.

Charlie needed nothing more. Something was approaching. Probably another horse. If so there was equally the probability of a rider upon its back.

He closed the door quickly and carefully behind him, and hurried toward the corral. He threw down the poles that barred it, and made his way to the side of the wagon. Then his movements became more leisurely.

Opening the wagon box he drew out a jack and a tin of grease. Then, still with an easy, leisurely air he jacked up one wheel and removed an axle cap.

He was intent upon his work now—curiously intent. He removed the wheel and smeared the inside of the hub with the filthy looking grease. His horse beyond the fence gave another whinny, which ended in a welcoming neigh. The man did not even look up. He replaced the wheel and spun it round. Then he examined the felloes which had shrunk in the summer heat. An answering neigh, and a final equine duet still failed to draw his attention. Nor, until a voice beyond the fence greeted him, did he look up.

"Getting ready for a journey?" said the voice casually.

Charlie looked round into the keen face of Stanley Fyles. He smiled pleasantly.

"Not exactly a journey," he said. Then he glanced quickly at the hay-rack standing on its side. "Say, doing anything?" he cried, and his smile was not without derision.

"Nothing particular," replied the police officer, "unless you reckon getting familiar with the geography of the valley particular."

Charlie nodded.

"I'd say that's particular for—a police officer." His rich voice was at curious variance with his appearance. It was not unlike a terrier with the bay of a bloodhound.

The phenomenon was not lost upon Fyles. He was studying this meager specimen of a prairie "crook." He had never before met one quite like him. He felt that here was a case of brain rather than physical outlawry. It might be harder to deal with than the savage, illiterate toughs he was used to.

"Yes," returned Fyles, "we need to learn things."

"Sure."

Charlie pointed at the hay-rack.

"Guess you don't feel like giving us a hand tipping that on to the wagon? I'm going haying to-morrow."

"Sure," cried Fyles, with an easy smile, as he leaped out of the saddle. He passed into the old corral and his quick eyes took in every detail at a glance. They came to rest on the slight figure of the man and noted his costume. Charlie Bryant was clad in loose riding breeches, but was coatless. Nor did he display any firearms. "Two-man job, isn't it?" he said lightly. "And you guessed to do it—single?"

Charlie's smile was blandly disarming.

"No. I hadn't thought to get it on to-day. The Kid'll be with me to-morrow, or maybe my brother, Bill."

"Ah. Brother Bill could about eat that rack on his own," Fyles declared, as the two men set about the task.

It was a far lighter affair than it looked, and, in less than five minutes was resting perfectly balanced in its place on the wagon. Fyles looked on while Charlie went round and bolted the rack securely in its place.

"Your wagon?" the officer observed casually, while his sharp eyes took in its last details.

Charlie nodded.

"Yes. Folks borrow it some. You see, I don't need it a heap, except at hay time."

"No, I don't guess you need it a heap. Say, this is a queer place tucked away up here. Old cattle station, I guess."

Fyles's remarks had no question in them. But he intended them to elicit a response. Charlie appeared to have nothing to conceal.

"Well, of a sort, I'd say," he replied. "You see, this was King Fisher's corral. There's others around the valley, though I don't know just where. King Fisher reigned nearly twenty years ago. He lived in the building the folks in Rocky Springs use as a Meeting House. He was pretty tough. One of the worst badmen ever hit this part. Had a signboard set up on the trail down from the prairie. He wrote it. 'This is King Fisher's trail, take any other old trail.' I believe most folks used to take 'any other old trail.' There was one feller didn't though. And that was the end of King Fisher's reign. These secret corrals have always been used by toughs."

Fyles was smiling.

"Yes."

Charlie laughed and pointed at the hut beyond the corral.

"I'd awfully like to know some of the games that went on in there. Birds and things nest in its roof now. I guess they didn't come within a mile of it one time. They say King Fisher was mad—blood mad. If that's so, I daresay this place could tell a few yarns."

Again came Fyles's monosyllabic agreement.

Charlie turned to his wagon and went on with his greasing. And while he worked and listened to the other's talk, the memory of having seen him with Kate gathered stormily in his mind. But he still smiled when he looked up. He still replied in the light-hearted fashion in which he had accepted the police officer's coming. He was perfectly aware of the reason of the man's presence there. And, equally, he was indifferent to it.

"Where are you haying now?" Fyles inquired presently.

Charlie answered without turning from his work.

"Half a mile down stream. Guess we all hay that way. There's no other sloughs handy on the west side of the village."

"That's why the wagon's kept here?"

"Sure. Saves the horses. They'll come out here to-morrow, and stop right here till we quit."

Charlie spun the last wheel round after replacing the cap.

"Where are you stopping with your men?" he demanded abruptly, as he let the jack down.

"Just around," said Fyles evasively.

"I see. On the prowl." Charlie smiled up into the man's shrewd, good-looking face. "You need to do some prowling around this valley if you're going to clean things up. Yes, and I'd say you need a mighty big broom."

"We've got the broom, and I guess we'll do the work," replied Fyles nodding. "We generally do—in the end."

Charlie's eyes had become thoughtful.

"Yes," he agreed. "I s'pose you do. Guess I'll have to be moving."

He returned the grease and jack to the wagon box, and moved toward the gate of the corral.

"Coming my way?" he asked casually.

"Not just now. I'm looking around—some."

Charlie laughed.

"Ah. I'd forgotten that broom."

"Most folks do," replied Fyles, "—until they fall over it."

Charlie had reached his horse's side. He unhooked the reins from the fence, and flung them over its head. Then, with an agility quite remarkable, he vaulted into the saddle.

"Well, I hope that broom won't come my way," he laughed. "I'd hate falling around."

"I hope it won't," said Fyles, in the same light manner, as he followed out of the corral. "That's a dandy plug of yours," he said with admiration, as his appreciative eyes noted the chestnut's points.

"He surely is," returned Charlie. "He can go some, too. I'll give you a run one day—if you fancy yours."

Fyles was hooking his reins over the post Charlie had vacated.

"Mine?" he said. "Peter's the quickest thing west of Winnipeg. He'll sure give you a run when—the time comes."

Charlie laughed. The drift of the talk, its hidden meaning, amused him.

"We'll have to make a time, eh?"

"Sure," said Fyles, looking him squarely in the eyes.

Charlie moved his horse away.

"Well, so long, for the present. Guess I'll remember that challenge. Thanks for helping me with the rack. You're stopping?"

Fyles nodded.

"Yes—for awhile."

Charlie rode away with the air of a man with not a care in the world. But he was thinking swiftly, and his thoughts were of that hidden cupboard, and what it contained. Hope and fear struggled for paramount place in his heart. Was the secret of that hiding place sufficiently simple to defy Stanley Fyles, or was it not? Was he the man he was reputed to be, or was he merely a clever man backed by a big authority? In the end he abandoned the troublesome point. Time alone would give him his answer.



CHAPTER XXI

WORD FROM HEADQUARTERS

Two horses ambled complacently, side by side, down the village trail. Each was ridden by the man it knew best, and was most willing to serve. Peter's affection for Stanley Fyles was probably little less than his master's affection for him. The same thing applied to Sergeant McBain, whose hard face suggested little enough of the tenderer emotions. But both men belonged to the prairie, and the long prairie trail inspires a wonderful sympathy between man and beast.

The men were talking earnestly in low voices, but their outward seeming had no suggestion of anything beyond ordinary interest.

"He's surely leaving a trail all over the valley," said Sergeant McBain, after listening to his superior's talk for some moments. "It's a clear trail, too—but it don't ever seem to lead anywhere—definite. You've made nothing of that corral place, sir?"

