He pressed his face toward the opening so that his mouth was at its level. Then he spoke softly, in a voice that was little more than a whisper——

"Kate!" he called. "Kate! It is I—Charlie. I've—I've been waiting for you, and want to speak to you."

For answer there was a sound of hurrying footsteps across the floor of the room. The next moment the curtain was pulled aside. Kate stood at the other side of the window in the dim lamplight. Her handsome eyes were startled and full of inquiry, and her rounded bosom rose and fell quickly. When she saw the pale face peering in at her a gentle smile crept into her eyes.

"You scared the life out of me," she said calmly. Then, with a quick look into his bloodshot eyes, she went on: "Why did you wait for me—here?"

Charlie lowered his eyes. "I—guessed you'd be along some time this evening. I wanted to speak to you—alone."

Kate studied him for a moment. His averted, almost shifty, eyes seemed to hold her attention. She was thinking rapidly.

Presently his eyes came back to her face; a deep passion was shining in them.

"Can I come around to the door?"

There was just the smallest hesitation before Kate replied.

"Yes, if you must see me here."

Charlie waited for no more. The door was on the other side of the building, overlooking the village below. He hurried thither, and when he thrust it open the place was in darkness.

Kate's voice greeted him promptly. "The draught has blown the lamp out. Have you a match?"

Charlie closed the door behind him, and produced and struck a match. The lamp flared up and Kate replaced the glass chimney. Then she moved over to the wall and placed the lamp in its bracket.

It was a curious interior. In their unevenness the white kalsomined walls displayed their primitive workmanship. The windows were small, framed, and set deep in the ponderous walls. They looked almost like the arrow slits in a mediaeval fortress. The long, pitched roof was supported, and collared, by heavy, untrimmed logs, which, at some time, had formed the floor-supports of a sort of loft. This had been done away with since, for the purpose of giving air to the suppliants at a prayer meeting below.

At the far end of the room were two reading desks and a sort of communion table. While in one corner, behind one of the reading desks, was a cheap-looking harmonium. Here and there, upon the rough walls, were nailed cardboard streamers, conveying, amid a wealth of illumination, sundry appropriate texts of a non-committal religious flavor, and down the narrow body of the building were stretched rows of hard-seated, hard-backed benches for the accommodation of the congregation.

One swift glance sufficed for Charlie, and his eyes came back to the woman's smiling face. Her good looks were undoubted, but to him they were of an almost celestial order. There was no creature in the whole wide world to compare with her.

His eyes devoured every detail of her expression, of her personality, with the hungry greed of a soul-starved man. It was almost an impossibility for him to seize upon and hold the thoughts that so swiftly poured through his brain. So the moments passed and Kate found her patience ebbing.

"Well?" she demanded, her smile slowly fading.

The man breathed a sigh, and swallowed as with a dry throat. The spell of her charm had been broken.

"I had to come," he cried, with a nervous rush. "I had to find you. I had to speak to you—to tell you."

The woman's eyes, so steadily fixed upon his face, were wearing an almost hard look.

"Was it necessary to stimulate your nerve to come, and—speak to me? Charlie, Charlie," Kate went on more gently, her fine eyes softening, "when is this all to cease? Why must you drink? It seems so hopeless. Oh, man, where is your backbone, your grit. You tell me you long to be free of your curse, yet you plunge headlong the moment you are disturbed."

Her moment of passionate remonstrance passed and a subtle coolness superseded it, as the scarlet flushed into the man's pale cheeks.

"Tell it me all," she went on, "tell me what it is you had to see me about. Remember, to-morrow is Sunday, and this place must be put in order for meeting. As it is, I am late. I was kept."

The flush of shame died out of the man's face, and his eyes became questioning. But his manner was almost humble.

"I know," he said. "I knew I had no right to disturb you—now. I knew you would resent it. But I had to see you—while I had the chance. To-morrow it might be too late."

"Too late?"

The woman's question came with a sharp, rising inflection.

"Oh, Kate, Kate, won't you understand what has brought me? Can't you understand all that I feel now that the shadow of the law is so threatening here in this valley? All the time I'm thinking of you; thinking of all you mean in my life; thinking of the love which would make it a happiness to lay down my life for you, the love which to me is the whole, whole world."

He ceased speaking with a curious abruptness. It was as though there were much more to be said, but he feared to give it expression.

Kate seized upon his pause to remonstrate.

"Hush, Charlie," she cried almost vehemently, "you mustn't tell me all this. You mustn't. I am not worthy of such a love from any man. Besides," she went on, with a sigh, "it is all so useless. I have no love to return you. You know that. You have known it so long. Our friendship has been precious to me. It will always be precious. I feel, somehow, that you belong to me, are part of me, but not in the way you would have it. Oh, Charlie, the one thought in my mind, the one desire in my heart, is for your welfare. I desire that more than I could ever desire the love of any man. You love me, and yet by every act of yours that jeopardizes that welfare you stab me to the heart as surely as you add another nail to the coffin of your moral and physical well-being. You come here to tell me of these things, straight from one of your mad debauches, the signs of which are even now in your eyes, and in your shaking, nervous hands. Oh, Charlie, why must it all be? What madness is it with which you are possessed?"

The man looked into her big eyes, so full of strength and courage. The yellow lamplight left them shining darkly. He sought in them something that always seemed to baffle. Something he knew was there, but which ever eluded him. And the while he cried out in bitterness at her challenge.

"What does it matter—these things?" he said hoarsely. "What does it matter what I am if—I can't be anything to you?"

Then his bitterness was redoubled, and an almost savage light shone in his usually gentle eyes.

"Oh, God, I know I can never be anything to you but a sort of puling weakling, who must be nursed, and petted, and cared for. I know," he went on, his words coming with a rush in the height of his protesting passion, "if your thoughts, your secret thoughts and feelings, were put into words, I know what they would say of me, must say of me. Do I need to tell you? No, I think not. Look at me. It is sufficient."

He paused, his great dark eyes alight as Kate had never seen them before. Then he went on, and his tone had become subdued, and its rich note thrilled with the depths of passion stirring him.

"But for all that I am a man, Kate. For all my weakness I have strength to feel, to love, to fight. I have all that, besides, which goes to make a man, just as surely as has the man, Fyles, whom you love. I know, Kate. Denial would be useless, and in denying, you would be untrue to yourself. Fyles is the man for you, and no one knows it better than I. Fyles! The irony of it. The man who represents the law is the man who stands between me and all I desire on earth. I have seen it. I have watched. Nothing that concerns your life escapes me. How could it, when my whole thought is for you—you? But the agony of mind I suffer is no less. I cannot help it, Kate. The knowledge and sight of things drives me nearly crazy, and I suffer the tortures of hell. But even so, if your happiness lies at Fyles's side, then—I would have it so. If I were sure—sure that this happiness were awaiting you. Is it, Kate? Think. Think of it in—every aspect. Is it? Happiness with this—Fyles?"

It was some moments before Kate made any reply. Her eyes were fixed upon the old Communion Table, so shadowy in the single lamplight. She was asking herself many questions; almost as many as he could have asked her. She had permitted herself to drift on the tide of her feelings. Whither? She knew she was beyond her depth. Her life was in the hands of a Providence which would inevitably work its will. All she knew was that she loved. She had known it from the first. She loved, and rejoiced that it was so. Again, there were moments when she feared as cordially. She knew the work that lay before this lover of hers. She knew in what direction it pointed. And in obedience to her thoughts her eyes came back to the drunkard's eager face.

"You—you came to tell me—all this?" she said, in a low tone. "You came to assure yourself of my—happiness?" Then she shook her head. "Tell me the rest."

It was Charlie's turn to hesitate now. The demand had robbed him of the small enough confidence he possessed.

But Kate was waiting and he had no power to deny her anything.

"I came to tell you of—things, while I still have the chance. To-morrow? Who knows what to-morrow may bring forth?"

A keen, hard light suddenly flashed into the woman's eyes.

"What of—to-morrow?" she demanded sharply, while she studied the man's pale features, with their boyish good looks.

For answer Charlie reached out and caught one of her hands in both of his. She strove to release it, but he clung to it despairingly.

"No, no, Kate. Don't take it away," he cried passionately. "It is for the last—the very last time. Tell me, dear, is—is there no hope for me? None? Kate, I love you so. I do—dear. I will give up everything for you, dear, everything. I can do it. I will do it. I swear it, if—only you'll love me. Tell me. Is there——?"

Kate shook her head, and the man dropped her hand with a gesture of utter hopelessness.

"My love is given, Charlie. Believe me, I have not given it. It—it is simply gone from me."

Kate sighed. Then her mood changed again. That sharp alert look came into her eyes once more.

"Tell me—of to-morrow," she urged him.

The second demand had a pronounced effect upon Charlie. The air of the suppliant fell from him, even the signs of his recent debauch seemed to give way before a startling alertness of mentality. In his curious way he seemed suddenly to have become the man of action, full of a keenness of perception and shrewdness which might well have carried an added conviction to Stanley Fyles, had he witnessed the display.

