Bill laughed good-naturedly.

"Say, cheer up, Kate," he cried. "You surely don't need to worry any. It can't hurt you. Besides——." He broke off abruptly, and, sitting up, looked out of the window. "Say, here comes Fyles." He almost leaped out of his seat.

"What's the matter?" demanded Kate sharply. Then she looked around at her sister, who had moved away from the table.

Bill laughed again in his inconsequent fashion.

"Matter?" he cried. "Nothin's the matter, only—only——. Say, did you ever have folks get on your nerves?"

"Plenty in Rocky Springs," said Kate bitterly.

Bill nodded.

"That's it. Say, I've just remembered I've got an appointment that was never made with somebody who don't exist. I'm going to keep it."

Helen laughed, and clapped her hands.

"Say, that's really funny. And I've just remembered something I'd never forgotten, that's too late to do anyway. Come on, Bill, let's go and see about these things, and," she added slyly, "leave Kate to settle Fyles—by herself."

"Helen!"

But Kate's remonstrance fell upon empty air. The lovers had fled through the open doorway, and out the back way. Nor had she time to call them back, for, at that moment, Fyles's horse drew up at the front door, and she heard the officer leap out of the saddle.

* * * * *

"Have you made your peace with—headquarters?"

Kate and Stanley Fyles were standing out in the warm shade of the house. The woman's hand was gently caressing the velvety muzzle of Peter's long, fiddle face. It was a different woman talking to the police officer from the bitter, discontented creature of a few minutes ago. For the time, at least, all regrets, all thoughts of an unpleasant nature seemed to have been lost in the delight of a woman wholesomely in love.

As she put her question her big eyes looked up into the man's keen face with just the faintest suspicion of raillery in their glowing depths. But her rich tones were full of a genuine eagerness that belied the look.

The man was good to look upon. The strength of his face appealed to her, as did the big, loose shoulders and limbs, as strength must always appeal to a real woman. Her love inspired a subtle tenderness, even anxiety.

"I hope so, but—I don't know yet."

Fyles made no attempt to conceal his doubts. Somehow the official side of the man was becoming less and less sustained before this woman, who had come to occupy such a big portion of his life.

"You mean you've sent in your report, and are now awaiting the—verdict?"

Fyles nodded.

"Like so many of the criminals I have brought before the courts," he said, bitterly.

"And the chances?"

"About equal to those of a convicted felon."

The smile died out of Kate's eyes. They were full of regretful sympathy.

"It's pretty tough," she said, turning from him. "It isn't as if you had made a mistake, or neglected your duty."

"No, I was beaten."

The man turned away coldly. But his coldness was not for her.

"Is there no hope?" Kate asked presently, in a low tone.

Fyles shrugged.

"There might be if I had something definite to promise for the future. I mean a chance of—redeeming myself."

Kate made no answer. The whole thing to her mind seemed impossible if it depended upon that. The thought of this strong man being broken through the police system, for no particular fault of his own, seemed very hard. Harder now than ever. She strove desperately to find a gleam of light in the darkness of his future. She would have given worlds to discover some light, and show him the way. But one thing seemed impossible, and he—well, he only made it harder. His very decision and obstinacy, she considered, were his chief undoing.

"If you could reasonably hold out a prospect to them," she said, her dark eyes full of thought—strong and earnest thought. "Can't you?"

She watched him closely. She saw him suddenly straighten himself up, throwing back his powerful shoulders as though to rid himself of the burden which had been oppressing him so long.

He drew a step nearer. Kate's heart beat fast. Then her eyes drooped before the passion shining in his.

"Maybe you don't realize why I am here, Kate," he said, in a low thrilling voice, while a warm smile grew in his eyes. "You see, weeks ago I made a mistake, a bad mistake—just such as I have made here. The liquor was run under my nose, while I—well, I just stood around looking on like some fool babe. That liquor was—for this place. After that I asked the chief to give me a free hand, and to allow me to come right along, and round this place up. My object was twofold. I knew I had to make good, and—I knew you were here. Guess you don't remember our first meeting? I do. It was up on the hillside, near the old pine. I've always wanted to get back here—ever since then. Well, I've had my wish. I'm here, sure. But I've not made good. The folks, here, have beaten me, and you—why, I've just contrived to make you my sworn adversary. Failure, eh? Failure in my work, and in my—love."

For an instant the woman's eyes were raised to his face. She was trembling as no physical fear could have made her tremble. Peter nuzzled the palm of her hand with his velvety nose, and she quickly lowered her gaze, and appeared to watch his efforts.

After a moment's pause the man went on in a voice full of a great passionate love. All the official side of him had gone utterly. He stood before the woman he loved baring his soul. For the moment he had put his other failures behind him. He wanted only her.

"I came here because I loved you, Kate. I came here dreaming all those dreams which we smile at in others. I dreamed of a life at your side, with you ever before me to spur me on to the greater heights which I have thought about, dreamed about. And all my work, all my striving, was to be for you. I saw visions of the days, when, together, we might fill high office in our country's affairs, with an ambition ever growing, as, together, we mounted the ladder of success. Vain enough thought, eh? Guess it was not long before I brought the roof of my castle crashing about my ears. I have failed in my work a second time, and only succeeded in making you my enemy."

Kate's eyes were shining. A great light of happiness was in them. But she kept them turned from him.

"Not enemy—only adversary," she said, in a low voice.

The man shook his head.

"It is such a small distinction," he said bitterly. "Antagonists. How can I ever hope that you can care for me? Kate, Kate," he burst out passionately, "if you would marry me, none of the rest would matter. I love you so, dear. If you would marry me I should not care what the answer from headquarters might be. Why should I? I should then have all I cared for in the world, and the world itself would still be before us. I have money saved. All we should need to start us. My God, the very thought of it fills me with the lust of conquest. There would be nothing too great to aspire to. Kate, Kate!" He held his arms out toward her in supplication.

The woman shook her head, but offered no verbal refusal. The man's arms dropped once more to his sides, and, for a moment, the silence was only broken by the champing of Peter's bit. Then once more the man's eyes lit.

"Tell me," he cried, almost fiercely. "Tell me, had we not come into conflict over this man, Bryant, would—would it—could it have been different?" Then his voice grew soft and persuasive. "I know you don't dislike me, Kate." He smiled. "I know it, and you must forgive my—vanity. I have watched, and studied you, and—convinced myself. I felt I had the right to hope. The right of every decently honest man. Our one disagreement has been this man, Bryant. I had thought maybe you loved him, but that you have denied. You do not? There is no one else?"

Again Kate silently shook her head. The man was pressing her hard. All her woman's soul was crying out for her to fling every consideration to the winds, and yield to the impulse of the love stirring within her. But something held her back, something so strong as to be quite irresistible.

The man went on. He was fighting that last forlorn hope amid what, to him, seemed to be a sea of disaster.

"No. You have told me that before," he said, almost to himself. "Then why," he went on, his voice rising with the intensity of his feelings. "Why—why——? But no, it's absurd. You tell me you don't—you can't love me."

For one brief instant Kate's eyes were shyly raised to his. They dropped again at once to the brown head of the horse beside her.

"I have told you nothing—yet," she said, in a low voice.

The man snatched a brief hope.

"You mean——?"

Kate looked up again, fearlessly now.

"I mean just what I say."

"You have told me nothing—yet," the man repeated. "Then you have something—to tell me?"

Kate nodded and pushed Peter's head aside almost roughly.

"The man I can care for, the man I marry must have no thought of hurt for Charlie Bryant in his mind."

"Then you——"

Kate made a movement of impatience.

"Again, I mean just what I say—no more, no less."

But it was Fyles's turn to become impatient.

"Bryant—Charlie Bryant? It is always Charlie Bryant—before all things!"

Kate's eyes looked steadily into his.

"Yes—before even myself."

The man returned her look.

"Yet you do not love him as—I would have you love me?"

"Yet I do not love him, as you would have me love you."

The man thrust out his arms.

"Then, for God's sake, tell me some more."