Fyles's eyes roamed over the scene about him in the quick, uneasy fashion of a groping mind.

"I don't know yet," he said slowly, "I've got to windward of that haying business. The fellow's haying all right. He's got a permit for cutting, and he generally puts up fifty tons. Maybe he keeps that wagon out there all the time for convenience. I can't say. But even if he doesn't I can't see where it points."

"We can watch the place," said McBain quickly.

"That's better than speculation, but—it's clumsy."

"How, sir?"

"Why, man alive," replied Fyles sharply. "Do you think we're going to fool a crook like him by just watching? Besides——"

"Yes, sir?"

Fyles had broken off. A woman was moving down the trail ahead of them. She was a good distance away, but he had recognized the easy gait and trim figure of Kate Seton. After a moment's pause he withdrew his gaze and went on.

"I've got all I need out of that place—for the present. You've seen the wagon and—recognized it. It's the wagon they ran that last cargo in. The man who drove it was Pete Clancy. Clancy is one of Charlie Bryant's gang. I don't think we need any more—yet. We've centralized the running of that last cargo. The rest of the work is for the future. My plans are all ready. The patrol comes in from Amberley to-night. It will be ample reinforcement. We're just one move ahead of these boys, here, and we've got to keep that way. You can get right back to quarters, and wait for my return. I'm going in to the mail office to run my eye over local mail. The envelopes of a local mail make good reading—when a man's used to it."

McBain grinned in a manner that seemed to give his hard face pain.

"You get more out of the ad-dress on an envelope than any one I ever see, sir," he observed shrewdly.

Fyles shrugged, not ill pleased at the compliment.

"It's practice, and—imagination. Those things, and—a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who's that coming down the southern trail? Looks like——"

He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley.

McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits.

"It ain't part of the patrol?" he said questioningly. "Yet it's one of our fellers. Maybe it's a—despatch."

Fyles's brows drew sharply together in a frown of annoyance.

"If the chief's sent me the word I'm waiting for that way he's—a damn fool. I asked him for cipher mail."

"Mr. Jason don't ever reckon on what those who do the work want. If that feller's riding despatch, the whole valley will know it."

McBain's disgust was no less than that of Fyles. His hard face was coldly set, and the despatch rider, if he were one, seemed likely to get a rough reception.

"He'll make for the mail office," said Fyles shortly. "We'll go and meet him."

He lifted Peter's reins, and the horse responded at a jump. In a moment the two men were galloping down to Dy's office. Fyles was the first out of the saddle, and the two stood waiting in silence for the arrival of the horseman.

There was not much doubt as to the publicity of the man's arrival. As if by magic a number of men, and as many women, appeared in the vicinity of the saloon, farther down the trail. They, too, had seen the newcomer, and they, too, were consumed with interest, though it was based on quite a different point of view from that of Stanley Fyles and Sergeant McBain.

To them a despatch rider meant important news, and probable action on the part of the authorities. Important action meant, to their minds, something detrimental to the shady side of their village life. Every man was searching his brain for an explanation, a reason for the man's coming, and every woman, sparing herself mental effort, was asking pointed questions of those who should think for her.

The man rode into the village at full gallop, and, seeing the two police horses outside the mail office, came straight on toward them.

He flung out of the saddle and saluted the inspector. Then he began fumbling in an inner pocket. Fyles understood his intention and sharply warned him.

"Not here. Now, in one word. Is it news from down East?"

The man nodded.

"Yes, sir. I believe so."

"You believe so?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jason told me I'd to make here to-day—mid-day. Said you were waiting for this letter to act. He also said I was to avoid speaking to any one in the place till I'd delivered the despatch into your hands. He also said I was to remain here under your orders."

"Damnation! And we've had letters through the mail every day."

"Beg pardon, sir——"

McBain made a sign for silence, and the man broke off. But Fyles bade him go on.

"Mr. Jason warned me to be very careful, as it was a despatch he could not trust to the mail."

Fyles gave a short laugh.

"That'll do. Now, get mounted, and ride back the way you came into the valley. When you get out of it keep along the edge of it westwards. You'll come to our camp five miles out. It's in a bluff. It's a shack on an abandoned farm. I can't direct you better, except it's just under the shoulder in the valley, and is approached by a cattle track. You'll have to ride around till you locate it. McBain will be coming back soon. Maybe he'll pick you up. Avoid questions, and still more—answers. Keep the letter till McBain gets in."

"Very good, sir."

The man remounted and rode away. His coming had been so sudden, his stay so brief, and his departure so rapid, that Fyles had achieved something of his purpose in repairing any damage Superintendent Jason had done to his plans in acting contrary to his subordinate's wishes.

The sharp-eyed villagers had witnessed the interview with suspicions lulled. There had been no despatch delivered, and the man was off again the way he had come. Surely nothing very significant had taken place. Possibly, after all, the man was merely a patrol from some outlying station.

Fyles turned to his lieutenant.

"We're going to get busy," he said, with a shadowy smile.

The older man could not conceal his appreciation.

"Looks that way, sir."

"I'll look over the mail myself," Fyles went on. "You best get back to camp, and see to that letter. Guess you'll wait for me to take action. You can get out across the valley south. Ride on west and ford the river up at the crossing—Winter's Crossing. See if the patrol's in. Then make camp—and keep an eye skinned for that boy. I'll get along later."

The sergeant saluted and sprang into the saddle. Fyles passed into the mail office as the man rode off.

Allan Dy was used to these visits of the inspector. There were very few country postmasters who were not used to such visits. It was a process of espionage which was never acknowledged, yet one that was carried on extensively in suspected districts. There was never any verbal demand, or acquiescence, in the manner in which it was carried out. When the police officer appeared the day's mail was usually in the process of being sorted, and was generally to be found spread out lying in full view of the searching eyes.

Fyles walked in. Passed the time of day. Collected his own mail and that of the men under him. Chatted pleasantly with the subservient official, and started to pass out again. In those brief moments he had seen all he wanted to see, which on this occasion was little enough.

There were only four letters from the East, The rest were all of local origin. One of the eastern letters was for O'Brien, and it carried an insurance firm's superscription. There were two letters for Kate Seton, both from New York, and both carrying the firm styles of well-known retail traders in women's clothing. The fourth was addressed to Charlie Bryant, and bore no trader's imprint.

As he neared the door of the little office he had to stand aside as Kate Seton made her way in.

Fyles felt that his luck was certainly in. The news he had awaited with so much impatience had been received at last, and now—well, his quick appreciative eyes took in the delightfully fresh, wholesome appearance of this woman, who had made such inroads upon his usually unemotional heart. There was not a detail escaped him. The rounded figure suggesting virility and physical well-being. Her delightful, purposeful face full of a wide intelligence and strength. Those wonderful dark eyes of such passionate, tender depth, which yet held possibilities for every emotion which finds its place in the depth of a strong heart.

She was clad, too, so differently from the general run of the villagers. Like her sister, though in a lesser degree, she breathed the air of a city—a city far from these western regions, a city where refinement and culture inspires a careful regard for outward appearance.

She smiled upon him as he stood aside. Somehow the shyness which her sister had accused her of seemed to have gone. Her whole atmosphere was that of a cordial welcome.

"You're early down for your mail, Mr. Fyles," she said, after greeting him. "I'm generally right on the spot before Allan Dy is through. Still, I dare say your mail is more important, and stands for no delay."

"It's the red tape of our business, Miss Seton," Fyles replied, with a light shrug. "We're always getting orders that should rightly be executed before they can possibly reach us. It's up to us to get them the moment they arrive."