"Listen," he said, with a thrill of excitement. "Maybe it's not necessary to tell you. Maybe it's stale news. Anyway, to-morrow is to be the day of Fyles's coup." He paused, watching for the effect of his words.

Just for an instant the woman's eyes flashed, but whether in fear, or merely excited interest, it would have been impossible to say.

"Go on," she said.

"To-morrow the village is to be surrounded by a chain of police patrols. Every entry will be closely watched for the incoming cargo of whisky. Fyles reckons to get me red-handed."

"You?"

Kate's eyes flashed again.

"Sure. That's how he reckons."

They looked into each other's eyes steadily. Charlie's were lit by a curious baffling irony.

It was finally Charlie who spoke.

"Fyles's plans are not likely to disconcert—anybody. There is no fear of legitimate capture. It is treachery—that is to be feared."

Kate started.

"Treachery?"

The man nodded. And the woman gave a sharp exclamation of disgust.

"Treachery! I hate it. I despise it. I—I could kill a traitor. You—fear treachery?"

"I have been warned of it. That's all," he said, in a hard biting voice. "It is because of this I've come to you to-night. Who can tell the outcome of to-morrow if there's treachery? So I came to you to make my—last appeal." In a moment his passion was blazing forth again. "Say the word, dear. Forget this man. Give me one little grain of hope. We can leave this place, and all the treachery in the world doesn't matter. We can leave that, and everything else, behind us—forever."

Kate shook her head. It almost seemed as though his pleading had passed her by.

"It can't be," she said, almost coldly. "It's too late."

"Too late?"

The woman nodded, but her thoughts seemed far away.

"Tell me," she said, after a pause, while she avoided the man's despairing eyes, "where does the treachery—lie?"

The man turned away. His slim shoulders lifted with seeming indifference.

"Pete Clancy and Nick Devereux—your two boys. But I don't know yet. I'm not sure."

Suddenly Kate moved toward him. The coldness had passed out of her manner. Her eyes had softened, and a smile, a tender smile, shone in their depths. She held out her two hands.

"Charlie, boy," she said, "you needn't fear for treachery for to-morrow. Leave Pete and Nick to me. I can deal with them. I promise you Fyles will gain nothing in the game he's playing, through them. Now, you must go. Give up all thought of me. We cannot help things. We can never be anything to each other, more than we are now, so why endure the pain and misery of a hope than can never be fulfilled. As long as I live I shall pray for your welfare. So long as I can I shall strive for it. It is for you to be strong. You must set your heart upon living down this old past, and—forgetting me. I am not worth the love you give me. Indeed—indeed I am not."

But her outstretched hands were ignored. Charlie made a slight, impatient movement, and turned toward the door. Finally he looked back, and, for a moment, his gaze encountered the appeal in Kate's eyes. Then he passed on swiftly as though he could not endure the sight of all that which he knew to be slipping from beyond his reach.

One hand reached the door handle, then he hunched his shoulders obstinately.

"I give up nothing, Kate. Nothing," he said doggedly. "I love you, and I shall go on loving you to—the end."

* * * * *

It was late when Kate returned to her home. The house was in darkness, and the moon brought it out in silvery, frigid relief. Thrusting the front door open, she paused for a moment upon the threshold. She might have been listening; she might merely have been thinking. Finally she sat down and removed her shoes and gently tip-toed to her sister's room.

Helen's door was ajar, and she pushed it open and looked in. The moonlight was shining across her sister's fair features, and the mass of loose fair hair which framed them. She was sound asleep in that wonderful dreamless land of rest, far from the turbulent little world in which her waking hours were spent.

Kate as softly withdrew. Now she made her way back to the familiar kitchen parlor, and, in the dark, took up her position at the open window. Her whole attention was centered upon the ranch house of Charlie Bryant across the valley, which stood out in the moonlight almost as clearly as in daylight. A light was shining in one of its windows.

She sat there waiting with infinite patience, and at last the light was extinguished. Then she rose, and, going to her bureau, picked up a pair of night glasses. She leveled these at the distant house and continued her watch.

Her vigil, however, did not last long. In a few minutes she distinctly beheld a figure move out on to the veranda. Its identity, at that distance, she was left to conjecture. But she saw it leave the veranda and make its way round to the barn. A few minutes later, again, it reappeared, this time mounted upon a horse.

She sighed. It was a sigh of impatience, it was also a sigh of resignation. Then she rose from her seat, and returned her night glasses to the bureau. Again she looked out of the window, but this time she remained standing. Nor were her eyes turned upon the distant ranch house. Her whole attitude was one of deep pensiveness.

At last, however, she stirred, and, quite suddenly, her movements became quick and decided. It almost seemed as though she had finally reached a definite resolve.

She passed out of the room, and then out of the house through the back way. The little barn was within a hundred yards of the house. She was still in the shadow of the house when she became aware of figures moving just outside the barn. In a moment she recognized them. They were her two hired men in the act of riding away on their horses.

She let them get well away. Then she drew the door close after her and crossed over to the barn.

The door was open and she went in. Passing the two empty stalls where the men's horses were kept, she went on to another, where her own horse, hearing her approach, set its collar chains rattling and greeted her with a suppressed whinny.

It was the work of but a few minutes to saddle him and bring him out into the moonlight. Then she mounted him and rode off in the wake of those who had gone on before.



CHAPTER XXV

THE BROKEN CHAIN

The peace of Sunday evening merged into the calm of night. Service was long since over in the old Meeting House. The traveling parson had come and gone. He had done his duty. He had read the service to the lounging, unkempt congregation, he had prayed over them, he had preached at them. He had done all these things because it was his duty to do so, but he had done them without the least hope of improving the morals of his unworthy flock, or of penetrating one single fraction through their crime-stained armor of self-satisfaction. Rocky Springs was one of the shadowed corners upon his tour, into which, he felt, it was beyond his power to impart light.

There were those in the valley who viewed the Sabbath calm with a derisive smile. There were those who sat upon their little verandas and smoked, and talked in hushed voices, lest listening ears might catch the ominous purport of their words. There were others who went to their beds with a shrug of pretended indifference, feeling glad that for once, at least, their homes were a haven of safety for themselves.

Rocky Springs as a whole knew that something was afoot—some play in which some one was to be worsted, in which, maybe, a life or two would be lost. Anyway, the players were Law versus Outlaw, and those who were not actually concerned with the game felt glad that they still had another night under their own roofs.

It was truly extraordinary how unspoken news spread. It was extraordinary the scent of battle, the scent of a struggle against the law, that was possessed by this people. Everybody seemed to know that to-night something like history was to be made in the annals of the crime of the valley.

So the peace of the valley was almost remarkable. An undoubted air of studied indifference prevailed, but surely it was carefully studied.

Neither Fyles nor any of his police had been seen the whole day. None of them had attended divine service. It was almost as if they had entirely vanished from the precincts of the valley.

So the sun sank, and the ruddy clouds rose up from the west like the fiery splash of the molten contents of the cauldron into which the great ball of fire had plunged. They rose up, and then dispersed, vanishing into thin air, and making way for the soft sheen of a myriad stars, and leaving clear a perfect night for the great summer moon to illuminate.

* * * * *

Two by two a large number of horsemen rode out of the valley of Leaping Creek. Once away from the starting point, their movements, their figures became elusive and shadowy. They passed out from among the trees, on to the wide plains above, and each couple split up, taking their individual ways with a certainty which displayed their perfect prairie craft.

Far out into the night they rode, each with clear instructions filling his mind, each with the certainty that one or more of their number must be brought face to face with a crisis before morning, which would need all their nerve and wit to bring to a successful issue.

The moon rose up, a great golden globe, slowly changing to a cold silvery light as it mounted the starlit vault. Then came a change. Instead of leaving a starry track behind it, a bank of cloud followed hard upon its heels, threatening to overtake it and hide its splendor behind a pall of summer storm.

Stanley Fyles watched with satisfaction the signs of the night.

* * * * *

A solitary horseman sat leaning forward upon the horn of his saddle, his eyes searching, searching, with aching intensity, that dim, shadowed skyline now almost lost against its backing of cloud. He was half-hidden in the shadow of a small bluff of spruce, with the depths of the valley hard behind him.

Not only were his eyes searching with an almost unblinking watchfulness, but his ears, too, were busy with that intense, nerve-racking straining which leaves them ever ready to carry the phantom sounds of imagination to the impatient brain above.

It was a long, intense vigil, and a hundred times the waiting man saw movements and heard sounds which set him ready to give the final signal which was to complete the carefully laid plans of his chief. But, in each case, he was spared the false alarm to which tricks of imagination so nearly drove him.

Midnight came and passed. The sky grew more threatening. The man's eyes were upon that distant, southern upland which marked the skyline. Something seemed to be moving in the hazy distance, but as yet there was no sound accompanying the movement.