The insistent Peter claimed Kate once more. His long face was once more thrust against her arm, and his soft lips began to nibble at the wrist frill of her sleeve. She turned to him with a laugh, and placed an arm about his crested neck.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," she said smiling, and gently caressing the friendly creature. "He wants me to tell him some more. Shall I? Shall I tell him something of the many things I manage to learn in this valley? Shall I try and explain that I contrive to get hold of secrets that the police, with all their cleverness, can never hope to get hold of? Shall I tell him, that, if only he will put Charlie out of his mind, and leave him alone, and not try to fix this—this crime on him, I can put him on the track of the real criminal? Shall I point out to him the absurdity of fixing on this one man when there are such men as O'Brien, and Stormy Longton, and my two boys, and Holy Dick, and Kid Blaney in the place? Shall I? Shall I tell him of the things I've found out? Yes, Peter, I will, if he'll promise me to put Charlie out of his mind. But not unless. Eh? Not unless."

The man shook his head.

"You make the condition impossible," he cried. "You have faith in that man. Good. I have overwhelming evidence that he is the man we are after. Until he is caught the whisky-running in this place will never cease."

Kate refused to display impatience. She went on talking to the horse.

"Isn't he obstinate? Isn't he? And here am I offering to show him how he can get the real criminals."

Fyles suddenly broke into a laugh. It was not a joyous laugh. It was cynical, almost bitter.

"You are seeking to defend Bryant, and yet you can, and will, put me on the track of the whisky-runners. It's farcical. You would be closing the door of the penitentiary upon your—friend."

Kate's eyes flashed.

"Should I? I don't think so. The others I don't care that for." She flicked her fingers. "They must look to themselves. I promise you I shall not be risking Charlie's liberty."

"I'll wager if you show me how I can get these people, and I succeed—you will."

The angry sparkle in the woman's eyes died out, to be replaced with a sudden light of inspiration.

"You'll wager?" she cried, with an excited laugh. "You will?"

The policeman nodded.

"Yes—anything you like."

Kate's laugh died out, and she stood considering.

"But you said my conditions were—impossible. You will leave Charlie alone until you capture him running the whisky? You will call your men off his track—until you catch him red-handed? You will accept that condition, if I show you how you can—make good with your—headquarters?"

The man suddenly found himself caught in the spirit of Kate's mood.

"But the conditions must not be all with you," he cried, with a short laugh. "You are too generous to make it that way. If I accept your conditions, against my better judgment, will you allow me to make one?"

"But I am conferring the benefit," Kate protested.

"All of it? What about your desire to protect Bryant?"

Kate nodded.

"What is your condition?"

Fyles drew a deep breath.

"Will you marry me after I have caught the leader of the gang, if he be this man, Bryant? That must be your payment—for being wrong."

In a moment all Kate's lightness vanished. She stared at him for some wide-eyed moments. Then, again, all in a moment, she began to laugh.

"Done!" she cried. "I accept, and you accept! It's a wager!"

But her ready acceptance of his offer for the first time made the police officer doubt his own convictions as to the identity of the head of the gang.

"You are accepting my condition because you believe Bryant is not the man, and so you hope to escape marrying me," he said almost roughly.

"I accept your condition," cried Kate staunchly.

Slowly a deep flush mounted to the man's cheeks and spread over his brow. His eyes lit, and his strong mouth set firmly.

"But you will marry me," he cried, with sudden force. "Whatever lies behind your condition, Kate, you'll marry me, as a result of this. The conditions are agreed. I take your wager. I shall get the man Bryant, and he'll get no mercy from me. He's stood in my way long enough. I'm going to win out, Kate," he cried; "I know it, I feel it. Because I want you. I'd go through hell itself to do that. Quick. Tell me. Show me how I can get these people, and I promise you they shan't escape me this time."

But Kate displayed no haste. Now that the wager was made she seemed less delighted. After a moment's thought, however, she gave him the information he required.

"I've learned definitely that on Monday next, that's nearly a week to-day, there's a cargo coming in along the river trail, from the east. The gang will set out to meet it at midnight, and will bring it into the village about two o'clock in the morning. How, I can't say."

Fyles's desperate eyes seemed literally to bore their way through her.

"That's—the truth?"

"True as—death."



CHAPTER XXIX

BILL'S FRESH BLUNDERING

The change in the man that rode away from Kate Seton's home as compared with the man who had arrived there less than an hour earlier was so remarkable as to be almost absurd in a man of Stanley Fyles's reputation for stern discipline and uncompromising methods. There was an almost boyish light of excited anticipation and hope in the usually cold eyes that looked out down the valley as he rode away. There was no doubt, no question. His look suggested the confidence of the victor. And so Charlie Bryant read it as he passed him on the trail.

Charlie was in a discontented mood. He had seen Fyles approach Kate's home from his eyrie on the valley slope, and that hopeless impulse belonging to a weakly nature, that self-pitying desire to further lacerate his own feelings, had sent him seeking to intercept the man whom he felt in his inmost heart was his successful rival for all that which he most desired on earth.

So he walked past Fyles, who was on the back of his faithful Peter, and hungrily read the expression of his face, that he might further assure himself of the truth of his convictions.

The men passed each other without the exchange of a word. Fyles eyed the slight figure with contempt and dislike. Nor could he help such feelings for one whom he knew possessed so much of Kate's warmest sympathy and liking. Besides, was he not a man whose doings placed him against the law, in the administration of which it was his duty to share?

Charlie's eyes were full of an undisguised hatred. His interpretation of the officer's expression left him no room for doubting. Delight, victory, were hall-marked all over it. And victory for Fyles could only mean defeat for him.

He passed on. His way took him along the main village trail, and, presently, he encountered two people whom he would willingly have avoided. Helen and his brother were returning toward the house across the river.

Helen's quick eyes saw him at once, and she pointed him out to the big man at her side.

"It's Charlie," she cried, "let's hurry, or he'll give us the slip. I must tell him."

"Tell him what?"

But Helen deigned no answer. She hurried on, and called to the dejected figure, which, to her imagination, seemed to shuffle rather than walk along the trail.

Charlie Bryant had no alternative. He came up. He felt a desperate desire to curse their evident happiness in each other's society. Why should these two know nothing but the joys of life, while he—he was forbidden even a shadow of the happiness for which he yearned?

But Helen gave him little enough chance to further castigate himself with self-pity. She was full of her desire to impart her news, and her desire promptly set her tongue rattling out her story.

"Oh, Charlie," she cried, "I've had such a shock. Say, did you ever have a cyclone strike you when—when there wasn't a cyclone within a hundred miles of you?" Then she laughed. "That surely don't sound right, does it? It's—it's kind of mixed metaphor. Anyway, you know what I mean. I had that to-day. Bill's nearly killed one of our boys—Pete Clancy. Say, I once saw a dog fight. It was a terrier, and one of those heavy, slow British bulldogs. Well, I guess when he starts the bully is greased lightning. Bill's that bully. That's all. Pete tried to kiss me. He was drunk. They're always drunk when they get gay like that. Bill guessed he wasn't going to succeed, and now I sort of fancy he's sitting back there by our barn trying to sort out his face. My, Bill nearly killed him!"

But the girl's dancing-eyed enjoyment found no reflection in Bill's brother. In a moment Charlie's whole manner underwent a change, and his dark eyes stared incredulously up into Bill's face, which, surely enough, still bore the marks of his encounter.

"You—thrashed Pete?" he inquired slowly, in the manner of a man painfully digesting unpleasant facts.

But Bill was in no mood to accept any sort of chiding on the point.

"I wish I'd—killed him," he retorted fiercely.

Charlie's eyes turned slowly from the contemplation of his brother's war-scarred features.

"I guess he deserved it—all right," he said thoughtfully.

Helen protested indignantly.

"Deserved it? My word, he deserved—anything," she cried. Then her indignation merged again into her usual laughter. "Say," she went on. "I—I don't believe you're a bit glad, a bit thankful to Bill. I—I don't believe you mind that—that I was insulted. Oh, but if you'd only seen it you'd have been proud of Big Brother Bill. He—he was just greased lightning. I don't think I'd be scared of anything with him around."

But her praise was too much for the modest Bill. He flushed as he clumsily endeavored to change the subject.