Kate's smile was good to see. There was just that dash of ironical challenge in her eyes which Fyles was beginning to associate with her.

"Still working out impossible problems which don't really—exist?"

The man returned her smile.

"Still working out problems," he said. Then he added slyly, "Problems which must be solved, in spite of assurances of their non-existence."

"You mean—what I said to you the other day?"

Fyles nodded.

Kate's eyes sobered, and the change in their expression came near to melting the officer's heart.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. Then she sighed. "But I s'pose you must see things your own way." She glanced at the mail counter. "You had a despatch rider in this morning. I saw him coming down the trail. Everybody saw him."

Just for a moment Fyles's strong brows drew together. He was reluctant to deliberately lie to this woman. He felt that to do so was not worthy. He felt that a lie to her was a thing to be despised.

"We had a patrol in," he said guardedly.

Kate smiled.

"A patrol from—Amberley?"

Again was that ironical challenge in Kate's eyes. Fyles's responsive smile was that of the fencer.

"You are too well informed."

But the woman shook her head.

"Not so well informed as I could wish," she said. Then she laughed as her merry sister might have laughed, and the policeman wanted to join in it by reason of its very infection. "There's a whole heap of things I'd like to know. I'd like to know why a government of the people makes a law nobody wants, and spends the public's money in enforcing it. Also I'd like to know why they take a vicious delight in striving to make criminals of honest enough people in the process. Also I'd like to know how your people intend to trip up certain people for a crime which they have never committed, and don't intend to commit, and, anyway, before they can be punished must be caught red-handed. You've got your problems sure enough, and—and these are some of the simplest of mine. Oh, dear—it almost makes my head whirl when I think of them. But I must do so, because," her smile died out, and the man watched the sudden determined setting of her lips, "I'm against you as long as you are—against him. Good-bye. I must get my mail."

* * * * *

It was a long circuitous route which took Stanley Fyles back to his camp. But it seemed short enough on the back of the faithful, fleet-footed Peter. Then, too, the man's thoughts were more than merely pleasant. Satisfaction that his news was awaiting him at the camp left him free to indulge in the happy memory of his brief passage of arms with Kate Seton.

What a staunch creature she was! He wondered if the day would ever come when she would exercise the same loyalty and staunchness on his behalf. To him it seemed an extraordinary, womanish perversity that made her cling to a poor creature so obviously a wrongdoer. Was she truly blind to his doings, or was she merely blinding herself to them? She was not in love with Charlie Bryant, he felt sure. Her avowal of regard had been too open and sincere to have been of any other nature than the one she had claimed for it. Yes, he could understand that attitude in her. Anything he had ever seen of her pointed the big woman nature in her. She felt herself strong, and, like other strong people, it was a passion with her to help the weak and erring.

Fyles's knowledge of women was slight enough, but he had that keen observation which told him many things instinctively. And all the best and truest that was in him had been turned upon this woman from the very first time he had seen her.

He told himself warmly, now, that she was the most lovable creature on earth, and nothing but marriage with her could ever bring him the necessary peace of mind that would permit him to continue his work with that zeal and hope of achievement with which he had set about a career.

He saw so many things now, through the eyes of a great passion, that seemed utterly different, rendered transcendentally attractive through the glamor of a strong, deep love. They were things which, before, had always been viewed dispassionately, almost coldly, yet not without satisfaction. They had always been part of his scheme, but had no greater attraction than the mere fact that they were integral parts of one great whole. Now they became oases, restful shades in the sunlight of his effort.

He had always contemplated marriage as an ultimately necessary adjunct to the main purpose. No man, he felt, could succeed adequately, after a certain measure had been achieved, without a woman at his side, a woman's influence to keep the social side of a career in balance with the side which depended upon his direct effort. Now he saw there was more in it than that. Something more human. Something which made success a thousand times more pleasing to contemplate. He felt that with Kate at his side giant's work would become all too easy. Her ravishing smile of encouragement would be a gentle spur to the most jaded energies. The delight of bearing her upon his broad shoulders in his upward career, would be bliss beyond words, and, in the interim of his great efforts, the care and happiness of her loyally courageous heart would be a delight almost too good to be true.

His keen mind and straining energies were bathed in the wonderful fount of love. He was looking for the first time into the magic mirror which every human creature must, at some time, gaze into. He was discovering all those pictures which had been discovered countless millions of times before, and which other coming countless millions had yet to discover for themselves.

So he rode on dreaming to the rhythmic beat of Peter's willing hoofs. So he came at last to the distant camp of his subordinate comrades.

He was greeted by the harsh voice and hard, weather-stained features of McBain wreathed in a smile which was a mere distortion, yet which augured well.

"I haven't opened the letters, sir," he said, "but I've questioned Jones close. I guess it's right, all right."

Fyles was once more the man of business. He nodded as he flung off his horse and handed it over to a waiting trooper.

"Where's the despatch?" he demanded sharply.

McBain produced a long, official envelope. The other tore it open hastily. He ran his eyes over its contents, and passed it back to the sergeant.

"Good," he exclaimed. "There's a cargo left Fort Allerton, on the American side, bound for Rocky Springs by trail. It's a big cargo of rye whisky. We'll have to get busy."



CHAPTER XXII

MOVES IN THE GAME OF LOVE

Stanley Fyles's extreme satisfaction was less enduring than might have been expected. Success, and the prospect of success, were matters calculated to affect him more nearly than anything else in his life. That was the man, as he always had been; that was the man, who, in so brief a time, had raised himself to the commissioned ranks of his profession. But, somehow, just now a slight undercurrent of thought and feeling had set in. It was scarcely perceptible at first, but growing rapidly, it quickly robbed the tide of his satisfaction of quite half its strength, and came near to reducing it to the condition of slack water.

McBain was in the quarters attending to the detail which fell to his lot. A messenger from Winter's Crossing had come in announcing the arrival, at that camp, of the reinforcing patrol. This was the culminating point of Fyles's satisfaction. From that moment the undercurrent set in.

The inspector had moved out of the bluff, which screened the temporary quarters from chance observation, and had taken up a position on the shoulder of the valley, where he sat himself upon a fallen fence post to consider the many details of the work he had in mind.

The sun was setting in a ruddy cauldron of summer cloud, and, already, the evening mists were rising from the heart of the superheated valley. The wonderful peace of the scene might well have been a sedative to the stream of rapid thought pouring through his busy brain.

But its soothing powers seemed to have lost virtue, and, as his almost unconscious gaze took in the beauties spread out before it, a curious look of unrest replaced the satisfaction in his keen eyes. His brows drew together in a peevish frown. A discontent set the corners of his tightly compressed lips drooping, and once or twice he stirred impatiently, as though his irritation of mind had communicated itself to his physical nerves.

Once more the image of Kate Seton had risen up before his mind's eye, and, for the first time it brought him no satisfaction. For the first time he had associated the probable object of his plans with her. Charlie Bryant was no longer a mere offender against the law in his mind. In concentrating his official efforts against him he realized the jeopardy in which his own regard for Kate Seton placed him. He saw that his success now in ridding the district of the whisky-runner would, at the same time, rob him of all possible chance of ever obtaining the regard of this woman he loved. It meant an ostracism based upon the strongest antipathy—the antipathy of a woman wounded in her tenderest emotions, that wonderful natural instinct which is perhaps beyond everything else in her life.

The more than pity of it. Kate's interest in Charlie Bryant had assumed proportions which threatened to overwhelm his whole purpose. It became almost a tragedy. Pondering upon this ominous realization a sort of panic came near to taking hold of him. Apart from his own position, the pain and suffering he knew he must inflict upon her set him flinching.