Was there not? Hark, what was that?

The man sighed. It was the rustle of the trees about him, stirred by a gentle rising breeze. But was it? Hark! That sounded like a footfall. But a footfall was not wanted. It was the sound of wheels for which his ears were straining. Ah, that was surely the wind. And—yes—listen. A rumble. It might be the wheels at last, or was it thunder? He sat up. The strain was hard to bear. It was thunder. And his eyes, for a moment, left the horizon for the clouds above. He regretted the absence of the moon. It left his work doubly difficult. He wondered——

But his wonder ceased, and he fell like a stone out of the saddle. He struggled fiercely, but his arms were held to his sides immovable. He had a vague recollection of a swift whirring sound, but that was all. Then he found himself struggling furiously on the ground with his horse vanished.

* * * * *

Inspector Fyles was thinking of many things. His post was at a point overlooking the Fort Alberton trail, which wound its way in the wide trough of two great, still waves of prairieland directly in front of him. Nothing could pass that way and remain unobserved, excepting under cover of the storm which seemed to be gathering.

He patted Peter's arched neck, and the well-mannered, amiable creature responded by champing its bit impatiently. Fyles smiled. He knew that Peter loved to be traveling far and fast.

He turned his eyes skywards. Perhaps it was not a storm. There were breaks here and there, and occasionally a star peeped out and twinkled mockingly at him. Still, he must hope for the best. A storm would favor his quarry, besides being——. Hark!

A shot rang out in the distance, away to the east. One—two! Wait. A third! There it was. To the east. They were coming on over the southern trail, and that was in McBain's section!

He lifted his reins, and Peter promptly laid his swift heels to the ground. Three shots. Fyles hoped the fourth would not be fired until he was within striking distance of the spot.

* * * * *

Four horsemen were converging upon the bluff whence the shots had proceeded. Each of the four had heard the three shots fired, each was executing the tactical arrangement agreed upon, and each was waiting as he rode, laboring under a high nervous tension, for the fourth shot, which was to confirm the alarm and notify the definite discovery of the contraband.

It was withheld.

Fyles was the first to reach the bluff, but, almost at the same moment, McBain's great horse drew up with a jolt. The inspector saw the approach of his subordinate while his eyes were still searching the skirts of the bluff for the patrol who had given the signal.

"He should be on the southeast side," said McBain, and rode off in that direction. Fyles followed hard upon his heels.

They had gone less than two hundred yards when the officer saw the shadowy form of the Scot throw itself back in the saddle, and pull his great horse back upon its haunches. Fyles swept up on the swift-footed Peter. He, too, reined up with a jolt and leaped out of the saddle.

McBain was on his knees beside the prostrate form of the sentry. The man was bound hand and foot, and a heavy gag was secured in his widely forced open mouth.

At that moment two troopers dashed up. And the sounds of others foregathering could be plainly heard.

As Fyles regarded the prostrate man he realized that once more he had been defeated. He did not require to wait for the gag to be removed. He understood.

He leaped into the saddle, as McBain cut the gag from the man's mouth. A sharp inquiry broke the silence.

"Say, did you fire that—alarm?" Fyles cried almost fiercely.

The man had struggled to a sitting posture, and began to explain.

"No, sir. I was dragged——"

"Never mind what happened. You didn't give the alarm?"

"No, sir."

"Quick, McBain!" Fyles almost shouted. "They've done us. Cut him loose, and follow me. They're on the Fort Allerton trail—or my name's not Fyles."

* * * * *

Peter led the race for the Fort Allerton trail. The dark night clouds were breaking when they reached the spot where the inspector had originally stationed himself. They passed on, and a glimmer of moonlight peeped out at them as they reached the trail side.

Fyles and McBain leaped from their saddles and examined the sandy surface of it. Two of the troopers joined them.

At length the officer spoke, and his voice had lost something of its sharp tone of authority.

"They've beaten us, McBain," he cried. "God's curse on them, they've played us at our own game, and—beaten us. A wagon and team's passed here less than five minutes ago. Look at the dust track they've left."

Fyles stood up. Then he started, and an angry glitter shone in his gray eyes. A horseman was silently looking on at the group of dismounted men, deliberately watching their movements. In the heat of the hunt no one had heard his approach. He sat there looking on in absolute silence.

Fyles moved clear of his men and strode up to the horseman. He halted within a yard of him, while the rest of the party looked on in amazement. McBain was the only one to make any move. He followed hard on his chief's heels.

Fyles looked up into the horseman's face. The sky had cleared and the moon was shining once more. A sudden fury leaped to the officer's brain, and, for a moment, all discretion was very nearly flung to the winds. By a great effort, however, he checked his mad impulse.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Bryant?" he demanded sharply.

Charlie Bryant leaned forward upon the horn of his saddle. His dark eyes were smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile.

"Why, wondering what you fellows are doing here," he said calmly.

Fyles stared, and again his fury nearly got the better of him.

"That's no answer to my question," he snapped.

"Isn't it?" A subtle change was in Charlie Bryant's manner. His smile remained, but it was full of a burning dislike, and even insolence. "Guess it's all you'll get from a free citizen. I've as much right here looking on at the escapades of the police, as they have to—indulge in 'em. Guess I've had a mighty long day and need to get home. Say, I'm tired. So long."

He urged his horse forward and passed on down the trail. And as he went a trooper followed him, with orders to track him till daylight.



CHAPTER XXVI

ROCKY SPRINGS HEARS THE NEWS

The news which greeted early morning ears in Rocky Springs was of a quality calculated to upset the entire affairs of the day, and bring a perfect surfeit of grist to O'Brien's insatiable mill. It even jeopardized the all-important church affairs. No one was inclined to work at all, let alone voluntarily work.

Then, too, there were the difficulties of gathering together a quorum of the Church Construction Committee, and Mrs. John Day, full of righteous indignation and outraged pride, as president, felt and declared that it was a scandal that the degraded doings of a parcel of low-down whisky-runners should be allowed to interfere with the noble cause which the hearts of the valley were set upon. But, being a woman of considerable energy, she by no means yielded to circumstances.

However, her difficulties were considerable. The percolation of the news of the police failure had reduced the male population to the condition of a joyful desire to celebrate in contraband drink. The female population became obsessed with a love of their own doorsteps, whence they could greet each other and exchange loud-voiced opinions with their neighbors, while their household "chores" awaited their later convenience. The children, too, were robbed of their delight in more familiar mischief, and turned their inventive faculties toward something newer and more in keeping with prevailing conditions and sentiments. Thus, a new game was swiftly arranged, and some brighter soul among them christened it the D. I. F. game. The initials were popularly believed to represent "Done is Fyles," but the enlightened among the boys understood that they stood for "Damn Idjut Fyles," an interpretation quite in keeping with the general opinion of the people of the valley.

Certainly the atmosphere of the village that morning must have been intolerable to Inspector Fyles, had he permitted himself to dwell upon the indications, the derisive glances, the quiet laugh of men as he chanced to pass. But public opinion and feeling were things he had long since schooled himself to ignore. He was concerned with his superiors, and his superiors only. At all times they were more than sufficient to trouble with, and his whole anxiety was turned in their direction now, in view of his terrible failure of the night before.

Thus he was forced to witness the signs about him, and content himself with the knowledge that he had been bluffed, while he cast about in his troubled mind for a means of appeasing his superior's official wrath.

The church committee was to assemble at Mrs. John Day's house at ten o'clock, and the hour passed without a shadow of a quorum being formed. Kate Seton, the honorary secretary, was the only member, besides the president, who put in an appearance at the appointed hour.

So Mrs. Day thrust on her bonnet, and, with every artificial flower in its crown shaking with indignation, set out to "round-up" the members.

O'Brien was impossible. His trade was too overwhelming to be left in the hands of a mere bartender, but there was less excuse for Billy Unguin and Allan Dy, who were merely drinkers in the place. She possessed herself of their persons and marched them off, and gathered up two or three women friends of hers on the way home. Thus, by eleven o'clock, she had the door of her parlor closed upon a more or less efficient quorum.

Then she sat her bulk down with a sigh of enforced content. Her florid face was beaded with perspiration as a result of her efforts.

She turned autocratically to her secretary.

"We'll dispense with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting," she declared half-defiantly. "We'll take 'em as read and passed. This liquor business is driving us all to perdition, as well as wasting our time, which is more important in Rocky Springs. I've never seen the like of this place." She glared directly at the two men. "And the men—well, say, I s'pose they are men, these fellows who stand around decorating that villain O'Brien's saloon. If it was a christening, they'd drink; if it was a wedding, they'd drink; if it was a funeral, they'd drink; if they were going to stand before their Maker right away, they'd call for rye first."

After which few opening remarks, given with all the scornful dignity of one who knows she holds the leading position among her sex in the village, she proceeded with the work in hand with a capacity for detail that quite worried the absent minds of the only two male members of the committee present.