"Where are you going, Charlie?" he inquired. "We're going on over the river. Kate's there. You coming?"

Just for a moment a look of hesitation crept into his brother's eyes. He glanced across the river as though he were yearning to accept the invitation. But, a moment later, his eyes came back to his brother with a look of almost cold decision.

"I'm afraid I can't," he said. Then he added, "I've got something to see to—in the village."

Bill made no attempt to question him further, and Helen had no desire to. She felt that she had somehow blundered, and her busy mind was speculating as to how.

They parted. And as Charlie moved on he called back to Bill.

"I'll be back soon. Will you be home?"

"I can be. In an hour?"

Charlie nodded and went on.

The moment they were out of earshot Helen turned to her lover.

"Say, Bill," she exclaimed. "What have I done wrong?"

The laughter had gone out of her eyes and left them full of anxiety.

Bill shrugged gloomily.

"Nothing," he said. "It's me—again." Then he added, still more gloomily, "Pete's one of the whisky gang, and—I'm Charlie's brother. Say," he finished up with a ponderous sigh. "I've mussed things—surely."

* * * * *

"I'm sorry for that scrap, Bill."

Charlie Bryant was leaning against a veranda post with his hands in his pockets, and his gaze, as usual, fixed on the far side of the valley. Bill completely filled a chair, where he basked in the evening sunlight.

"So am I—now, Charlie."

The big man's agreement brought the other's eyes to his battered face.

"Why?" he demanded quickly.

Bill looked up into the dark eyes above him, and his own were full of concern.

"Why? Is there need to ask that?"

A shadowy smile spread slowly over the other's face.

"No, I don't guess you need to ask why."

There was just the slightest emphasis on the pronoun.

"You've remembered he's one of the gang—my gang. You sort of feel there's danger ahead—in consequence. Yes, there is danger. That's why I'm sorry. But—somehow I wouldn't have had you act different—even though there's danger. I'm glad it was you, and not me, though. You could hammer him with your two big fists. I couldn't. I should have shot him—dead."

Bill stared incredulously at the other's boyish face. His brother's tone had carried such cold conviction.

"Charlie," he cried, "you get me beat every time. I wouldn't have guessed you felt that way."

The other smiled bitterly.

"No," he said. Then he shifted his position. "I'm afraid there's going to be trouble. I've thought a heap since Helen told me."

"Trouble—through me?" said Bill, sharply. "Say, there's been nothing but blundering through me ever since I came here. I'd best pull up stakes and get out. I'm too big and foolish. I'm the worst blundering idiot out. I wish I'd shot him up. But," he added plaintively, "I hadn't got a gun. Say, I'm too foolishly civilized for this country. I sure best get back to the parlors of the East where I came from."

Charlie shook his head, and his smile was affectionate.

"Best stop around, Bill," he said. "You haven't blundered. You've acted as—honesty demanded. If there's trouble comes through it, it's no blame to you. There's no blame to you anyway. You're honest. Maybe I've cursed you some, but it's me who's wrong—always. Do you get me? It don't make any difference to my real feelings. You just stop around all you need, and don't you act different from what you are doing."

Bill stirred his bulk uneasily.

"But this trouble? Say, Charlie, boy," he cried, his big face flushing painfully, "it don't matter to me a curse what you are. You're my brother. See? I wouldn't do you a hurt intentionally. I'd—I'd chop my own fool head off first. Can't anything be done? Can't I do anything to fix things right?"

The other had turned away. A grave anxiety was written all over his youthful face.

"Maybe," he said.

"How? Just tell me right now," cried Bill eagerly.

"Why——" Charlie broke off. His pause was one of deep consideration.

"It don't matter what it is, Charlie," cried Bill, suddenly stirred to a big pitch of enthusiasm. "Just count me on your side, and—and if you need to have Fyles shot up, why—I'm your man."

Charlie shook his head.

"Don't worry that way," he cried. "Just stop around. You needn't ask a whole heap of questions. Just stop around, and maybe you can bear a hand—some day. I shan't ask you to do any dirty work. But if there's anything an honest man may do—why, I'll ask you—sure."



CHAPTER XXX

THE COMMITTEE DECIDE

The earlier days of summer were passing rapidly. And with their passage Kate Seton's variations of mood became remarkable. There were times when her excited cheerfulness astounded her sister, and there were times when her depression caused her the greatest anxiety. Kate was displaying a variableness and uncertainty to which Helen was quite unaccustomed, and it left the girl laboring under a great strain of worry.

She strove very hard to, as she termed it, localize her sister's changes of mood, and in this she was not without a measure of success. Whenever the doings of the church committee were discussed Kate's mood dropped to zero, and sometimes below that point. It was obvious that the decision to demolish the old landmark in the service of the church was causing her an alarm and anxiety which would far better have fitted one of the old village wives, eaten up with superstition, than a woman of Kate's high-spirited courage. Then, too, the work of her little farm seemed to worry her. Her attention to it in these days became almost feverish. Whereas, until recently, all her available time was given to church affairs, now these were almost entirely neglected in favor of the farm. Kate was almost always to be found in company of her two hired men, working with a zest that ill suited the methods of her male helpers.

On one occasion Helen ventured to remark upon it in her inconsequent fashion, a fashion often used to disguise her real feelings, her real interest.

Kate had just returned from a long morning out on the wheat land. She was weary, and dusty, and thirsty. And she had just thirstily drained a huge glass of barley water.

"For the Lord's sake, Kate!" Helen cried in pretended dismay. "When I see you drink like that I kind of feel I'm growing fins all over me."

Kate smiled, but without lightness.

"Get right out in this July sun and try to shame your hired men into doing a man's work, and see how you feel then," she retorted. "Fins?—why, you'd give right up walking, and grow a full-sized tail, and an uncomfortable crop of scales."

Helen shook her head.

"I wouldn't work that way. Say, you're always chasing the boys up. Are they slacking worse than usual? Are they on the 'buck'?"

Kate shot a swift glance into the gray eyes fixed on her so shrewdly.

"No," she said quite soberly. "Only—only work's good for folks, sometimes. The boys are all right. It just does me good to work. Besides, I like to know what Pete's doing."

"You mean——?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter what I mean," Kate retorted, with a sudden impatience. "Where's dinner?"

This was something of her sister's mood more or less all the time, and Helen found it very trying. But she made every allowance for it, also the more readily as she watched the affairs of the church, and understood how surely they were upsetting to her sister through her belief in the old Indian legend of the fateful pine.

But Kate's occasional outbursts of delirious excitement were far more difficult of understanding. Helen read them in the only way she understood. Her observation warned her that they generally followed talk of the doings of Inspector Fyles, or a distant view of him.

As the days went by Kate seemed more and more wrapped up in the work of the police. Every little item of news of them she hungrily devoured. And frequently she went out on long solitary rides, which Helen concluded were for the purpose of interested observation of their doings.

But all this display of interest was somewhat nullified by another curious phase in her sister. It quickly became obvious that she was endeavoring by every artifice to avoid coming into actual contact with Stanley Fyles. Somehow this did not seem to fit in with Helen's idea of love, and again she found herself at a loss.

Thus poor Helen found herself passing many troubled hours. Things seemed to be going peculiarly awry, and, for the life of her, she could not follow their trend with any certainty of whither it was leading. Even Bill was worse than of no assistance to her. Whenever she poured out her long list of anxieties to him, he assumed a perfectly absurd air of caution and denial that left her laboring under the belief that he really was "one big fool," or else he knew something, and had the audacity to keep it from her. In Bill's case, however, the truth was he felt he had blundered so much already in his brother's interests that he was not prepared to take any more chances, even with Helen.

Then came one memorable and painful day for Helen. It was a Saturday morning. She had just returned from a church committee meeting. Kate had deliberately absented herself from her post as honorary secretary ever since the decision to fell the old pine had been arrived at. It was her method of protest against the outrage. But Mrs. John Day, quite undisturbed, had appointed a fresh secretary, and Kate's defection had been allowed to pass as a matter of no great importance.

The noon meal was on the table when Helen came in. Kate was at her little bureau writing. The moment her sister entered the room she closed the desk and locked it. Helen saw the action and almost listlessly remarked upon it.