Her protestations of Charlie's innocence were very nearly absurd. To a mind trained like his there was little enough doubt of the man's offense. He was a rank "waster," but, as in the case of all such creatures, there was a woman ready to believe in him with all the might of feminine faith. It was a bitter thought that in this case Kate Seton should be the woman. She did believe. He was convinced of her honesty in her declaration. She believed from the bottom of her heart, she, a woman of such keen sense and intelligence. It was—yes, it was maddening. Through it all he saw his duty lying plainly before him. His whole career was at stake, that career for which only he had hitherto lived, and which, eventually, he had hoped to lay at Kate's feet.

What could he do? There was no other way. He—must—go—on. His dream was wrecking. It was being demolished before his eyes. It was not being sent crushing at one mighty stroke, but was being torn to shreds and destroyed piecemeal.

He strove to stiffen himself before the blow, and his very attitude expressed something of his effort. He told himself a dozen times that he must accept the verdict, and carry his duty through, his duty to himself as well as to his superiors. But conviction was lacking. The human nature in him was rebelling. For all his discipline it would not be denied. And with each passing moment it was gaining in its power to make itself felt and heard.

Its promptings came swiftly, and in a direction hardly conceivable in a man of his balance of mind. But the more sure the strength of the man, the more sure the strength of the old savage lurking beneath the sanest thought. The savage rose up in him now in a reckless challenge to all that was best and most noble in him. A cruel suspicion swept through his mind and quickly permeated his whole outlook. What if he had read Kate's regard for the man Bryant wrong? What if he had read it as she intended him to read it, seeking to blind him to the true facts? He knew her for a clever woman, a shrewd woman, even a daring woman. What if she had read through his evident regard for her, and had determined to turn it to account in saving her lover from disaster, by posing with a maternal, or sisterly regard for his welfare? Such things he felt had been done. He was to be a tool, a mere tool in her hands, the poor dupe whose love had betrayed him.

He sprang from his seat.

No, a thousand times no, he told himself. His memory of her beautiful, dark, fearless eyes was too plainly in his mind for that. The honesty of her concern and regard for the man was too simply plain to hold any trace of the perfidy which his thought suggested. He told himself these things. He told himself again and again, and—remained unconvinced. The savage in him, the human nature was gaining an ascendancy that would not be denied, and from the astute, disciplined man he really was, at a leap, he became the veriest doubting lover.

He threw his powerful arms out, and stretched himself. His movements were the movements of unconcern, but there was no unconcern within him. A teeming, harassing thought was urging him, driving him to the only possible course whereby he could hope to obtain a resumption of his broken peace of mind.

He must see Kate. He must see her again, without delay.

* * * * *

Kate Seton was sitting in the northern shadow of her little house the following morning when Stanley Fyles rode down the southern slope of the valley toward the old footbridge. She had just dispatched Big Brother Bill on an errand to the village, and, with feminine tact, had requested him to discover Helen's whereabouts, and send her, or bring her home. She had no particular desire that Helen should return home. In fact, she would rather she didn't until mid-day dinner. But she felt she was giving the man the excuse he evidently needed.

As a matter of fact, she had a good deal of work to do. And the first hour after Bill had taken his departure she was fully occupied with her two villainous hired men. After that she returned to the house, and wrote several letters, and, finally, took up her position in the shade, and devoted herself to a basket of long-neglected sewing.

At the sound of the approaching horseman she looked up with a start. She had no expectation of a visitor, she had no desire for one just now. Nevertheless, when she discovered the officer's identity, she displayed no surprise, and more interest, than might have been expected.

She did not disguise from herself the feelings this man inspired. On the contrary she rather reveled in them, especially as, in a way, just now, all her actions must be in direct antagonism to his efforts.

She felt that a battle, a big battle, must be fought and won between them. It was a battle to be fought out openly and frankly. It was her determination that this man should not wrong himself by committing a great wrong upon Charlie Bryant.

Kate was very busy at the moment Fyles rode up. She was intent upon fitting a piece of lace, obviously too small, upon a delicate white garment of her sister's, which was obviously too big.

For a moment, as she did not look up, Fyles sat leaning forward in the saddle with his arms resting upon its horn. He was watching her with a smiling interest which was not without anxiety.

"There's surely not a dandier picture in the world than a girl sitting in the shade sewing—white things," he said at last, by way of greeting.

Kate glanced up for the briefest of smiling glances. Then her dark head bent over her sewing again.

"And there's surely nothing calculated to upset things more than a man butting in, where the same girl's fragment of brain is worrying to fit something that doesn't fit anyway."

"Meaning me?"

Fyles smiled in his confident way.

"Seeing there's no one else around, I must have meant some other fellow."

Kate laid the lace aside, and looked up with a sigh. A gentle amusement shone in her fine dark eyes.

"Have you ever tried to make things fit that—just won't?" she demanded.

Fyles shook his head.

"Maybe I can help, though," he hazarded.

"Help?" Kate's amusement merged into a laugh. "Say, when it comes to fitting things that don't fit, two heads generally muss things right up. All my life I've been trying to fit things that don't fit, and I find, if you're to succeed, you've got to do it to yourself, and by yourself. It always takes a big lot of thinking which nobody else can follow. Maybe your way of thinking is different from other folks, and so they can't understand, and that's why they can't follow it. Now here's a bit of lace, and there's a sleeve. The lace is short by an inch. Still there's ways and ways of fixing it, but only one right way. If I make the sleeve smaller the lace will fit, but poor Helen won't get her arm through it. If I tack on a bit more lace it'll muss the job, and make it look bad. Then there's other ways, too, but—there's only one right way." She dropped the lace in her basket and began to fold the garment. "I'll get some new lace that does fit," she declared emphatically.

Fyles nodded, but the amusement died out of his eyes.

"All of which is sound sense," he said seriously, "and is leading us toward controversial—er—subjects. Eh?"

Kate raised a pair of shoulders with pretended indifference. But her eyes were smiling that challenge which Stanley Fyles always associated with her.

"Not a bad thing when the police are getting so very busy, and—you are their chief in the district," she said.

"I must once more remark, you are well informed," smiled Fyles.

"And I must once more remark not as well informed as I could wish," retorted Kate quickly.

Fyles had permitted his gaze to wander down the wooded course of the river. Kate was watching him closely, speculatively. And curious enough she was thinking more of the man than his work at that moment.

The man's eyes came back abruptly to her face, and her expression was instantly changed to one of smiling irony.

"Well?" she demanded.

Fyles shook his head.

"It isn't," he said. "May I ask how you know we are—so very busy?"

"Sure," cried Kate, with a frank laugh. "You see, I have two of the worst scamps in the valley working for me, and they seem to think it more than necessary that they keep themselves posted as to—your movements."

"I see." Fyles's lighter mood had entirely passed, and with its going Kate's became more marked. "I s'pose they spy out everything for the benefit of their—chief."

Kate clapped her hands.

"What reasoning. I s'pose they have a chief?" she added slyly.

A frown of irritation crossed the policeman's brow.

"Must we open up that old sore, Miss Kate?" he, asked almost sharply. "They are known to be—when not occupied with the work of your farm—assisting Charlie Bryant in his whisky-running schemes. They are two of his lieutenants."

"And so, because they are so known among the village people here, you are prosecuting this campaign against a man whom you hope to catch red-handed."

"I have sufficient personal evidence to—prosecute my campaign," said Fyles quickly. "As you said just now, we are not idle."