Such was the general yearning for a termination of the meeting, so that its members might once more return to the gossip outside, that Mrs. John Day was permitted to carry all her plans in her scheme of salvation before her, with little or no discussion. And, in consequence, her good nature quickly reasserted itself, and she became more and more inclined to look leniently upon the defects of the majority of her committee.

The president disposed of several lesser complaints against the construction of the church to her own satisfaction. The list of them was an accumulation of opinions sent in by people who felt that it was due to the community, and themselves, particularly, that the elected committee were sufficiently harrassed by pin pricks, lest it became too high-handed and autocratic.

Mrs. Day's methods of dealing with these was characteristic of her social rule in the village. She rose with a look of contemptuous defiance upon her fiery features. It was Helen who had once declared that Mrs. John always reminded her of one of those very red-combed old hens who never failed to cluck themselves very nearly into an apoplectic fit over a helpless worm, and demanded that all eyes should watch her marvelous display of prowess in its slaughter. A slip of paper had been thrust into her hands by the undisturbed honorary secretary.

"I guess I'm not going to worry you folks with debating these fool complaints sent in by some of the glory-seekers in this village," she began with enthusiastic heat. "I've settled them all myself. I'll read you the complaints and what I've done in each case. First, there's a kick from Mrs. Morgan, upon the hill. She's no account anyway, and hasn't given a bean toward the church—yet. Guess I'll have to see to that later. She says she saw two of the boys working on log hauling, sitting around in the shade of the church wall, after doing their work, swilling whisky out of the neck of a bottle, and guessed it wasn't decent. I've written her asking her to send two boys to do the work in their place. Guess she hasn't replied. Katherine L. Sherman, who guesses she's related to the real Shermans, and has had twins twice in three years, writes: 'When are we goin' to arrange for a christening font?' I handed her this. 'When folks needing it see their way clear to unrolling their bank wads.' Then there's Mrs. Andy Carlton, who's felt high-toned ever since she bought that second-hand top buggy from Mary Porson. She guesses we need a bell. I told her that if the people of Rocky Springs tried ringing their way to glory, it would be liable to alarm folks there. Best way would be to try and sneak in, and not shout they were coming. Then I heard from Mary Porson, herself. She wants to know who's to keep the boys who're drunk out of service, and wouldn't it be better to hold Meeting on Monday, so's the boys could get over the Saturday night souse in comfort. I told her she seemed to have a wrong idea of the folks of this village. I guessed if any feller got around to Meeting with liquor under his belt, there was liable to be a lynching right away. The boys wouldn't stand for any ungentlemanly conduct at Meeting. Then there's Mrs. Annerly-Jones. Having a hyphen to her name, she's all for white surplices and organized singing. She figures to start up a full choir, and sing the solos herself. I hinted that the choir racket wasn't to be despised, but solo work was liable to cause ill-feeling in the village by making folks think the singer was getting the start of them in the chase for glory. And, anyway, the old harmonium wasn't a match for her voice. Then there's a suggestion for cuspidors for each bench, and I must say, right here, I'm in favor of them. I'm not one to interfere with the disgusting ways of men. Men are just men, and can't help it, anyway, and if they contract filthy habits, it's not for woman to put 'em right. But she's got the right to refuse having her skirts turned into floor swabs. I've fixed all these things right, so we don't need to vote on 'em. But there's one little matter that needs discussing right here and now, seeing that the folks are present who've brought it up."

The president paused and glared at the two men through her big, steel-rimmed glasses, and Billy Unguin and Allan Dy found themselves uncomfortably interested in various parts of well-varnished appointments of the lady's parlor.

Kate Seton eyed the two men with some amusement. She felt that the recent discussion, which took place in the new church itself, was liable to assume a different complexion here. Besides, she knew these two men, and felt it was best to have the suggestion of felling the old pine, as a ridge pole for the church, definitely negatived by the present meeting.

Mrs. John Day was always a difficult woman, of very strong opinions. Therefore it was not policy to suggest her course of action. So Kate had merely warned her that the suggestion had been made.

"It's been said," Mrs. Day went on, with an aggressive look in her hot eyes, "that the design of the building is all wrong. That the main body is too long, and that the ridge pole of the roof will have to be joined in several places. This means a great weakness that'll have to be supported by central columns, which will obstruct the central gangway and the general view. I'd like Mr. Unguin and Mr. Dy to discuss the matter before the meeting."

Thus challenged, Allan Dy sprang to his feet.

"It's just as you say, ma'm," he cried. "And I say right here that ridge pole should be in one piece. It's bad. In a few years' time we'll surely have to rebuild that roof."

He sat down with a jolt, and glared fiercely at his friend beside him.

Billy Unguin was on his feet in a moment.

"I want to say right here that my friend's been sorting mail so long he's got nervous. Furthermore, I'd add he don't need to worry a thing. It's my opinion the new church is an elegant proposition which reflects credit upon Rocky Springs, and our charming president more than anybody. And, if there's any liberties taken with the science of architecture, the matter can be got over dead easy. If joining the ridge pole means weakening the structure, then don't join it. That don't beat us a little bit. With such a head as our president has for the management of big affairs I'm sure she'll see a way out of the trouble, 'specially when I draw her attention to the old pine, which is tall enough to cut two ridge poles out of it for our church."

Like his friend, he sat down with a jolt. But he was smiling with anticipated triumph. He felt that his long experience as a salesman of dry goods had taught him how to reach the most vulnerable point in feminine armor. When it came to winning over Mrs. John Day to his side Allan Dy hadn't an earthly chance with him.

But his smile slowly disappeared when the honorary secretary promptly rose to her feet.

Kate Seton turned and addressed herself to the president.

"I should like to put in a word of protest," she began, while Allan Dy smiled and breathed his thankfulness that he was not to remain unsupported.

Instantly Billy Unguin broke in.

"Miss Seton, as secretary, is only ex-officio," he cried.

Mrs. Day shot a withering glance at him.

"Miss Seton is honorary secretary."

Allan Dy smiled more broadly as the president promptly nodded for Kate to proceed.

"I wish to protest against the old pine being felled," she said, with some warmth. "It means disaster to Rocky Springs. There is the old legend. There is a curse on the felling of that tree."

Her announcement was greeted by a murmur of approval from the women present, all except Mrs. Day. Dy beamed. But Kate was less pleased. She knew her president. She would always listen to the men, but when her own sex ventured on thinking for themselves she was liable to become restive.

The president glanced round the room with a swift challenge shining through her glasses, and her hard mouth closed tightly. Then she turned sharply to the woman at her side.

"I'm—I'm—astonished, Kate," she cried, with difficulty suppressing her inclination to domineer. "The matter is most simple. It is said the best interests of the church are being jeopardized. There is the obvious necessity of altering the design of the roof of our beautiful building. You—whom I have always regarded as the essence of sanity, and my chief support in the arduous work which has been flung upon my shoulders, and which Mr. Unguin has been pleased to say I'm not incapable of carrying out—you would sacrifice those interests for a lot of old Indian fool talk. I never would have believed it. Never! Say," she turned to the others, and her eyes challenged the rest of the women, "This surely is a more serious matter than I thought. It must be looked into. I'll look into it myself. If things are as Mr. Dy says, and it's necessary, as Mr. Unguin points out, to cut down that tree to fix our church right—why, it's going to be cut down. That's all."

She paused dramatically, but not long enough for anybody to interrupt her. Then, with a wave of her fat arm, which, to the women, became a threat, and to the men appeared to be something like the gesticulation of an animated sausage, she proceeded to terminate the debate.

"Those in favor of my proposition will signify the same in the usual manner," she cried, with an air that brooked no sort of denial.

Up went every right hand in the room except those of Kate and Allan Dy. Then the "no's" were taken. After which the result was announced with all the triumph of Mrs. Day's domineering personality.

"Carried," she cried.

Then she turned upon her secretary without the least sympathy or kindliness in her manner.

"You'll enter that resolution in the minutes of the meeting," she snapped.

* * * * *

Some half-hour later the quorum dissolved itself and trickled out of the oppressive precincts of Mrs. John Day's highly polished parlor. The trickling process only lasted until the front door was gained. Then came a rush which had neither dignity nor politeness in it.

The two men set off for the saloon without attempting to disguise their purpose. The women hastily tripped off in the various directions whither they knew their favorite gossips would be found. Even Kate Seton failed to wait to exchange her usual few final words with the president. Truth to tell, she was both disgusted and depressed, and felt that somehow she had made a mess of things. She felt that she had contrived to turn an unimportant matter into something of the first magnitude. The question of felling the old pine had merely been one of those subjects for bickering between Billy and Allan Dy, who had never been known to agree on any subject, and now, through bringing their dispute before the committee, she knew that she had changed it into a question upon which the whole village would take sides. She only trusted that superstition would prevail, and the aged landmark would be left standing. She somehow felt doubtful, however, now that Mrs. Day had taken sides against her, and she hurried off to avoid further discussion.