"It's all right, Kate," she said. "Bluebeard's chamber doesn't interest me—to-day."

Kate started up at the other's depressed tone. She looked sharply into the gray eyes, in which there was no longer any sign of their usual laughter.

"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, with affectionate concern. "Mrs. John?"

Helen nodded. Then at once she shook her head.

"Yes—no. Oh, I don't know. No, I don't think it's Mrs. John. It's—it's everybody."

Kate had moved to the head of the table, and stood with her hands gripping the back of her chair.

"Everybody?" she said, with a quiet look of understanding in her big eyes. "You mean—the tree?"

Helen nodded. She was very near tears.

But Kate rose to the occasion. She knew. She pointed at Helen's chair.

"Sit down, dear. We'll have food," she said, quietly. "I'm as hungry as any coyote."

Helen obeyed. She was feeling so miserable for her sister, that she had lost all inclination to eat. But Kate seemed to have entirely risen above any of the feelings she had so lately displayed. She laughed, and, with gentle insistence, forced the other to eat her dinner. Strangely enough her manner had become that which Helen seemed to have lost sight of for so long. All her actions, all her words, were full of confident assurance, and quiet command.

Gradually, under this new influence, the anxiety began to die out of Helen's eyes, and the watchful Kate beheld the change with satisfaction. Then, when the girl had done full justice to the simple meal, she pushed her own plate aside, planted her elbows upon the table, and sat with her strong brown hands clasped.

"Now tell me," she commanded gently.

In a moment Helen's anxiety returned, and her lips trembled. The next she was telling her story—in a confused sort of rush.

"Oh, I don't know," she cried. "It's—it's too bad. You see, Kate, I didn't sort of think about it, or trouble anything, until you let me know how you felt over that—that old story. It didn't seem to me that old tree mattered at all. It didn't seem to me it could hurt cutting it down, any more than any other. And now—now it just seems as if—as if the world'll come to an end when they cut it down. I believe I'm more frightened than you are."

"Frightened?"

Kate smiled. But the smile scarcely disguised her true feelings.

"Yes, I'm scared—to death—now," Helen went on, "because they're going to cut it down. They've fixed the time and—day."

"They've fixed the time—and day," repeated Kate dully. "When?"

Her smile had completely gone now. Her dark eyes were fixed on her sister's face with a curious straining.

"Tuesday morning at—daybreak."

"Tuesday—daybreak? Go on. Tell me some more."

"There's no more to tell, only—only there's to be a ceremony. The whole village is going to turn out and assist. Mrs. Day is going to make an ad-dress. She said if she'd known there was a legend and curse to that pine she's have had it down at the start of building the church. She'd have had it down 'in the name of religion, honesty and righteousness'—those were her words—'as a fitting tribute at the laying of the foundations of the new church.' Again, in her own words, she said, 'It's presence in the valley is a cloud obscuring the sun of our civilization, a stumbling block to the progress of righteousness.' And—and they all agreed that she was right—all of them."

Kate was no longer looking at her sister. She was gazing out straight ahead of her. It is doubtful even if she had listened to the pronouncements of Mrs. John Day, with her self-satisfied dictatorship of the village social and religious affairs. She was thinking—thinking. And something almost like panic seemed suddenly to have taken hold of her.

"Tuesday—at daybreak," she muttered. Then, in a moment, her eyes flashed, and she sprang from her chair. "Daybreak? Why, that—that's practically Monday night! Do you hear? Monday night!"

Helen was on her feet in a moment.

"I—I don't understand," she stammered.

"Understand? No, of course you don't. Nobody understands but me," Kate cried fiercely. "I understand, and I tell you they're all mad. Hopelessly mad." She laughed wildly. "Disaster? Oh, blind, blind, fools. There'll be disaster, sure enough. The old Indian curse will be fulfilled. Oh, Helen, I could weep for the purblind skepticism of this wretched people, this consequential old fool, Mrs. Day. And I—I am the idiot who has brought it all about."



CHAPTER XXXI

ANTAGONISTS

Fyles endured perhaps the most anxious time that had ever fallen to his lot, during the few days following his momentous interview with Kate. An infinitesimal beam of daylight had lit up the black horizon of his threatened future. It was a question, a painfully doubtful question, as to whether it would mature and develop into a glorious sunlight, or whether the threatening clouds would overwhelm it, and thrust it back into the obscurity whence it had sprung.

He dared not attempt to answer the question himself. Everything hung upon that insecure thread of official amenability. Such was his own experience that he was beset by the gravest doubts. His only hope lay in the long record of exceptional work he possessed to his credit in the books of the police. This, and the story he had to tell them of future possibilities in the valley of Leaping Creek.

Would Jason listen? Would he turn up the records, and count the excellence of Inspector Fyles's past work? Or would he, with that callous severity of police regulations, only regard the failures, and turn a deaf official ear to the promise of the future? Supersession was so simple in the force, it was the usual routine. Would the superintendent in charge interest himself sufficiently to get away from it?

These were some of the doubts with which the police officer was assailed. These were some of the endless pros and cons he debated with his lieutenant, Sergeant McBain, when they sat together planning their next campaign, while awaiting Amberley's reply to both the report of failure, and plea for the future.

But Fyles's anxieties were far deeper than McBain's, who was equally involved in the failure. He had far more at stake. For one thing he belonged to the commissioned ranks, and his fall, in conjunction with his greater and wider reputation, would be far more disastrous. For McBain, reduction in rank was of lesser magnitude. His rank could be regained. For Fyles there was no such redemption. Resignation from the force was his alternative to being dismissed, and from resignation there was no recovery of rank.

At one time this would have been his paramount, almost sole anxiety. It would have meant the loss of all he had achieved in the past. Now, curiously enough, it took a second place in his thoughts. A greater factor than ambition had entered into his life, a factor to which he had promptly become enslaved. Far above all thoughts of ambition, of place, of power, of all sense of duty, the figure of a handsome dark-eyed woman rose before his mind's eye. Kate Seton had become his whole world, the idol of all his thoughts and ambitions, and longings, which left every other consideration lost in the remotest shadows far below.

His earlier love for her had suddenly burst into a passionate flame that seemed to be devouring his very soul. And he had a chance of winning her. A chance. It seemed absurd—a mere chance. It was not his way in life to wait for chances. It was for him to set out on a purpose, and achieve or fail. Here—here, where his love was concerned, he was committing himself to accepting chances, the slightest chances, when the winning of Kate for his wife had become the essence of all his hopes and ambitions.

Chance? Yes, it was all chance. The decision of Superintendent Jason. The leadership of this gang. His success in capturing the man, when the time came. In a moment his whole life seemed to have become a plaything to be tossed about at the whim of chance.

So the days passed, swallowed up by feverish work and preparation. It was work that might well be all thrown away should his recall be insisted upon at Amberley, or, at best, might only pave the way to his successor's more fortunate endeavors. It was all very trying, very unsatisfactory, yet he dared not relax his efforts, with the knowledge which he now possessed, and the thought of Kate always before him.

Several times, during those anxious days, he sought to salve his troubled feelings by stealing precious moments of delight in the presence of this woman he loved. But somehow Fate seemed to have assumed a further perverseness, and appeared bent on robbing him of even this slight satisfaction.

At such times Kate was never to be found. Small as was that little world in the valley, it seemed to Fyles that she had a knack of vanishing from his sight as though she had been literally spirited away. Nor for some time could he bring himself to realize that she was deliberately avoiding him.

She was never at home when he rode up to the house on the back of his faithful Peter. And, furthermore, at such times as he found Helen there, she never by any chance knew where her sister was. Even when he chanced to discover Kate in the distance, on his rare visits to the village, she was never to be found by the time he reached the spot at which he had seen her. She was as elusive as a will-o'-th'-wisp.

But this could not go on forever, and, after one memorable visit to the postoffice, where he found a letter awaiting him from headquarters, Fyles determined to be denied no longer.

His task was less easy than he supposed, and it was not until evening that he finally achieved his purpose.