"Yes, I know," Kate sighed, and her gaze was turned upon the western reaches of the valley. "Your camp out there is full of activity. So is Winter's Crossing. And the care with which you mask your coming and going is known to everybody. It is a case of the hunter being hunted. Yes, I say it without resentment, I am glad of these things, because I—must know."

"If we are against each other—it is only natural you should wish to know."

Kate's eyes opened wider.

"Of course we are against each other, as long as you are against Charlie. But only in our—official capacities." A whimsical smile stole into the woman's eyes. "Oh, you are so—so obstinate," she cried in mock despair. "In this valley it is no trouble for me to watch your every move, and, in Charlie's interests, to endeavor to frustrate them. But the worst of it is I'd—I'd like to see you win out. Instead of that I know you won't. You've had some news. You had it yesterday, I suppose, by that patrol. Maybe it's news of another cargo coming in, and you are getting ready to capture it, and—Charlie. I'm not here to give any one away, I'm not here to tell you all I know, must know, living in the valley, but you are doomed, utterly doomed to failure, if you count the capture of Charlie success."

In spite of the lightness of Kate's manner her words were not without their effect upon Fyles. There was a ring of sincerity in them that would not be denied. But its effect upon him was not that which she could have wished. His face set almost sternly. The challenge of the woman had stirred him out of his calm assurance, but it was in a direction which she could scarcely have expected. He thrust his sunburned face forward more aggressively, and challenged her in return.

"What is this man to you?" he demanded, his square jaws seeming to clip his question the more shortly.

In a moment Kate's face was flushing her resentment. Her dark eyes were sparkling with a sudden leaping anger.

"You have no right to—ask me that," she cried. But Fyles had committed himself. Nor would he draw back.

"Haven't I?" he laughed harshly. "All's fair in love and—war. We are at war—officially."

The woman's flushing cheeks remained, but the sparkle of her eyes had changed again to an ironical light.

"War—yes. Perhaps you're right. The only courtesies recognized in war are observed in the prize ring, and in international warfare. Our warfare must be less exalted, and permits hitting—below the belt. I've told you what Charlie is to me, and I have told you truly. I am trying to defend an innocent man, who is no more to me than a brother, or—or son. I am doing so because of his peculiar ailments which make him well-nigh incapable of helping himself. You see, he does not care. His own safety, his own welfare, are nothing to him. It is for that reason, for the way he acts in consequence of these things, that all men believe him a rogue, and a—a waster. I tell you he is neither."

She finished up a little breathlessly. She had permitted her loyalty and anxiety to carry her beyond the calm fencing she had intended.

But Fyles remained unmoved, except that the harshness had gone out of his manner.

"It is not I who am obstinate," he said soberly. "It is you, Miss Kate. What if I told you I had irrefutable circumstantial evidence against him? Would that turn you from your faith in him?"

The woman shook her head.

"It would be merely circumstantial evidence," she said. "God knows how circumstance has filled our penitentiaries wrongfully," she added bitterly.

"And but for circumstance our population of wrongdoers at large would be greater by a thousand per cent.," retorted the officer.

"That is supposition," smiled Kate.

"Which does not rob it of its possibility in fact."

The two sat looking at each other, silently defiant. Kate was smiling. A great excitement was thrilling her, and she liked this man all the better for his blunt readiness for combat, even with her.

Fyles was wondering at this woman, half angry, half pleased. Her strength and readiness appealed to him as a wonderful display.

He was the first to speak, and, in doing so, he felt he was acknowledging his worsting in the encounter.

"It's—it's impossible to fight like this," he said lamely. "I am not accustomed to fight with women."

"Does it matter, so long as a woman can fight?" Kate cried quickly. "Chivalry?" she went on contemptuously. "That's surely a survival of ages when the old curfew rang, and a lot of other stupid notions filled folks' minds. I—I just love to fight."

Her smile was so frankly infectious that Fyles found himself responding. He heaved a sigh.

"It's no good," he said almost hopelessly. "You must stick to your belief, and I to mine. All I hope, Miss Kate, is that when I've done with this matter the pain I've inflicted on you will not be unforgivable."

The woman's eyes were turned away. They had become very soft as she gazed over at the distant view of Charlie's house.

"I don't think it will be," she said gently. Then with a quick return to her earlier manner: "You see, you will never get the chance of hurting Charlie." A moment later she inquired naively: "When is the cargo coming in?"

But Fyles's exasperation was complete.

"When?" he cried. "Why, when this scamp is ready for it. It's—it's no use, Miss Kate. I can't stop, or—or I'll be forgetting you are a woman, and say 'Damn!' I admit you have bested me, but—young Bryant hasn't. I——" he broke off, laughing in spite of his annoyance, and Kate cordially joined in.

"But he will," she cried, as Peter began to move away. "Good-bye, Mr. Fyles," she added, in her ironical fashion as she picked up her sewing. "I can get on with these important matters—now."

The man's farewell was no less cordial, and his better sense told him that in accepting his defeat at her hands he had won a good deal in another direction where he hoped to finally achieve her capitulation.

* * * * *

While the skirmish between Stanley Fyles and Kate Seton was going on, the object of it was discussing the doings of the police and the prospect of the coming struggle with Big Brother Bill on the veranda of his house.

He was leaning against one of its posts while Bill reposed on the hard seat of a Windsor chair, seeking what comfort he could find in the tremendous heat by abandoning all superfluous outer garments.

Charlie's face was darkly troubled. His air was peevishly irritable.

"Bill," he said, with a deep thrill of earnestness in his voice, as he thrust his brown, delicate hands into the tops of his trousers. "All the trouble in the world's just about to start, if I'm a judge of the signs of things. There's a whole crowd of the police in the valley now. They're camped higher up. They think we don't know, but we do—all of us. I wonder what they think they're going to do?"

His manner became more excited, and his voice grew deeper and deeper.

"They think they're going to get a big haul of liquor. They think they're going to get me. I tell you, Bill, that for men trained to smelling things out, they're blunderers. Their methods are clumsy as hell. I could almost laugh, if—if I didn't feel sick at their coming around."

Bill stirred uneasily.

"If there were no whisky-running here they wouldn't be around," he said pointedly.

Charlie eyed him curiously.

"No," he said. Then he added, "And if there were no whisky-running there'd be no village here. If there were no village here we shouldn't be here. Kate and her sister wouldn't be here. Nothing would be here, but the old pine—that goes on forever. This village lives on the prohibition law. Fyles may have a reputation, but he's clumsy—damned clumsy. I'd like to see ahead—the next few days."

"He's smelling a cargo—coming in, isn't he?" Bill's tact was holding him tight.

Again Charlie looked at him curiously before he replied.

"That's how they reckon," he said guardedly, at last.

Bill had turned away, vainly searching his unready wit for the best means of carrying on the discussion. Suddenly his eyes lit, and he pointed across at the Seton's house.

"Say, who's that—on that horse? Isn't it Fyles? He's talking to some one. Looks like——"

He broke off. Charlie was staring out in the direction indicated, and, in a moment, his excitement passed, swallowed up in a frowning, brooding light that had suddenly taken possession of his dark eyes.

Bill finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

"It's—Fyles?" he said.

"Yes, it's Fyles," said Charlie, with a sudden suppressed fury. "It's Fyles—curse him, and he's talking to—Kate."

At the sound of his brother's tone, even Bill realized his blundering. He knew he had fired a train of passion that was to be deplored, even dreaded in his brother. He blamed himself bitterly for his lack of forethought, his absurd want of discretion.