Billy Unguin arrived at the saloon alone. Allan Dy's course was diverted when he came within sight of his post office. As he reached the main trail of the village, he saw Inspector Fyles and Sergeant McBain riding down from the west, and the sight of them reminded him of his mail. So, leaving his friend to continue his way to the saloon alone, he went on to his little office, arriving in time to take down a telegraphic message from Amberley, and hand it, with his mail, to the police officer.

He rubbed his hands delightedly as he read the message over to himself a second time before placing it in its envelope. It was from the police headquarters, and its wording was full of significance in the light of last night's events. Allan Dy was glad he had not gone on to the saloon.

The message was desperately curt.

"Wagon returned to Fort Allerton empty. Report. Jason."

The postmaster had just placed the message with the officers' mail when the two policemen entered. Fyles's expression was morose, and his manner repellent. McBain was grim and silent.

"There's a goodish mail, Mr. Fyles," said Dy, without a trace of his real feelings, as he held out the bulky packet of letters. "That message has just come along over the wire." He pointed at the tinted envelope enclosing the telegram.

While Fyles took his mail, McBain's keen eyes were at work upon the letters spread out on the counter.

Fyles's silent manner induced the curious official to go a step further.

"It's from headquarters—Superintendent Jason," he said, covertly watching the policeman's face.

But the effect was not quite as satisfactory as he hoped. Fyles smiled.

"Thanks. I was expecting it."

Then he turned away, and, followed by McBain, passed out of the building.

Once outside, however, it was quite another matter. The officer tore open the message and glanced at its contents. Then he passed it on to McBain with a brief comment.

"They're wise," he said. "Guess the band's going to start playing—right away."

McBain read the message. "We're up against it, sir," was his dry comment.

"Up against it, man?" Fyles cried, with sudden heat. "I tell you that's very nearly our sentence. We've failed—failed, do you understand? And it's not our first failure. Do you need me to tell you anything? We may just as well stand right here and cut off the badges of our various ranks. That's what we may as well do," he added bitterly. "There's no mercy in Jason, and devilish little reason."

But the Scot seemed to have very little sympathy for the other's feelings. He seemed to care less for his rank than something else, and, in his next words, the real man shone out.

"I don't care a curse for my rank, sir," he exclaimed. "We've been bluffed and beaten like two babes in the game our lives are spent in playing. That's what hurts me. Have you seen 'em, sir? All the way along as we came down here just now. We passed five or six women at the doors of their miserable shacks, and they smiled as they saw us. We passed four men, and their greeting was maddening in its jeer. Even the damned kids looked up and grinned like the apes they are. They've bluffed and beaten us, and I—hate 'em all."

For some moments Stanley Fyles made no answer. He was gazing out down the village trail, and his eyes were on a small group of people standing some way off talking together. He had recognized them. They were Kate and Helen Seton, and with them was young Bryant, the ingenuous brother of Charlie. He guessed, as well he might, the subject of their talk. His failure. Was not everybody talking of it? And were not most of them, probably all of them, rejoicing? His bitterness grew, and at last he turned on his subordinate.

"Bluffed, but not beaten," he said, with a fierce oath which did the Scot's heart good. "We're not beaten," he reiterated, "if only Jason will leave us alone, and trust us further. I've got to convince him. I've got to tell him all that's happened, and I've got to persuade him to leave us here. We've got to go on. He can recommend my resignation, he can do what he damn well pleases, so long as he leaves me here to finish this work. I tell you, I've got to break up this gang of hoodlums."

McBain's eyes glittered.

"That's how I feel, sir."

"Feel? We've just got to do it—or clear out of the country. Man, I'd give a thousand dollars to know how they got possession of our signals. Those shots, that bluffed us, were fired by some of the gang. How did they learn it? It's been done by spying, but—say, get on back to camp, and prepare the report of last night. Hold it up for me, and I'll enclose a private letter to Mr. Jason. I'll be along later."

McBain nodded.

"You fix it, sir, so we don't get transferred back. We need another chance badly. Maybe they won't bluff us next time."

He swung himself into the saddle and rode away, while Fyles, linking his arm through the faithful Peter's reins, strolled leisurely on down the track toward the group which included Kate Seton.

As he drew near they ceased talking, and watched his approach. Their attitude was such that Fyles could not refrain from a half-bitter, half-laughing comment as he came up.

"It doesn't take much guessing to locate the subject of your talk, Miss Kate," he cried.

Kate's dark eyes had no smile in them as she replied to his challenge.

"How's that?" she inquired, while Bill and Helen watched his face.

Fyles shrugged.

"You stopped talking when you saw I was coming your way." He laughed. "However, I guess it's only to be expected. The boys bluffed us all right last night. It was a smartish trick. Still," he added thoughtfully, "it's given us an elegant lever—when the time comes."

Kate made no answer. She was studying the man's face, and there was a certain regret and even pity in the depths of her regard. Bill and Helen had no such feelings for him. They were frankly rejoiced at his failure.

Helen replied. "That's so, Mr. Fyles," she said, almost tartly, "but I guess that lever needs to help them into your traps to do any real good."

The officer's smile was quite good-humored, in spite of the sharpness of the girl's reminder. What he really felt he was not likely to display here.

"Sure," he said. "The spider weaves his web and it's not worth a cent if the flies aren't foolish enough to make mistakes. The spider is a student of winged insect nature, and he lays his plans accordingly. The flies always come to him—in the end."

Bill laughed good-humoredly.

"That's dandy," he cried. "There's always fool flies around. But sometimes that spider's web gets all mussed up and broken. I've broke 'em myself—rather than see the fool things caught."

Kate's eyes were turned on the great bulk of Charlie's brother. Even Helen looked up with bright admiration for her lover.

Fyles's gaze was leveled directly into the innocent looking blue eyes laughing into his.

"Yes, I dare say you and other folks have broken those things up, often—but the spiders thrive and multiply. You see, when one net is busted they—make another. They don't seem to starve ever, do they? Ever seen a spider dead of starvation?"

"Can't say I have." Bill shook his great head. "But maybe they'd get a bad time if they set their traps for any special flies—or fly."

Fyles raised his powerful shoulders coldly.

"Guess the spider business doesn't go far enough," he said, talking directly at Big Brother Bill. "When I spoke of that lever just now, maybe you didn't get my meaning quite clearly. That gang, who ran the liquor in last night, put themselves further up against the law than maybe they think. It was an armed attack on the police, which is quite a different thing to just simple whisky-running. Get me? The police are always glad when crooks do that. It pays them better—when the time comes."

Bill had no reply. He suddenly experienced the chill of the cold steel of police methods. A series of painful pictures rose up before his mind's eye, which held his tongue silent. Helen quickly came to his rescue.

"But who's to say who did it?" she demanded.

Fyles smiled down into her pretty face.

"Those who want to save their skins—when the time comes."

It was Helen's turn to realize something of the irresistible nature of the work of the police. Somehow she felt that the defeat of the police last night was but a shadowy success after all, for those concerned in the whisky-running. Her thought flew at once to Charlie, and she shuddered at the suggested possibilities in Fyles's words.

She turned away.

"Well, all I can say is, I—I hate it all, and wish it was all over and done with. Everybody's talking, everybody's gloating, and—and it just makes me feel scared to death." Then she turned again to Bill. "Let's go on," she cried, a little desperately. "We'll finish our shopping, and—and get away from it all. It just makes me real ill."

She waved a farewell to Kate and moved away, and Bill, like some faithful watchdog, followed at her heels. Fyles looked after them both with serious, earnest eyes. Kate watched them smiling.

Presently Fyles turned back to her.

"Well?" he demanded.

Kate's eyes were slowly raised to his.

"Well?" she echoed. "So——"

She broke off. Her generous nature checked her in time. She had been about to twit him with his defeat. She sympathized with his feelings at the thought of his broken hopes.

"Better say it," said Fyles, with a smile, in which chagrin and tenderness struggled for place. "You were going to say I have been defeated, as you told me I should be defeated."

"I s'pose I was." Kate glanced quickly up into his face, but the feeling she beheld there made her turn her eyes away so that they followed Bill and Helen moving down the trail. "Women are usually ungenerous to—an adversary." Then her whole manner changed to one of kindly frankness. "Do you know my feelings are sort of mixed about your—defeat——"

"Not defeat," put in Fyles. "Check."

Kate smiled.

"Well, then, 'check.' I am glad—delighted—since you direct all your suspicions against Charlie. Then I am full of regret for you, because—because I know the rigor of police discipline. In the eyes of the authorities you have failed—twice. Oh, if you would only attack this thing with an open mind, and not start prejudiced against Charlie. I wish you had never listened to local gossip. If that were so I could be on your side, and—and with true sportsmanship, wish you well. Besides that, I might be able to tell you things. You see, I learn many things in the village that others do not—hear."