It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. Up to that time his search had been utterly unavailing, and he found himself riding down the village trail at a loss, and in a fiercely impatient mood.

He had just reached the point where the trail split in two. The one way traveling due west, and the other up to the new church, and on, beyond, to the Meeting House.

The inspiration came to him as Peter, of his own accord, turned off up the hill in the direction of the church. Then he remembered that the day was Saturday, and on Saturday evening it was Kate's custom to put the Meeting House in order for the next day's service.

In a moment he bustled his faithful horse, and, taking the grassy side of the trail for it, to muffle his approach, hurried on toward the quaint old building.

To his utmost delight he realized that, for once, Fate had decided to be kind to him. There was a light in one of the windows, and he knew that nobody but Kate had access to the place at times other than the hours of service.

In that moment of pleasant anticipation he was suddenly seized by an almost childish desire to take her unawares. The thought appealed to him strongly after his long and futile search, and, with this object, he steadied his horse's gait lest the sound of its plodding hoofs should betray his approach. Twenty yards from the building he drew up and dismounted.

Once on foot he made his way across the intervening space and reached the window. A thin curtain, however, was drawn across it, and, though the light shone through, the interior remained hidden. So he pressed on toward the door.

Here he paused. And as he did so the sound of something heavy falling reached him from within. Kate was evidently moving the heavy benches. He hesitated only for an instant, then he placed his hand cautiously on the latch and raised it. In spite of his precautions the heavy old iron rattled noisily, and again he hesitated. Then, with a thrust, he pushed the aged door open and passed within.

He stood still, his eyes smiling. Kate was at the far end of the room on her knees. She was looking round at him with a curious, startled look in her eyes, which had somehow caught the reflection of the light from the oil bracket lamp on the floor beside her, and set them glowing a dull, golden copper. The long strip of coco-matting was rolled back from the floor, and she seemed to be in the act of resetting it in its place.

Just for a moment they remained staring at each other. Then Kate turned back to her work, and finished rolling out the matting.

"I'll be glad, mighty glad, when—when we discontinue service in this place," she said. "The dirt's just—fierce."

Fyles moved up toward her. The matting was in its place.

"Is it?" he said. Then, as he came to a halt, "Say, I've been chasing the village through half the day to find you, Kate. Then Peter led me here, and I remembered it was Saturday. I guessed I'd have a surprise on you, and I thought I'd succeeded. But you don't 'surprise' worth a cent. Say, I'm to remain here till—after Monday."

Kate slowly rose to her feet. She was clad in a white shirtwaist and old tailored skirt. She made a perfect figure of robust health and vigorous purpose. Her eyes, too, were shining, and full of those subtle depths of fire which held the man enthralled.

"Monday?" she said. Then in a curiously reflective way she repeated the word, "Monday."

Fyles waited, and, in a moment, Kate's thought seemed to pass. She looked fearlessly up into the man's eyes, but there was no smile in response to his.

"I'm—going away until after—Monday," she said.

"Going away?"

The man's disappointment was too evident to be mistaken. "Why?" he asked, after a moment's pause.

Quite suddenly the woman flung her arms out in a gesture of helplessness, which somehow did not seem to fit her.

"I can't—bear the strain of waiting here," she said, with an impatient shrug. "It's—it's on my nerves."

The man began to smile again. "A wager like ours takes nerve to make, but a bigger nerve to carry through. Still, say, I can't see how running from it's going to help any. You'll still be thinking. Thoughts take a heap of getting clear of. Best stop around. It'll be exciting—some. I'm going to win out," he went on, with confidence, "and I guess it'll be a game worth watching, even if you—lose."

Kate stooped and picked up the lamp. As she straightened up she sighed and shook her head. It seemed to the man that a grave trouble was in her handsome eyes.

"It's not that," she cried, suddenly. "Lose my wager? I'm not going to lose, but even if I were—I would pay up like a sportsman. No, it's not that. It's these foolish folk here. It's these stupid creatures who're just ready to fly at the throat of Providence and defy all—all superstition. Oh, yes, I know," she hurried on, as the man raised his strongly marked brows in astonishment. "You'll maybe think me a fool, a silly, credulous fool. But I know—I feel it here." She placed her hands upon her bosom with a world of dramatic sincerity.

"What—what's troubling you, Kate? I don't seem to get your meaning."

It was the woman's turn to express surprise.

"Why, you know what they're going to do here, practically on Monday night. You've heard? Why, the whole village is talking of it. It's the tree. The old pine. They're going to cut it down." Then she laughed mirthlessly. "They'll use it as a ridge pole for the new church. That wicked old, cursed pine."

"Wicked—cursed? I don't understand," Fyles said perplexed. "I heard about the felling of it all right—but, the other I don't understand."

Kate set the lamp down on one of the benches.

"Listen. I'll tell you," she cried. "Then maybe you'll understand my feelings—since making my wager with you. Oh, the old story wouldn't matter so much to me, only—only for that wager. Listen."

Then she hurriedly told him the outline of the curse upon the tree, and further added an analysis of the situation in conjunction with the matter which stood between themselves. At the finish she pointed her argument.

"Need I say any more? Need I tell you that no logic or reason of any kind can put the conviction out of my mind that here, and now, we are to be faced with some dreadful tragedy as the price we must pay for the—the felling of that tree? I can't help it—I know calamity will befall us."

Fyles shook his head. The woman's obvious convictions left him quite untouched. Had it been any other who spoke of it he would have derided the whole idea. But since it was Kate's distress, Kate's belief in the old legend, he refrained.

"The only calamity that can affect you, Kate, is a calamity for young Bryant," he said seriously. "And yet you refuse to believe him concerned with the affairs of—Monday night. Surely you can have no misgivings on that score?"

Kate shook her head.

"Then what do you fear?" Fyles went on patiently.

Quite slowly the woman raised her big eyes to her companion's face. For some moments they steadily looked into his. Then slowly into her gaze there crept an inscrutable expression that was not wholly without a shadow of a smile.

"It is your reason against my—superstition," she said slowly. "On Monday night you will capture, or fail to capture, the gang you are after. Maybe it will be within an hour of the cutting down of that tree. Disaster will occur. Blood will flow. Death! Any, or all of these things. For whom? I cannot—will not—wait to see. I shall leave to-morrow morning after service—for Myrtle."

* * * * *

Kate locked the door of the Meeting House behind them. Then she held out her hand. Fyles took it and pressed it tenderly.

"Why," he asked gently, almost humbly, "have you so deliberately avoided me lately?"

The woman stroked Peter's brown head as it was pushed forward beside the man's shoulder.

"Why?" she echoed. Then she smiled up into the man's face. "Because we are—antagonists—until after Monday. Good-bye."



CHAPTER XXXII

TREACHERY

On his westward journey to camp Stanley Fyles did a good deal of thinking. Generally speaking he was of that practical turn which has no time for indulgence in the luxury of visions, and signs. Long experience had made him almost severe in his practice.

But, as he rode along pondering upon the few pleasant moments spent in Kate's presence, his imagination slowly began to stir, and he found himself wondering; wondering, at first, at her credulity, and, presently, wondering if it were really possible that an old curse, uttered in the height of impotent human passion, could, by any occult process, possess a real effect.

He definitely and promptly denied it. He told himself more. He believed that only women, highly emotional women, or creatures of weaker intellect, could possibly put faith in such things. Kate belonged to neither of these sections of her sex. Then how did this strange belief come in a woman so keenly sensible, so full of practical courage?

Maybe it was the result of living so closely in touch with the soil. Maybe the narrow life of such a village as Rocky Springs had had its effect.

However, her belief, so strong, so passionate, had left an uncomfortable effect upon him. It was absurd, of course, but somehow he wished he had not heard the story of the old pine. At least not till after Monday. Kate had said they were to fell that tree at dawn. It was certainly a curious coincidence that they should have selected, as Kate had said, practically Monday night. The night of the whisky-running.

He smiled. However, the omen was surely in favor of his success. According to the legend the felling of the tree meant the end of crime in the valley, and the end of crime meant his——But blood would flow. Death. Whose blood? Whose—death?

His smile died out.