But the mischief was done. Charlie had forgotten everything else.

Bill stirred again in his chair.

"What does he want down there?" he demanded, for lack of something better to say.

"What does he want?" Charlie laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, a savage laugh. It was a laugh that spoke of sore heart, and feelings crowding with bitterness. "I guess he wants something he'll never get—while I'm alive."

He relapsed into moody silence, and a new expression grew in his eyes till it even dominated that which had shone in them before. Bill thought he recognized it. The word "funk" flashed through his mind, and left him wondering. What could Charlie have to fear from Fyles talking to Kate? Did he believe that Kate would let the officer pump her with regard to his, Charlie's, movements!

Yes, that must be it.

"He won't get more than five cents for his dollar out of her," he said, in an effort to console.

Charlie was round on him in a flash.

"Five cents for a dollar? No," he cried, "nor one cent, nor a fraction of a cent. Fyles is dealing with the cleverest, keenest woman I've ever met in all my life. I'm not thinking that way. I'm thinking how almighty easy it is for a man walking a broken trail to trip and smash himself right up. The more sure he is the worse is his fall, because—he takes big chances, and big chances mean big falls. You've hit it, Bill, I'm scared—scared to death just now. If I know Fyles there's going to be one hell of a time around here, and, if you value your future, get clear while you can. I'm scared, Bill, scared and mad. I can't stand to watch that man talking to Kate. I'm not scared of man or devil, but I'm scared—scared to death when I see that. I must get out of this. I must get away, or——"

He moved off the veranda in a frantic state of nervous passion.

Bill sprang from his seat and was at his brother's side in two great strides, and his big hand fell with no little force upon the latter's arm and held it.

"What do you mean?" he cried apprehensively. "Where—where are you going?"

With surprising strength Charlie flung him off. He turned, facing him with angry eyes and flushed face.

"Don't you dare lay hand on me like that again, Bill," he cried dangerously. "I don't stand for that from—anybody. I'm going down the village, since you want to know. I'm going down to O'Brien's. And you can get it right now that I wouldn't stand the devil himself butting in to stop me."



CHAPTER XXIII

STORM CLOUDS

A dispirited creature made its way down to the Setons' house that same evening. Big Brother Bill felt there was not one single clear thought in his troubled head, at least, not one worth thinking. He was weighted down by a hazy conception of the position of things, in a manner that came near to destroying the very root of his optimism.

One or two things settled upon his mind much in the manner of mental vampires. He knew that Charlie was threatened, and he knew that Charlie knew it, and made no attempt to protect himself. He knew that Charlie was also scared—frightened out of all control of himself in a manner that was absurdly contradictory. He knew that he was now at the saloon for the purpose of drowning his hopeless feelings in the maddening spirit O'Brien dispensed. He knew that his own baggage had at last arrived from Heaven only knew where, and he wished it hadn't, for it left him feeling even more burdened than ever with the responsibilities of the pestilential valley. He knew that he was beginning to hate the police, and Fyles, almost as much as Charlie did. He knew that if prevailing conditions weren't careful he would lose his temper with them, and make things hot for somebody or something. But, more than all else, he knew that Helen Seton was more than worth all the worry and anxiety he was enduring.

In consequence of all this he arrayed himself in a light tweed suit, a clean, boiled shirt and collar, a tie, that might well have startled the natives of his home city, and a panama hat which he felt was necessary to improve the tropical appearance of his burnt and perspiring features, and hastened to Helen's presence for comfort and support.

The girl had been waiting for him. She looked the picture of diaphanous coolness in the shade of the house, lounging in an old wicker chair, with its fellow, empty, drawn up beside her. There were no feminine eyes to witness her little schemes, and Bill?—why, Bill was delighted beyond words that she was there, also the empty chair, also, that, as he believed, while she was wholly unconscious of the fact, the girl's attitude and costume were the most innocently pleasing things he had ever beheld with his two big, blue, appreciative eyes.

He promptly told her so.

"Say, Hel," he cried, "you don't mind me calling you 'Hel,' do you?—you see, everything delightful seems to be associated with 'Hell' nowadays. If you could see yourself and the dandy picture you make you'd kind of understand how I feel just about now."

The girl smiled her delight.

"Maybe I do understand," she said. "You see, I don't always sit around in this sort of fancy frock. Then, no girl of sense musses herself into an awkward pose when six foot odd of manhood's getting around her way. No, no Big Brother Bill. That chair didn't get there by itself. Two carefully manicured hands put it there, after their owner had satisfied herself that her mirror hadn't made a mistake, and that she was looking quite her most attractive. You see, you'd promised to come to see me this evening, and—well, I'm woman enough to be very pleased. That's all."

Bill's sun-scorched face deepened its ruddy hue with youthful delight.

"Say, you did all this for—for me?"

Helen laughed.

"Why, yes, and told you the various details to be appreciated, because I was scared to death you wouldn't get them right."

Bill sat himself down, and set the chair creaking as he turned it about facing her. He held out his hands.

"I haven't seen the manicuring racket right, yet," he laughed.

Helen stretched out her two hands toward him for inspection. He promptly seized them in his, and pretended to examine them.

"The prettiest, softest, jolliest——"

But the girl snatched them away.

"That's not inspection. That's——"

"Sure it's not," retorted Bill easily. "It's true."

"And absurd."

"What—the truth?"

Bill's blue eyes were widely inquiring.

"Sometimes."

The smile died out of the man's eyes, and his big face became doleful.

"Yes, I s'pose it is."

Helen set up.

"What's gone wrong—now? What truth is—absurd?" she demanded.

The man shrugged.

"Oh, everything. Say, have you ever heard of a disease of the—the brain called 'partly hatched'?"

The girl's eyes twinkled.

"I don't kind of remember it."

"No, I don't s'pose you do. I don't think anybody ever has it but me. I've got it bad. This valley's given it me, and—and if it isn't careful it's going to get fatal."

Helen looked around at him in pretended sympathy.

"What's the symptoms? Nothing outward? I mean that tie—that's not a symptom, is it?"

Bill shook his head. He was smiling, but beneath his smile there was a certain seriousness.

"No. There's no outward signs—yet. I got it through thinking too—too young. You see, I've done so much thinking in the last week. If it had been spread over, say six months, the hatching might have got fixed right. But it's been too quick, and things have got addled. You see, if a hen turned on too much pressure of heat her eggs would get fried—or addled. That's how my brain is. It's addled."

Helen nodded with a great show of seriousness which the twitching corners of her pretty mouth belied.

"I always thought you'd got a trouble back of your—head. But you'd best tell me. You see, I don't get enough pressure of thinking to hatch anything. Maybe between us we can fix your mental eggs right."

Bill's big eyes lit with relief and hope.

"That's bright of you. You surely are the cutest girl ever. You must have got a heap of brain to spare."

Helen could no longer restrain her laughter.

"It's mostly all—spare. Now, then, tell me all your troubles."

The great creature at her side looked doubtful and puzzled.

"I don't know just where to begin. There's such a heap, and I've worried thinking about it, till—till——"

Helen sat up and propped her chin in her hands with her elbows on her knees.

"When you don't know where to begin just start with the first thought in your head, and—and—ramble."

Bill brightened up.

"Sure that's best?"

"Sure."

The man sighed in relief.

"That's made a heap of difference," he cried. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his panama and mopped his forehead. He gave a big gulp in the midst of the process, and spoke as though he were defying an enemy. "Will you marry me?" he demanded, and sat up glaring at her, with his hat and handkerchief poised in either hand.

The girl gave him a quick look. Then she flung herself back in her chair and laughed.