Fyles was studying the woman's face closely as she spoke. And something he beheld there robbed his defeat of a good deal of its sting. Her words were the words of partisanship, and her partisanship was for another as well as himself. Had this not been so, had her partisanship been for him alone, he could well have abandoned himself to an open mind, as she desired. As it was, she drove him to a dogged pursuit of the man he was convinced was the real culprit.

"Don't let us reopen the old subject," he said, with a shade of irritability. "I have evidence you know nothing of, and I should be mad indeed if I changed my objective at your desire, for the sake of the unsupported belief and regard you have for this man. Let us be content to be adversaries, each working out our little campaign as we think best. Don't waste regrets at my failures. I know the price I have to pay for them—only too well. I know, and I tell you frankly, but only you, that my career in the police may terminate in consequence. That's all right. The prestige of the force cannot be maintained by—failures. The prestige of the force is very dear to me. If you have anything to tell me that may lead me in the direction of the real culprit, then tell me. If not—why let us be friends until—until my work has made that impossible. I—I want your friendship very much."

Kate's eyes were turned from him. The deep light in them was very soft.

"Do you?" she smiled. "Well—perhaps you have it, in spite of our temporary antagonism. Oh, dear—it's all so absurd."

Fyles laughed.

"Isn't it? But, then, anything out of the ordinary is generally absurd, until we get used to it. Somehow, it doesn't seem absurd that I want your—friendship. At least, not to me."

Kate smiled up into his face.

"And yet it is—absurd."

The man's eyes suddenly became serious.

"Why?"

Kate shrugged.

"That's surely explained. We are—antagonists."

Again that look of impatience crossed the man's keen features. As he offered no reply, Kate went on.

"About the armed attack on the police. You said it made all the difference. What is the difference?"

"Anything between twelve months in the penitentiary and twenty years—when the gang is landed."

"Twenty years!" The woman gave a slight gasp.

The man nodded.

"And do you know the logical consequence of it all?" he inquired.

"No." Kate's eyes were horrified.

"Why, when next we come into conflict there will be shooting if these people are pressed. They will have to shoot to save themselves. Then there may be murder added to their list of—delinquencies. These things follow in sequence. It is the normal progress of those who put themselves on the side of crime."



CHAPTER XXVII

AT THE HIDDEN CORRAL

Charlie Bryant urged his horse at a dangerous pace along the narrow, winding cattle tracks which threaded the upper reaches of the valley. He gave no heed to anything—the lacerating thorns, the great, knotty roots, with which the paths were studded, the overhanging boughs. His sole object seemed to be a desperate desire to reach his destination.

His horse often floundered and tripped, the man's own clothes were frequently ripped by the thorns, and the bleeding flesh beneath laid bare, while it seemed a miracle that he successfully dodged the threatening boughs overhead.

There was a hunted look in his dark eyes, too. It was a look of concern, almost of terror. His gaze was alert and roving. Now, he was looking ahead, straining with anxiety, now he was turning this way and that in response to the mysterious woodland sounds which greeted his ears. Again, with a nervous jerk, he would rein in his horse and sit listening, with eyes staring back over the way he had come, as though fearing pursuit.

Once he thrust a hand into an inside pocket as though to reassure himself that something was there which he valued and feared to lose, and with every movement, every look of his eyes, every turn of the head, he displayed an unusual nervousness and apprehension.

At last his horse swept into the clearing of the hidden corral, and he reined it up with a jerk, and leaped from the saddle. Then he stood listening, and the apprehension in his eyes deepened. But presently it lessened, and he moved forward, and flung his reins over one of the corral fence posts. Every woodland sound, every discordant note from the heart of the valley was accounted for in his mind, so he hurried toward the flat-roofed hut, that mysterious relic of a bygone age.

He thrust the creaking door open and waited while the flight of birds swarmed past him. Then he made his way within. Once inside he paused again with that painful look of expectancy and fear in his eyes. Again this passed, and he went on quickly to the far corner of the room, and laid his hands upon the wooden lining of the wall. Then he abruptly seemed to change his mind. He removed his hands, and withdrew a largish, morocco pocketbook from an inner pocket.

It was a rather fine case, bound in embossed silver, and ornamented with a silver monogram. For some moments he looked at it as though in doubt. He seemed to be definitely making up his mind, and his whole attitude suggested his desire for its safety.

While he was still gazing at it a startled look leaped into his eyes, and his head turned as though at some suspicious sound. A moment later he reached out and slid the wooden lining of the wall up, revealing the cavity behind it, which still contained its odd assortment of garments. Without hesitation he reached up to a dark jacket and thrust the pocketbook into an inner pocket. Then, with a swift movement, he replaced the paneling and turned about.

It was the work of a moment, and as he turned about his right hand was gripping the butt of a revolver, ready and pointing at the door.

"Charlie!"

The revolver was slipped back into the man's pocket, and Charlie Bryant's furious face was turned toward the window opening, which now framed the features of his great blundering brother.

"You, Bill?" he cried angrily. "What in hell are you doing here?"

But Bill ignored the challenge, he ignored the tone of it. His big eyes were full of excitement.

"Come out of there—quick!" he cried sharply.

Charlie's dark eyes had lost some of their anger in the inquiry now replacing it.

"Why?" But he moved toward the doorway.

"Why? Because Fyles is behind me. I've seen him in the distance."

Charlie came around the corner of the building with the door firmly closed behind him. Bill left the window and moved across to his horse, which was standing beside that of his brother. Charlie followed him.

Neither spoke again until the horses were reached, and Bill had unhitched his reins from the corral fence. Then he turned his great blue eyes, so full of trouble, upon the small figure beside him, and he answered the other's half-angry, half-curious challenge with a question.

"What's this place?" he demanded. Then he added, "And what's that cupboard in there?" He jerked his head in the direction of the hut, "I saw you close it."

Charlie seemed to have recovered from the apprehension which had caused him to obey his brother unquestioningly. There was an angry sparkle in his eyes as he gazed steadily into Bill's face.

"That's none of your damn business," he said, in a low tone of surly truculence. "I'm not here to answer any questions till you tell me the reason why you've had the impertinence to hunt me down. How did you know where to find me?"

Just for one moment a hot retort leaped to the other's lips. But he checked his rising temper. His journey in pursuit of his brother had been taken after deep reflection and consultation with Helen. But the mystery of that hut, that cupboard, did more to keep him calm than anything else. His curiosity was aroused. Not mere idle curiosity, but these things, this place, were a big link in the chain of evidence that had been forged about his brother, and he felt he was on the verge of a discovery. Then there was Fyles somewhere nearby in the neighborhood. This last thought, and all it portended, destroyed his feelings of resentment.

"I s'pose you think I followed you for sheer curiosity. Guess I might well enough do so, seeing we bear the same name, and that name's liable to stink—through you. But I didn't, anyway. I came out here to tell you something I heard this morning, and it's about—last night. Fyles says that the result of last night is that the gang, their leader, is now wanted for an armed attack on the police, and that the penalty is—anything up to twenty years in the penitentiary."

Charlie's intense regard never wavered for one moment.

"Who told you I was here?" he demanded angrily.

"No one."

There was a sting in the sharpness of Bill's reply. The big blue eyes were growing hot again.

"Then how did you know where to find me?" Charlie's deep voice was full of suppressed fury.

"I didn't know just where to find you," Bill protested, with rising heat. "The kid told me you'd gone up the valley, but didn't say where. I set out blindly and stumbled on your horse's tracks. I chanced those tracks, and they led me here. Will that satisfy you?"

Charlie's eyes were still glittering.

"Not quite. I'll ask you to get out of my ranch. And remember this, you've seen me at this shack, and you've seen that cupboard. If you'd been anybody but my brother I'd have shot you down in your tracks. Fyles—anybody. That cupboard is my secret, and if anyone learns of it through you—well, I'll forget you're my brother and treat you as though you were—Fyles."

A sudden blaze of wrath flared up in the bigger man's eyes. But, almost as it kindled, it died out and he laughed. However, when he spoke there was no mirth in his voice.

"My God, Charlie," he cried, holding out his big hands, "I could almost take you in these two hands and—and wring your foolish, obstinate, wicked neck. You stand there talking blasted melodrama like a born actor on the one-night stands. Your fool talk don't scare me a little. What in the name of all that's sacred do you think I want to send you to the penitentiary for? Haven't I come here to warn you? Man, the rye whisky's turned you crazy. I'm here to help, help, do you understand? Just four letters, 'help,' a verb which means 'support,' not 'destroy.'"

Charlie's cold regard never wavered.

"When will you clear out of—my ranch?"

Bill started. The brothers' eyes met in a long and desperate exchange of regard. Then the big man brought his fist down upon the high cantle of his saddle with startling force.