In these contingencies it meant a—hand to hand conflict. It meant——Who's death did she dread? Surely she was not thinking of the police? They always carried their lives in their hands. It was part of their profession. She denied Charlie Bryant's leadership, so——But in her own secret mind did she deny it? He wondered.

So he rode on probing the problem. Later he smiled again. She was thinking of himself. The vanity of the thought amused him, and he found himself shaking his head. Not likely. It was not her regard for him. He was certain in his mind that her wager was made in the full conviction that he would not win, and, consequently, she would not have to marry him. She certainly was a strange creature, and—charming.

However, she was concerned that somebody was to meet death, and she dreaded it. Furthermore, now he came to think of it, a similar belief, without the accompanying dread, was growing in him. He pulled himself together. The old superstition must not get hold of him. That would indeed be the height of folly.

But once the seed had been sown in his imagination the roots quickly strove to possess themselves of all the fertility such a rich soil afforded. He could not shake clear of their tendrils. Maybe it was the effect of his sympathy and regard for the woman. Maybe he was discovering that he, too, deep down beneath the veneer in which his work armored him, was possessed of that strange superstition which seems to possess all human life. He hated the thought, and still more hated the feeling the thought inspired.

He touched Peter's flank with his heels, and the unaccustomed spur sent the highly strung beast plunging into a headlong gallop.

He was far beyond the village now, and more than half way to the camp, and presently he slowed down to that steady canter which eats up distance so rapidly without undue exertion for either man or beast. He strove to turn the course of his thoughts. He pondered upon the ungracious official letter of his superior, begrudging, but yielding to his persuasions. Things certainly were "coming his way." At last he was to be given his final chance, and it was something to obtain such clemency in a force which existed simply by reason of its unfailing success. He had much to be thankful for. McBain would have fresh heart put into him. It would be something like a taste of hell for McBain to find himself reduced to the rank of trooper again, after all his years of successful service. Yes, he was glad for McBain's——

Suddenly he checked the willing Peter, and drew him down to a walk. There was a horseman on the trail, some thirty or forty yards ahead. He had just caught sight of his dim outline against the starlit sky line. It was only for a moment. But it was sufficient for his trained eyes. He had detected the upper part of the man's body, and the shadowy outline of a wide-brimmed prairie hat.

Now, as Peter moved at that shuffling, restful amble which all prairie horses acquire, he leaned down over the horn of his saddle and peered ahead. The man was sitting stock still upon his horse.

Instinctively Fyles's hand went to his revolver, and remained there. When a man waits upon a western trail at night, it is as well that the traveler take no undue chances, particularly when he be one of the none too well loved red coats.

The policeman kept on. He displayed no hesitation. Finally he drew his horse to a standstill with its nose almost touching the shoulder of the stranger's horse.

Fyles was peering forward in the darkness, and his revolver was in that position which, all unseen, kept its muzzle directly leveled at the horseman's middle.

"Kind of lonesome sitting around here at night," he said, with a keenly satirical inflection.

"You can put up your darn gun, inspector," came the startling response. "Guess I had you covered from way back there, if I'd had a notion to shoot. Guess I ain't in the 'hold-up' bizness. But I've been waiting for you—anyway."

The man's assurance had no effect upon the policeman. The latter pressed his horse up closer, and peered into the other's face. The face he beheld startled him, although he gave no outward sign.

"Ah, Pete—Pete Clancy," he said quietly. "Guess my gun's always pretty handy. It won't hurt where it is, unless I want it to. It's liable to be more effective than your's would have been—way back there."

The man seemed to resign himself.

"Guess it don't pay shootin' up red coats," he said, with a rough laugh.

"No." Then in a moment Fyles put a sharp question. "You are waiting for—me? Why?"

Pete laughed, but his laugh was uneasy.

"Because I'm sick to death being agin the law."

"Ah. Been taking a hand building the church back there?" The sarcasm was unmistakable, but it passed the other by.

"Ben takin' a hand in most things—back there."

"Sure. Find some of 'em don't pay?"

The man shook his head.

"Guess they pay—mostly. 'Tain't that."

"What then?"

"Sort o' feel it's time to quit—bizness."

"Oh. So you waited around for—me?"

Fyles understood the type of man he was dealing with. The half-breed was a life study of his. In the great West he was always of more interest to the police than any white man.

"We mostly wait around for the p'lice when we want to get out of business," the man replied with meaning.

"Yes, some folks find it difficult getting out of business without the help of the police."

"Sure," returned Pete easily. "They need to do it right. They need to make things square."

"For themselves?"

"Jest so—for 'emselves."

The half-breed leaned over his horse's shoulder and spat. Then he ostentatiously returned the gun he was holding to its holster.

"Maybe I'll need him no more," he said, with an obviously insincere sigh.

Fyles was quite undeceived.

"Surely—if you're going out of business. What's your—business?"

The man laughed.

"I used to be runnin' whisky." Then he chuckled softly. "Y'see, that chu'ch has got a hold on me. I'm feelin' that pious I can't bear the thought of runnin' whisky—an' I can't bear the thought of—other folk runnin' it. No, I'm quittin' that bizness. I'm jest goin' in fer straight buyin' and sellin'—inside the law."

Fyles was watching the man closely in the dim night light. He knew exactly what the man was there for now. Furthermore he knew precisely how to deal with him. He was weighing in his mind the extent to which he could trust him. His detestation of the race increased, while yet every nerve was alert to miss no chance.

"Straight buying and selling is good when you've found a buyer, and got—something to sell," he said.

The man shrugged.

"I sure got something to sell, an' I guess you ought to be the buyer."

Fyles nodded.

"I mostly buy—what I need. What's your line?"

Again the man laughed. His uneasiness had passed. He felt they understood each other.

"Mostly hot air," he said carelessly.

Fyles hated the man's contemplated treachery. However, his duty was plain.

"Well, I might buy hot air—if it's right, and the price is right."

The man turned with an alert look and peered into the police officer's face.

"They're both right," he said sharply. Then his manner changed abruptly to one of hot intensity. "Here let's quit talkin' fool stuff. I can tell you what you're needin' to know. And I'll tell you, if you'll pass me over, and let me quit clear without a question. I need to get across the border—an' I don't want to see the inside of no penitentiary, nor come up before any court. I want to get right away quick. See? I can tell you just how a big cargo's comin' into Rocky Springs. I know, because I'm one of 'em bringing it in. See? And when I've told you I've still got to bring it in, or those who're running it with me would guess things, and get busy after me, or—or change their plans. See? Give us your word of a free run for the border, an' I'll put you wise. A free run clear, on your honor, in the name of the Government."

"Why are you doing this?" demanded Fyles sharply.

"That's up to me."

"Why are you doing this?" Fyles insisted. "I need to know before I make any deal."

"Do you?"

Pete thought for some moments, and Fyles waited. At last the man looked up, and his evil face was full of the venom of his words.

"I want to give 'em away," he cried with bitter hatred. "I want to see the boss pass on to the penitentiary. See? I want to see the boss rot there for five good, dandy years."

"Who's the boss?" demanded Fyles sharply.

The man's eyes grinned cunningly.

"Why, the feller you're going to get Monday night, with fifty gallons of good rye."

Fyles sat up.

"Monday night?" Then he went on. "Say, why do you want to put him away?"

"Ah."

"Well?"

Again the half-breed hesitated. Then with a sudden exclamation of impatience his desire for revenge urged him on.

"Tcha! What's the use?" he cried fiercely. "Say, have you ever had hell smashed out of your features by a lousy dude? No. Well, I owe a bit—a hell of a bit—to some one, and I guess I don't owe nothing in this world else but money. Debts o' this sort I generally pay when I get the chance. You're goin' to give me that chance."

Fyles had satisfied himself. The man sickened him. Now he wanted to be done with him.

"What's your story? I'll pay you the price," he cried, with utter contempt.

But the man wanted added assurance.

"Sure?" he cried eagerly. "You're goin' to get me with the rest? Savee? You're goin' to get me, an' when you get me, you're goin' to give me twenty-four hours' free run for the border?"

"If I get you you can go free—for twenty-four hours."

The man's face lit with a devilish grin of cruelty.