"We—we are talking of troubles," she protested.

Bill replaced his hat, and restored his handkerchief to its pocket.

"Troubles? Troubles? Isn't that trouble enough to start with? It's—it's the root of it all," he declared. "I'm—I'm just crazy about you. And every time I try to think about Charlie and the police, and—and the scallywags of the valley, I—I find you mixed up with it all, and get so tangled up that I don't know where I am, or—or why. Say, have you ever been crazy about anybody? Some feller, for instance? It's the worst worrying muddle ever happened. First you're pleased—then you cuss them. Then you sort of sit dreaming all sorts of fool things that haven't any sense at all. Then you want to make rhymes and things about eyes, and flowers, and moons, and feet, and laces and bits. You feel all over that everything else has got no sense to it, and is just so much waste of time thinking about it. You sort of feel that all men are fools but yourself, and other females aren't women, but just images. You sort of get the notion the world's on a pivot, and that pivot's just yourself, and if you weren't there there'd be a bust up, and most everything would get chasing glory, and you don't care a darn, anyway, if they did. Say, when you get clean crazy about anybody, same as I am about you, you find yourself hating everybody that comes near them. You get notions that every man is conspiring to tell the girl what a perfect fool you are, that they're worrying to boost you right out with her. You hate her, because you think she thinks you are a simpleton, and can't see your good points, which are so obvious to yourself. You hate yourself, you hate life, you hate the sunlight and the trees, and your food, and—and everything. And you wouldn't have things different, or stop making such a fool of yourself, no—not if hell froze over. Will—will you marry me?"

Helen's humor suddenly burst the bonds of all restraint. She sat there laughing until she nearly choked.

Bill waited with a patience that seemed inexhaustible. Then, as the girl's mirth began to lessen, he put his question again with dogged persistence.

"Will you marry me?"

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Of all the——"

"Will you marry me?" the man persisted, his great face flushing.

Helen abruptly sobered. The masterful tone somehow sent a delighted thrill through her nerves.

She nodded.

"Of course I will. I—intended to from the first moment I saw your big, funny face with Stanley——"

"You mean that, Hel? You really—meant to marry me? You did?"

The man's happy excitement was something not easily to be forgotten. He sprang from his chair, reached out his powerful hands, caught the girl about the waist, and picked her up in his arms as he might have picked up a child. His great bear-like hug was a monstrous thing to endure, but Helen was more than willing to endure it, as also his kisses, which he rained upon her happy, laughing face.

But the girl's sense of the fitness of things soon came to her rescue. The ridiculousness, the undignified figure she must appear, held in her great lover's arms, set her struggling to free herself, and, in a few moments, he set her once more upon her feet, and stood laughing down into her blushing face.

"Say," he cried, with a great laugh, "I don't care a cuss if my brains never hatch out. You're going to be my wife. You, the girl I'm crazy to death about. Fyles and all the rest can go hang. Gee!"

Helen looked up at him. Then she smoothed out her ruffled frock, and patted her hair into its place.

"Well," she cried, with a happy laugh, "I've heard some queer proposals from the boys of this valley when they were drunk, but for a sober, educated man, I think you've made the funniest proposal that any one ever listened to. Oh, Bill, Bill, you've done a foolish thing. I'm a shameless man-hunter. I came out west to find a husband, and I've found one. I wanted to marry you all along. I meant to marry you."

Bill's laugh rang out in a great guffaw.

"Bully!" he cried. "What's the use of marrying a girl who doesn't want to marry you?"

"But she ought to pretend—at first."

"Not on your life. No pretense for me, Hel. Give me the girl who's honest enough to love me, and let me know it."

"Bill! How—dare you? How dare you say I loved you and told you so? I've—I've a good mind not to marry——Say, Bill, you are a—joke. Now, sit right down, and tell me all about those—those other things worrying you."

In a moment a shadow crossed the man's cheerful face. But he obediently resumed his seat, and somehow, when Helen sat down, their chairs were as close together as their manufacturer had made possible.

"It's Charlie—Charlie, and the police," said Bill, in a despondent tone. "And Kate, too. I don't know. Say, Hel, what's—what's going to happen? Fyles is hot after Charlie. Charlie don't care a curse. But there's something scaring him that bad he's nearly crazy. Then there's Kate. He saw Kate talking to Fyles, and he got madder than—hell. And now he's gone off to O'Brien's, and it don't even take any thinking to guess what for. I tell you he's so queer I can't do a thing with him. I'm not smart enough. I could just break him in my two hands if I took hold of him to keep him home and out of trouble, but what's the use? He's crazy about Kate, he's crazy about drink, he's crazy about everything, but keeping clear of the law. That's what I came to tell you about—that, and to fix up about getting married."

The man's words left a momentary dilemma in the girl's mind. For a moment she was at a loss how to answer him. It seemed impossible to accept seriously his tale of anxiety and worry, and yet——. The same tale from any other would have seemed different. But coming from Bill, and just when she was so full of an almost childish happiness at the thought that this great creature loved her, and wanted to marry her, it took her some moments to reduce herself to a condition of judicial calm, sufficient to obtain the full significance of his anxious complaint.

When at last she spoke her eyes were serious, so serious that Bill wondered at it. He had never seen them like that before.

"It's dreadful," she said in a low tone. "Dreadful."

Bill jumped at the word.

"Dreadful? My God, it's awful when you think he's my brother, and—and Kate's your sister. I can't see ahead. I can't see where things are—are drifting. That's the devil of it. I wish to goodness they'd given me less beef and more brain," he finished up helplessly.

Helen displayed no inclination to laugh. Somehow now that this simple man was here, now that the responsibility of him had devolved upon her, a delightful feeling of gentle motherliness toward him rose up in her heart, and made her yearn to help him. It was becoming quite easy to take him seriously.

"P'r'aps it's a good thing you've got all that—beef. P'r'aps it's for the best, you're so—so strong, and so ready to help. You can't see ahead. Neither can I. Maybe no one can, but—Fyles. Suppose you and I were standing at the foot of a cliff—a big, high cliff, very dangerous, very dreadful, and some one we both loved was climbing its face, and we saw them reach a point where it looked impossible to go on, or turn back. What could we do? I'll tell you. We could remain standing there looking on, praying to Providence that they might get through, and holding ourselves ready to bear a hand when opportunity offered, and, failing that, do our utmost to break their fall."

Bill's appreciation suddenly illuminated his ingenuous face.

"Say," he cried admiringly. "You've hit it. Sure, we can't climb up and help. It would mean disaster to both, with no one left to help. Say, I'm glad I'm big and strong. That's it, we'll stand—by. You'll think, and I'll do what you tell me. By Jing! That's made everything different. We'll stand by, and break their fall. I could never have thought of that—I couldn't, sure."

It was Helen's turn to display enthusiasm. It was an enthusiasm inspired by her lover's acceptance of her suggestion.

"But we're not going to just watch and watch and do nothing. We must keep on Fyles's trail. We must keep close behind Charlie, and when we see the fall coming on we must be ready to thrust out a hand. You never know, we may beat the whole game in spite of Charlie. We may be able to save him in spite of himself. No harm must come to Kate through him. I can't see where it can come, except—that he is mad about her, and she is mad about—some one else."

"Fyles?" Bill hazarded.

Helen looked around at him in amused admiration. She nodded.

"You're getting too clever for me. You will be thinking for us both soon."

Bill denied the accusation enthusiastically.

"Never," he exclaimed. And after that he drifted into a lover's rhapsody of his own inferiority and unworthiness.