"When I choose, not before," he cried fiercely. "Do you understand? Here, you foolish man. I know what I'm up against. I know what you're up against, and I tell you right here that if Fyles is going to hunt you into the penitentiary he can hunt me, too. I'm not smart, like you, on these crook games, but I'm determined that the man who lags you will get it good and plenty. I sort of hate you, you foolish man. I hate you and like you. You've got grit, and, by God, I like you for it, and I don't stand to see you go down for any twenty years—alone. If Fyles gets you that way, you're the last man he ever will get. Damn you!"

Charlie drew a deep breath. It was a sigh of pent feeling. He averted his gaze, and it wandered over the old corral inside which the wagon with its hay-rack was still standing, though its position was changed slightly. His eyes rested upon it, and passed on to the hut, about which the birds were once more gathering. They paused for some silent moments in this direction. Then they came back to the angry, waiting brother.

"I wish you weren't such a blunderer, Bill," he said, and his manner had become peevishly gentle. "Can't you see I've got to play my own game in my own way? You don't know all that's back of my head. You don't know a thing. All you know is that Fyles wants to send me down, by way of cleaning up this valley. I want him to—if he can. But he can't. Not as long as the grass grows. He's beaten—beaten before he starts. I don't want help. I don't want help from anybody. Now, for God's sake, can't you leave me alone?"

The tension between the two was relaxed. Bill gave an exclamation of impatience.

"You want him to—send you down?"

The warp of this man was too much for his common sense.

"If he can."

Charlie smiled now. It was a smile of perfect confidence. Bill threw up his hands.

"Well, you've got me beat to a rag. I——"

"The same as I have Fyles. But say——"

Charlie broke off, and his smile vanished.

"Maybe I'm a crook. Maybe I'm anything you, or anybody else likes to call me. There's one thing I'm not. I'm no bluff. You know of that cupboard in that shack. The thought's poison to me. If any other man had found it, he wouldn't be alive now to listen to me. Do you understand me? Forget it. Forget you ever saw it. If you dream of it, fancy it's a nightmare and—turn over. Bill, I solemnly swear that I'll shoot the man dead, on sight, who gives that away, or dares to look inside it. Now, we'll get away from here."

He sprang into the saddle and waited while his brother mounted. Then he held out his hand.

"Do you get me?" he asked.

Bill nodded, and took the outstretched hand in solemn compact.

"What you say goes," he said easily. "But your threat of shooting doesn't worry me a little bit."

He gathered up his reins and the two men rode out of the clearing.

* * * * *

The last sound of speeding hoofs died away, and the clearing settled once more to its mysterious quiet. Only the twittering of the swarming birds on the thatched roof of the hut disturbed the silence, but, somehow, even their chattering voices seemed really to intensify it.

Thus a few minutes passed.

Then a breaking of bush and rustling of leaves gave warning of a fresh approach. A man's head and shoulders were thrust forward, out from amid the boughs of a wild cherry bush.

His dark face peered cautiously around, and his keen eyes took in a comprehensive survey of both corral and hut. A moment later he stood clear of the bush altogether.

Stanley Fyles swiftly crossed the intervening space and entered the corral. He strode up to the wagon and examined it closely, studying its position and the wheel tracks, with a minuteness that left him in possession of every available fact. Having satisfied himself in this direction, he passed out of the corral and went over to the hut.

The screaming birds promptly protested, and flew once more from their nesting quarters in panicky dudgeon. Fyles watched them go with thoughtful eyes. Then he passed around to the door of the building and thrust it open. Another rush of birds swept past him, and he passed within. Again his searching eyes were brought into play. Not a detail of that interior escaped him. But ten minutes later he left the half-lit room for the broad light of day outside—disappointed.

For a long time he moved around the building, examining the walls, their bases and foundations. His disappointment remained, however, and, finally, with strong discontent in his expression, and an unmistakable shrug of his shoulders, he moved away.

Finally, he paused and gave a long, low whistle. He repeated it at intervals, three times, and, after awhile, for answer, the wise face of Peter appeared from among the bushes. The creature solemnly contemplated the scene. It was almost as if he were assuring himself of the safety of revealing himself. Then, with measured gait, he made his way slowly toward his master.



CHAPTER XXVIII

A WAGER

The wild outbreak of excitement in Rocky Springs died out swiftly. After all, whisky-running was a mere traffic. It was a general traffic throughout the country. The successful "running" of a cargo of alcohol was by no means an epoch-making event. But just now, in Rocky Springs, it was a matter of more than usual interest, in that the police had expressed their intention of "cleaning" the little township up. So the excitement at their outwitting. So, more than ever, the excited rejoicing became a cordial expression of delight at the fooling of the purpose of a generally hated act.

This sentiment was expressed by O'Brien before his bar full of men, among whom were many of those responsible for the defeat of the police. He addressed himself personally to Stormy Longton with the certainty of absolute sympathy.

"Guess when the boys here have done with the p'lice they'll have the prohibition law wiped out of the statute book, Stormy," he said, with a knowing wink. "Ther's fellers o' grit around this valley, eh? Good boys and gritty. Guess it ain't fer us to open our mouths wide, 'cep' to swallow prohibition liquor, but there'll be some tales to tell of these days later, eh, Stormy? An'," he added slyly, "guess you'll be able to tell some of 'em."

The badman displayed no enthusiasm at the personality. He considered carefully before replying. When he did reply, however, he set the saloonkeeper re-sorting some of his convictions, mixing them with a doubt which had never occurred to him before.

"Sure," said Stormy, with a contemptuous shrug, "and I guess you, with the rest, will do some of the listenin'. You're all wise guys hereabouts—mostly as wise as the p'lice. Best hand the company a round of drinks. I've got money to burn."

He laughed, but no amount of questioning could elicit anything more of interest to the curious minds about him.

It was on the second day after the whisky-running that Kate Seton was returning home after an arduous morning in the village. She was feeling unusually depressed, and her handsome face was pathetically lacking in the high spirits and delight of living usual to it. It was not her way to indulge in the self-pitying joys of depression. On the contrary, her buoyancy, her spirit, were such as to attract the weaker at all times to lean on her for support.

She was tired, too, physically tired. The day had been one of sweltering heat, one of those sultry, oppressive days, which are fortunately few enough in the brilliant Canadian summer.

As she reached the wooden bridge across the river she paused and leaned herself against the handrail, and, propping her elbow upon it, leaned her chin upon the palm of her hand and abandoned herself to a long train of troubled thought. It may have been chance; it may have been that her thought inspired the direction of her gaze. It may have been that her attitude had nothing whatsoever to do with her thought. Certain it is, however, that her brooding eyes were turned, as they were so often turned, upon that little ranch house perched so high up on the valley slope.

She remained thus for a while, her eyes almost unseeing in their far-away gaze, but, later, without shifting her attitude, they glanced off to the right in the direction of the old pine, rearing its vagabond head high above the surrounding wealth of by no means insignificant foliage.

It was a splendid sight, and, to her imagination, it looked the personification of the rascality of the village she had so come to love. Look at it. Its trunk, naked as the supports of a scarecrow, suggesting mighty strength, indolence and poverty. There, above, its ragged garments—unwholesome, dirty, like the garments of some tramping, villainous, degraded loafer. And yet, with it all, the old tree looked so mighty, so wise.

To her it seemed like some ages-old creature looking down from its immense height, and out of its experience of centuries, upon a world of struggling beings, with the pitying contempt of a wisdom beyond the understanding of man. It seemed to her the embodiment of evil, yet withal of wisdom, too. And somehow she loved it. Its evil meant nothing to her, nothing more than the evil of the life amid which she lived. It was no mere passing sentiment with her. Her nature was too strong for the softer, womanish sentiments, stirred in a moment and as easily set aside. For her to yield her affections to any creature or object, was to yield herself to a bondage more certain than any life of slavery. To think of this valley without——

Her thoughts were abruptly cut short as the sound of a cry reached her from the direction of her house.

She turned, and, for a moment, stared hard and alertly in the direction whence it came. Her ears were straining, too. In a moment she became aware of a faint confusion of sounds which she had no power of interpreting. But somehow they conveyed an ominous suggestion to her keen mind.

She bestirred herself. She set off at a run for her home. The distance was less than a hundred yards, and she covered it quickly. As she came nearer the sounds grew, and became even more ominous. They proceeded from somewhere in the direction of the barn behind the house.

She darted into the house, and, after one comprehensive glance around the sitting room, where she found the rocker upset, and a china ornament fallen from its place on the table, and smashed in fragments upon the floor, as though someone had knocked it down in a hasty departure, she snatched a revolver from its holster upon the wall, and rushed out of the house through the back door.

She was not mistaken. Her hearing had accurately conveyed to her the meaning of those sounds.

Nevertheless she was wholly unprepared for the sight which actually greeted her as she turned the angle of the barn where the building faced away from the house.