"Good. You'll shake on it?" He held out his hand.

Fyles shook his hand.

"Guess it's not necessary. My word goes. You've got to take my word, as I've got to take yours. Come on. I've no more time to waste."

Pete withdrew his hand. He understood. His venom against the white race was only the further increased.

"Say," he growled, his eyes lighting with added ferocity. "That cargo is to be run down the river on Monday night about midnight. There'll be a big rack of hay come in by trail—the river trail—and most of the gang'll be with it. If you locate it they calculate you'll get busy unloading to find the liquor. Meanwhile the cargo'll slip through on the river, in a small boat. Savee? Guess there'll be jest one feller with that boat, an'—he'll be the feller that's—that's had you red coats skinned a mile all these months an' years."

Fyles gathered up his reins.

"Just one word," he said coldly. "I hate a traitor worse than poison, but I'm paid to get these people. So my word goes, if your story's true. If it isn't—well, take my advice and get out quick, or—you won't have time."

Before the half-breed had time to reply Peter threw up his head, and set off at the touch of his master's spurs.



CHAPTER XXXIII

PLAYING THE GAME

For some moments the two men faced each other in a sort of grim silence. It was already daylight. Sunday morning was breaking under a cloudless sky.

At last McBain rose from his seat at the deal table which served him for a desk. He reached out and turned out the lamp. Its light was no longer needed. Then he stretched himself and yawned.

"Had enough of it?" inquired Fyles, catching the infection and stifling a yawn.

"Just what you might notice, sir." A shadowy smile played about the Scot's hard mouth, but it was gone in a moment.

Fyles nodded.

"So have I," he agreed. "But we've broke the back of things. And—you'll be kept busy all day to—I was going to say to-morrow. I mean to-day."

McBain sat down again.

"Yes, sir. A couple of hours' sleep'll do me, though. We daren't spare ourselves. It's sort of life and death to us."

Fyles shot a keen look into the other's face.

"I shouldn't be surprised if it were literally so."

"You think, sir——?"

McBain's voice was sharply questioning.

But Fyles only laughed. There was no mirth in his expression, and McBain understood.

"Never mind," the officer went on, with a careless shrug. "Best turn in. We'll know all about it when the time comes."

He rose from his seat, and McBain, with a brief "Good night, sir," disappeared into the inner room.

But Fyles did not follow his example for a few moments. He went to the door and flung it open. Then he stood for awhile gazing out at the wonderful morning daylight, and drinking in the pure prairie air. While he stood thus his thoughts were busy, and a half smile was in his eyes. He was thinking of the irony of the fact that Kate Seton's superstition had completely taken possession of him.

* * * * *

Two hours after sunrise McBain and his superior were at work again. They had snatched their brief sleep, but it was sufficient for these hardy riders of the plains. The camp was full of activity. Each man of the patrol had to be interviewed, and given minute instructions, also instructions for the arising of unforeseen circumstances, where individual initiative would require to be displayed. Then there were rations to be served out, and, finally, messengers must be sent to the supernumerary camp higher up the valley. But there was no undue bustle or haste. It was simply activity.

At ten o'clock Stanley Fyles left the camp. McBain would continue the work, which, by this time, had returned to conditions of ordinary routine.

Peter ambled gently down the valley. His rider seemed in no hurry. There was no need for hurry. The village was five miles away, and he had no desire to reach it until just before eleven. So he could take his leisure, sparing both himself and his horse for the great effort of the morrow.

Just for one brief moment he contemplated a divergence from his course. It was at the moment when he left the cattle track which led to his camp and joined the old Indian trail to the village. He reached the branching cattle track on the other side of it which would have led him to the mysterious corral, which was possessed of so much interest and suspicion. But he remembered that a visit thither would violate the conditions of his wager with Kate. The place belonged to Charlie Bryant. So he pushed on.

As he rode he thought of Kate Seton's determination to absent herself during the critical events about to happen in the village. On the whole he was pleased with her decision. Somehow he felt he understood her feelings. The grip of her superstition had left him more understanding of her desire to get away.

Then, too, he would rather she were away when his own big effort came. Should he fail again, which now he believed impossible, he would rather she were not there to witness that failure. He knew, only too well, from bitter experience, how easy it was for the most complete plans to go awry when made against the genius of crime. No, he did not want her to witness his failure. Nor would he care to flaunt the success he anticipated, and consequently the error she had fallen into, before her distressed eyes. He felt very tender toward her. She was so loyal, so courageous in her beliefs, such a great little sportswoman. No, he must spare her all he could when he had won that wager. He would not demand his pound of flesh. He would release her from her debt, and just appeal to her through his love. And, somehow, when he had caught this man, Bryant, and so proved how utterly unworthy he was of her regard, he felt that possibly he would not have to appeal in vain.

He reached the old Meeting House as the earliest of the village folk were gathering for service. He did not ride up, but left Peter, much to that creature's disquiet, tied in the bush some fifty yards from the place.

His interest became at once absorbed. He chatted pleasantly for a few moments with Mr. Blundell, the traveling Methodist minister, and greeted those of the villagers whom he had come to know personally. But all the while his eyes and ears were fully alert for the things concerning his purpose. He noted carefully all those who were present, but the absentees were his greatest interest. Not one of those who constituted the gang of smugglers was present, and particularly he noted Charlie Bryant's absence.

Among the last to arrive were Big Brother Bill and Helen, and Fyles smiled as he beheld the careful toilet of the big city man. Helen, as usual, was clad in her best tailored suit, and looked particularly bright and smart when he greeted her.

"Miss Kate not at—service?" he inquired, as they paused at the door of the building.

Helen shook her head, and her face fell.

"No. She's preparing for her journey to Myrtle," said the girl. "How she can do with that noisy old creature Mrs. Radley I—I—well, she gets me beat every time. But Kate's just as obstinate as a fifty-year-old mule. She's crazy to get away from here, and—and I left her about to dope the wheels of the wretched old wagon she's going to drive this afternoon. Oh, dear! But come along, Bill, they're beginning service."

A moment later the police officer was left alone outside the building.

It was not his way to take long arriving at a decision. He walked briskly away, and vanished amid the bush. A minute later he was once more in the saddle, heading for the bridge in front of Kate's house.

Kate was still at her wagon when Fyles arrived. At the sound of his approach she straightened herself up with a smiling, half-embarrassed welcome shining in her eyes.

"Don't you come too near," she exclaimed. "I'm all over axle dope. It truly is the messiest job ever. But what are you to do when the boys clear out, and—and play you such a scurvy trick? I've been relying on Nick to drive me out and bring the wagon back. Now I'll have to drive myself, and keep the wagon there, unless I can hire some one to bring it back, so Charlie can haul his last hay to-morrow."

The policeman ran his eyes over the wagon. At the mention of Charlie Bryant's name, his manner seemed to freeze up. He recognized the vehicle at once.

"It's Bryant's wagon?" he said shortly.

Kate nodded.

"Sure. He always lends it me when I want one. I haven't one of my own."

"I see."

Fyles's manner became more easy. Then he went on.

"Where are your boys? Where's Pete?"

Kate's eyes widened.

"Gracious goodness only knows," she said, in sheer exasperation. "I only hope Nick turns up to drive me. I surely will have to get rid of them both. I've had enough of Pete since he got drunk and insulted Helen. Still, he got his med'cine from Bill all right. And he got the rough side of my tongue, too. Yes, I shall certainly get rid of both. Charlie's always urging me to." She wiped her hands on a cloth. "There, thank goodness I've finished that messy job."

She released the jack under the axle, and the wheel dropped to the ground.

"Now I can load up my grips," she exclaimed.

Fyles looked up from the brown study into which he had fallen.

"This Bill—this Big Brother Bill hammered master Pete to a—pulp?" he inquired, with a smile of interest.

"He certainly did," laughed Kate. "And when he'd done with him I'm afraid my tongue completed the—good work. That's why this has happened." She indicated the wagon with a humorous look of dismay.

Fyles laughed. Then he sobered almost at once.