Thus, for a while, the more serious cares were set aside for that brief lover's paradise when two people find their focus filled to overflowing with that precious Self, which we are told always to deny. Fortunately human nature does not readily yield to such behests, and so life is not robbed of its mainspring, and the whole machinery of human nature is not reduced to a chaotic bundle of useless wheels.

For all Helen's boasted scheming, for all Bill's lack of brilliancy, these two were just a pair of simple creatures, loyal and honest, and deeply in love. So they dallied as all true lovers must dally with those first precious moments which a Divine Providence permits to flow in full tide but once in a lifetime.

* * * * *

Charlie Bryant was standing at the bar of O'Brien's saloon. One hand rested on the edge of the counter as though to steady himself. His eyes were bloodshot, a strange pallor left his features ghastly, and the combination imparted a subtle appearance of terror which the shrewd saloonkeeper interpreted in his own fashion as he unfolded his information, and its deductions.

The bar was quite empty otherwise, and the opportunity had been too good for O'Brien to miss.

"Say, I was mighty glad to get them kegs the other night safely. But I'm takin' no more chances. It'll see me through for awhile," he said, as he refilled Charlie's glass at his own expense. "There's a big play coming right now, and, if you'll take advice, you'll lie low—desprit low."

"You mean Fyles—as usual," said Charlie thickly. Then he added as an afterthought: "To hell with Fyles, and all his damned red-coats."

O'Brien's quick eyes surveyed his half-drunken customer with a shrewd, contemptuous speculation.

"That sounds like bluff. Hot air never yet beat the p'lice. It needs a darnation clear head, and big acts, to best Fyles. A half-soused bluff ain't worth hell room."

Charlie appeared to take no umbrage. His bloodshot eyes were still fixed upon O'Brien's hard face as he raised his glass with a shaking hand and drained it.

"I don't need to bluff with no one around worth bluffing," he said, setting the empty glass down on the counter.

O'Brien's response was to fold his arms aggressively, and lean forward upon the counter, peering into the delicate, pale face before him.

"See here," he cried, "a fellow mostly bluffs when he's scared, or he's in a corner—like a rat. See? Now it's to my interest to see Fyles beat clean out of Rocky Springs. It's that set me gassin'. Get me? So just keep easy, and take what I got to hand out. I'm wise to the game. It's my business to keep wise. Those two crooks of yours, Pete and Nick, were in this morning, and I heard 'em talkin'. Then I got 'em yarning to me. They've got every move Fyles is making dead right. They're smartish guys, and I feel they're too smart for you by a sight. If things go their way you're safe. If there's a chance of trouble for them you're up against it."

Charlie licked his dry lips as the saloonkeeper paused. Then he replaced the sodden end of his cigarette between them. But he remained silent.

"I've warned you of them boys before," O'Brien went on. "But that's by the way. Now, see here, Fyles has got your play. The boys know that, and in turn have got his play. Fyles knows that to-morrow night you're running in a big cargo of liquor. The only thing he don't know is where you cache it. Anyways, he's got a big force of boys around, and Rocky Springs'll have a complete chain of patrols around it, to-morrow night. Each man's got a signal, and when that signal's given it means he's located the cargo. Then the others'll crowd in, and your gang's to be overwhelmed. Get it? You'll all be taken—red-handed. I'm guessin' you know all this all right, all right, and I'm only telling it so you can get the rest clear. How you and your boys get these things I'm not guessing. It's smart. But here's the bad stuff. It's my way to watch folks and draw 'em when I want to get wise. I drew them boys. They're reckonin' things are getting hot for 'emselves. They're scared. They're reckonin' the game's played out, and ain't worth hell room, with Fyles smelling around. Those boys'll put you away to Fyles, if they see the pinch coming. And that's where my interests come in. They'll put you away sure as death."

If O'Brien were looking for the effect of his solemn warning he was disappointed. Charlie's expression remained unchanged. The ghastly white of his features suggested fear, but it was not added to by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.

"That all?" he asked, with a deliberate pause between the words to obtain clear diction.

O'Brien shrugged, but his eyes snapped angrily at this lack of appreciation.

"Ain't it enough? Say," his manner had become almost threatening, "I'm not doing things for hoss-play. The folks around can build any old church to ease their souls and make a show. Rocky Springs ain't the end of all things for me. I'm out after the stuff. I'll soothe my soul with dollars. That's why I'm around telling you, because your game's the thing that's to give 'em to me. When your game's played I hit the trail, but as long as you make good Rocky Springs is for me. If you can't handle your proposition right then I quit you."

Charlie suddenly shifted his position, and leaned his body against the counter. The saloonkeeper looked for that sign which was to re-establish his confidence. It was not forthcoming. For a moment the half-drunken man leaned his head upon one hand, and his face was turned from the other behind the bar.

O'Brien became impatient.

"Wal?" he demanded.

His persistence was rewarded at last. But it was rewarded with a shock which left him startled beyond retort.

Charlie suddenly brought a clenched fist down upon the counter with a force that set the glasses ringing.

"Fyles!" he cried fiercely, "Fyles! It's always Fyles! God's truth, am I never to hear, or see, the last of him? Say, you know. You think you know. But you don't. Damn you, you don't!"

Before the astonished saloonkeeper could recover himself and formulate the angry retort which rose to his lips, Charlie staggered out of the place.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE SOUL OF A MAN

It was growing dark. Away in the west a pale stream of light was fading smoothly out, absorbed by the velvet softness of the summer night. There was no moon, but the starlit vault shone dazzlingly upon the shadowed valley. Already among the trees the yellow oil lamps were shining within the half-hidden houses.

From within a dense clump of trees, high up the northern slope of the valley, a man's slight figure made its way. His movements were slow, deliberate, even furtive. For some moments he stood peering out at a point below where a woman's figure was rapidly making its way up the steep trail toward the old Meeting House.

The man's eyes were straining in the darkness for the outline of the woman's figure was indistinct, only just discernible in the starlight. She came on, and he could distinctly hear her voice humming an old, familiar air. She evidently had no thought of the possibility that her movements could be of any interest to anybody but herself.

She reached the Meeting House and paused. Then the watching man heard the rattle of a key in the lock. The humming had ceased. The next moment there was the sound of a turning handle, and a tight-fitting door being thrust open. The woman's figure had disappeared within the building.

The man left the sheltering bush and moved out on to the trail. He passed one thin hand across his brow, as though to clear the thoughts behind of their last murkiness after a drunken slumber. He stretched himself wearily as though stiff from his unyielding bed of sun-baked earth. Then he moved down the trail toward the Meeting House, selecting the scorched grass at the side of it to muffle the sound of his footsteps.

His weariness seemed to have entirely passed now, and all his attention was fixed upon the rough exterior of the old building, which had passed through such strange vicissitudes to finally become the house of worship it now was. With its old, heavy-plastered walls, and its long, reed-thatched roof, so heavy and vastly thick, it was a curiosity; the survival of days when men and beasts met upon a common arena and played out the game of life and death, each as it suited him, with none but the victor in the game to say him nay.

The man felt something of the influence of the place now as he drew near. Nor could he help feeling that the game that went on about it now had changed little enough in its purpose. The rules may have received modification, but the spirit was still the same. Men were still struggling for victory over some one else, and beneath the veneer of a growing civilization, passions, just as untamed, raged and worked their will upon their ill-starred possessors.

Reaching the building, he moved cautiously around the walls till he came to a window. It was closed, and a curtain was drawn across it. He passed on till he came to another window. It was partially open, and, though the curtain was drawn across it, the opening had disarranged the curtain, and a beam of light shone through.