She stood stock still, her big eyes wide with wonder and swift rising anger. Twisting, struggling, writhing, cursing, two men lay upon the ground held in a fierce embrace, much in the manner of two wildcats. Beyond them, huddled upon the ground, her face covered with her hands, a picture of abject terror, crouched her younger sister, Helen.

All this she beheld at the first glance. Then, keeping clear of the fighters she darted around to the terrified girl. With a cry Helen scrambled to her feet and clung to her sister's arm, and began to pour out a stream of hysterical thankfulness.

"Oh, stop them," she cried. "Oh, thank God, thank God! Stop them, or they'll kill each other. Pete will kill him. He——"

But Kate had no time for such feminine weakness. She dragged the girl away out of sight, and left her while she returned to the affray.

Once in full view of it she made no effort to stop it. She stood looking on with the critical eye of an interested spectator, but her hand was grasping her revolver, nor was her forefinger far from the trigger of it.

The men rolled this way and that, while deep-throated curses came up from their midst with a breathless, muttered force. But through the tangle of sprawling bodies and waving limbs Kate's quick eyes discovered all she required to satisfy herself. She saw no real life and death struggle here. Maybe, had the circumstances been changed, it would have been so, but one of the combatants was far too experienced a rough and tumble fighter for those circumstances to mature.

The man on top at the moment had the other in a vice-like grip by the right wrist, keeping the heavy revolver, which the underman had in his hand, from becoming a serious danger. With the other hand he was dealing his adversary careful, well-timed smashes upon his bruised and battered face, with the object of warding off a fierce attack of strong, yellow teeth.

The man on top had his adversary's measure to a fraction. He was dealing with him almost as he chose, and the onlooker knew that it could only be moments before the other finally "squealed," and dropped the murderous weapon from his hand.

Down came the fist, a great, white fist, with a soggy sound upon the man's pulpy features, its force increased a hundred per cent. by the resistance of the hard ground on which his adversary lay. A fierce curse was the response, and a wild upward slash at the big face above. Then the big fist went up again.

"Drop it, you son-of-a-moose," Kate heard, in Big Brother Bill's fiercest tones. "Drop it, or I'll kill you!"

Down came his fist with a fearful smash on the other's gaping mouth.

A splutter of oaths was his reply, and an even greater effort to throw the white man off.

But the effort was unavailing. Then Kate saw something happen. The big white man changed his tactics. He desisted quite suddenly from belaboring his victim. He made no attempt to defend himself. He reached out his disengaged hand and added a second grip upon the man's revolver arm. Then, with a terrific jolt, he flung himself backwards, so that he was left in a kneeling position upon the other's middle. Then, in a second, with an agility absolutely staggering, he was on his feet. The next moment the other was jerked to his feet with his revolver arm twisted behind his back and nearly dislocated.

With a frantic yell of agony the half-breed's hand relaxed its grip upon his revolver, and the weapon fell to the ground. The fight was over. With a mighty throw Pete Clancy was hurled headlong, and fell sprawling upon the ground at the foot of the barn wall, and his impact was like the result of a shot from a catapult.

"Lie there, you dirty dog!" cried Big Brother Bill, in a fury of breathless indignation. "That'll maybe learn you a lesson not to get drinking rot gut, and, if you do, not to insult a white girl. You damnation nigger, for two beans I'd kick the life out of you where you lay."

The man was scrambling to his feet, glaring an eternity of hatred at his white victor.

"Did he insult—Helen?"

Bill swung around with almost ludicrous abruptness. He had been utterly unaware of Kate's presence.

He stared. Then, with a rush of passionate anger——

"Yes; but by God, he'll think some before he does it again."

Kate's eyes were coldly commanding.

"Go around to Helen, and—take that gun," she said authoritatively. "Leave Pete to me."

"Leave him——?" Bill's protest remained uncompleted.

"Do as I tell you—please."

"But he'll——"

Again Kate cut him short.

"Please!" She pointed in the direction of the house.

Bill was left with no alternative but to obey. He moved away, but his movements were grudging, and he looked back as he went, ready to hurl himself to Kate's succor at the slightest sign.

Ten minutes later Kate entered the sitting room. Her handsome face was pale, and her eyes were shining. The spirit of the woman was stirred. There was no fear in her—only a sort of hard resentment that left her expression one of cold determination.

Helen ran to her at once. But, for perhaps the first time in her life, she encountered something in the nature of a rebuff. Kate looked straight into her sister's eyes as she flung herself into a chair, and laid her loaded revolver upon the table.

"Tell me about it. Just the plain facts," she said, and waited.

Bill started up from his place in the rocker, but Kate signed him to be silent.

"Helen can tell me," she said coldly.

Helen, leaning against the table, glanced across at Bill. Her sister's attitude troubled her. She felt the resentment underlying it. She was at a loss to understand it. After a moment's hesitation she began to explain. Nor could she quite keep the sharp edge of feeling out of her tone.

"It was my fault," she began. "At least, I s'pose it was. I s'pose I was doing a fool thing interfering, but I didn't just think you'd mind, seeing you'd ordered him to do work he hadn't done. You see, he hadn't touched those potatoes you'd told him to dig. He's been drinking instead."

Suddenly her sense of humor got the better of her resentful feelings, and she began to laugh.

"Well, I had to go and be severe with him. I tried to bully him, and stamped my foot at him, and—and called him a drunken brute. I took a chance. Being drunk, he might have proposed to me. Well, he didn't this time. It was far worse. He told me to go—to hell, first of all. But, as I didn't show signs of obeying him, he got sort of funny and tried to kiss me."

"The swine!" muttered Bill, but was silenced by a look from Helen's humorous eyes.

"That's what I thought—first," she said. Then, her eyes widening: "But he meant doing it, and I got scared to death. Oh, dear, I was frightened. Being a coward, I shouted for help. And Bill responded like—like a great angry steer. Then I got worse scared, for, directly Pete saw Bill coming, he pulled a gun, and there surely was murder in his eye."

She breathed a deep sigh, and her eyes had changed their expression to one of delight and pride.

"But he hadn't a dog's chance of putting Bill's lights out. He hadn't, true. Say, Kate, Bill was just like—like a whirlwind. Same as Charlie said. He was so quick I hardly know how it happened. Bill dropped Pete like a—a sack of wheat. He—he was on him like a tiger. Then I was just worse scared than ever, and—and began to cry."

The girl's mouth drooped, but her eyes were laughing. Then, as Kate still remained quiet, she inquired:

"Wasn't I a fool?"

Kate suddenly looked up from the brown study into which she had fallen. Her big eyes looked straight across at Bill, and she ignored Helen's final remark.

"Thanks, Bill," she said quietly. And her last suggestion of displeasure seemed to pass with her expression of gratitude. "I'm glad you were here, and"—she smiled—"you can fight. You nearly killed him." Then, after a pause: "It's been a lesson to me. I—shan't forget it."

"What have you—done to him?" cried Helen suddenly.

But Kate shook her head.

"Let's talk of something else. There's things far more important than—him. Anyway, he won't do that again."

She rose from her seat and moved to the window, where she stood looking out. But she had no interest in what she beheld. She was thinking moodily of other things.

Bill stirred in his chair. He was glad enough to put the episode behind him.

"Yes," he said, taking up Kate's remark at once. "There certainly are troubles enough to go around." He was thinking of his scene of the previous day with his brother. "But—but what's gone wrong with you, Kate? What are the more important things?"

"You haven't fallen out with Mrs. Day?" Helen put in quickly.

Kate shook her head.

"No one falls out with Mrs. Day," she said quietly. "Mrs. Day does the falling out. It isn't only Mrs. Day, it's—it's everybody. I think the whole village is—is mad." She turned back from the window and returned to her seat. But she did not sit down. She stood resting her folded arms on its back and leaned upon it. "They're all mad. Everybody. I'm mad." She glanced from one to the other, smiling in the sanest fashion, but behind her smile was obvious anxiety and trouble. "They've practically decided to cut down the old pine."

Bill sat up. He laughed at the tone of her announcement.

But Helen gasped.

"The old pine?" She had caught some of her sister's alarm.

Kate nodded.

"You can laugh, Bill," she cried. "That's what they're all doing. They're laughing at—the old superstition. But—it's not a laughing matter to folks who think right along the lines of the essence of our human natures, which is superstition. The worst of it is I've brought it about. I told the meeting about a stupid argument about the building of the church which Billy and Dy had. Billy wants the tree for a ridge pole, because the church is disproportionately long. Well, I told the folks because I thought they wouldn't hear of the tree being cut. But Mrs. Day rounded on me, and the meeting followed her like a flock of sheep. Still, I wasn't done by that. I've been canvassing the village since, and, would you believe it, they all say it's a good job to cut the tree down. Maybe it'll rid the place of its evil influence, and so rid us of the attentions of the police. I tell you, Billy and Dy are perfect fools, and the folks are all mad. And I'm the greatest idiot ever escaped a home for imbeciles. There! That's how I feel. It's—it's scandalous."