"I came here for two reasons," he said curiously. "I came to—well—because I couldn't stay away, for one thing. You see, I'm not nearly so much of a police officer as I am a mere human creature. So I came to see you before you went away. You see, so many things may happen on—Monday. The other reason was to tell you I've had a wonderful slice of—hateful good luck."

"Hateful good luck?"

Kate raised a pair of wondering eyes to his face.

"Yes, hateful." The man's emphasis left no sort of doubt as to his feelings. "Of course," he went on, "it's ridiculous that sort of attitude in a policeman, but I can admire a loyal crook. Yes, I could have a friendly feeling for him. A traitor turns me sick in the stomach. One of the gang has turned traitor. He's told me that detail you couldn't give me. I've got their complete plan of campaign."

The wonder in Kate's eyes had become one steady look of inquiry.

"Their complete plan of campaign?" she echoed. Then in a moment a great excitement seemed to rise up in her. It found expression in the rapidity of her words.

"Then you know that—Charlie is innocent? You know now how wrong you were? You know that I have been right all the way through, and that you have been wrong? Tell me! Tell me!" she cried.

Stanley Fyles shook his head.

"I'm sorry. The man had the grace to refuse me the leader's identity. I only got their plan—but it's more than enough."

Kate breathed a sigh as of regret.

"That's too bad," she cried. "If he'd only told you that, it might—it might have cleared up everything. We should have had no more of this wretched suspicion of an innocent man. It might have altered your whole plan of campaign. As it is——"

"It leaves me more than ever convinced I am on a red-hot scent which must now inevitably lead me to success."

For a few moments Kate looked into the man's face as though waiting for him to continue. Then, at last, she smiled, and the man thought he had never beheld so alluring a picture of feminine persuasion.

"Am I to—know any more?" she pleaded.

The appeal became irresistible.

"There can be no harm in telling you," he said. "You gave me the first help. It is to you I shall largely owe my success. Yes, you may as well know, and I know I can rely on your discretion. You were able to tell me of the coming of the liquor, but you could not tell me exactly how it was coming. The man could tell me that—and did. It is coming in down the river in a small boat. One man will bring it—the man who runs the gang. While this is being done a load of hay, accompanied by the whole gang, will come into the town as a blind. It is obvious to me they will come in on the run, hoping to draw us. Then, when caught, they rely on our search of the wagon to delay us—while the boat slips through. It's pretty smart, and," he added ruefully, "would probably have been successful—had I not been warned. Now it is different. Our first attention will be that boat."

Kate's eyes were alight with the warmest interest. She became further excited.

"It's smart," she cried enthusiastically. "They're—they're a clever set of rascals." Then, for a moment, she thought. "Of course, you must get that boat. What a sell for them when you let the wagon go free. Say, it's—it's the greatest fun ever."

Fyles smilingly agreed. This woman's delight in the upsetting of the "runners" plans was very pleasant to him. There could be no doubt as to her sympathies being with him. If only she weren't concerned for Bryant he could have enjoyed the situation to the full.

Suddenly she looked up into his face with just a shade of anxiety.

"But this—informer," she said earnestly. "They'll—kill him."

Fyles laughed.

"He'll be over the border before they're wise, and they'll be held safe—anyway."

Kate agreed.

"I'd forgotten that," she said thoughtfully. Then she gave a shiver of disgust. "I—I loathe an informer."

"Everybody with any sense of honor—must," agreed Fyles. "Informer? I'd sooner shake hands with a murderer. And yet we have to deal and bargain with them—in our work."

"I was just wondering," said Kate, after another pause, "who he could be. I—I'm not going to ask his name. But—do I know him?"

The policeman laughingly shook his head.

"I must play the game, even—with an informer. Say, there's an old saw in our force, 'No names, no pack-drill.' It fits the case now. When the feller's skipped the border, maybe you'll know who he is by his absence from the village."

Suddenly Kate turned to her wagon. She gazed at it for some moments. Then she turned about, and, with a pathetic smile, gave vent to her feelings.

"Oh, dear," she cried. "I—I wish it was after dinner. I should be away then. I feel as if I never—never wanted to see this valley again—ever. It all seems wrong. It all seems like a nightmare now. I feel as if at any moment the ground might open up, and—and swallow me right up. I—I feel like a dizzy creature standing at the edge of a precipice. I—I feel as if I must fall, as if I wanted to fall. I shall be so glad to get away."

"But you'll come back," the man cried urgently. "It's—only till after Monday." Then he steadied himself, and smiled whimsically. "Remember, we have our wager. Remember, in the end you either have to—laugh at me, or—marry me. It's a big stake for us both. For me especially. Your mocking laughter would be hard to bear in conjunction with losing you. Oh, Kate, we entered on this in a spirit of antagonism, but—but I sort of think it'll break my heart to—lose. You see, if I lose, I lose you. You, I suppose, will feel glad—if you win. It's hard." His eyes grew dark with the contemplation of his possible failure. "If I could only hope it would be otherwise. If I could only feel that you cared, in however slight a degree. It would not seem so bad. If I win I have only won you. I have not won your love. The whole thing is absurd, utterly ridiculous, and mad. I want your love, not—not—just you."

Kate made no answer, and the man went on.

"Do you know, Kate, as the days go on in this place, as the moment of crisis approaches, I am growing less and less of a policeman. I'm even beginning to repent of my wager with you, and but for the chance of winning you, I should be glad to abandon it. Love has been a hidden chapter in the book of life to me up till now, and now, reading it, it quite overwhelms me. Do you know I've always despised people who've put true love before all other considerations? I thought them weak imbeciles, and quite unfit. Now I am realizing how much I had to learn all the while, and have since learned."

He paused, and, after a moment's thought, went on again.

"Do you know a curious thought, desire, has grown up in me since our compact. I know it's utterly—utterly mad, but I can't help it. Believing now, as I do, that Bryant is no more to you than you say, I feel that when I get him—I feel I cannot, dare not keep him. I feel a crazy longing to let him go free. Do you know what that means to me? It means giving up all I have struggled for all these years. Do you know why I want to do it? Because I believe it would make you happy."

Kate's eyes were turned from him. They were full of a great burning joy and love. And the love was all for this man, so recklessly desirous of her happiness.

She shook her head without turning to him.

"You must not," she said, in deep thrilling tones. "You must not forego the duty you owe yourself. If you capture Charlie he must pay the price. No thought of me must influence you. And I—I am ready to pay the forfeit. I made the wager with my eyes wide open—wide, wide."

Fyles stirred uneasily. He meant every word he had said, and somehow he felt he was still beyond the barrier, still outside the citadel he was striving to reduce.

"Yes, I know," he said almost bitterly. "It is just a wager—a wager between us. It is a wager whereby we can force our convictions upon each other."

Kate nodded, and the warm light of her eyes had changed to a look of anxiety.

"There is a whole day and more before the—settlement, a day and night which may be fraught with a world of disaster. Let us leave it at that—for the present." Then, with an effort, she banished the seriousness from her manner. "But I am delaying. I must pack my grip, and harness my team. You see, I must leave directly after dinner."

Fyles accepted his dismissal. He turned to his horse and prepared to mount. Kate followed his every movement with a forlorn little smile. She would have given anything if he could have stayed. But——.

"Good luck," she cried, in a low tone.

"Good luck? Do you know what that means?" Fyles turned abruptly. "It means my winning the wager, Kate."

"Does it?" Kate smiled tenderly across at him. "Well, good luck anyway."



CHAPTER XXXIV

AN ENCOUNTER

Service was still proceeding at the Meeting House. The valley was quiet. Scarcely a sound broke the perfect peace of the Sabbath morning. The sun blazed down, a blistering fragrant heat, and the laden atmosphere of the valley suggested only the rusticity, the simple innocence of a pastoral world.

At Kate Seton's homestead a profound quiet reigned. There was the occasional rattle of a collar chain to be heard proceeding from the barn; the clucking of a foolish hen, fussing over a well-discovered worm of plump proportions, sounded musically upon the air, and in perfect harmony with the radiant, ripening sunlight. A stupid mongrel pup stretched itself luxuriantly upon the ground in the shade of the barn, and drowsily watched the busy hens, with one eye half open. Another, evidently the brother of the former, was more actively inclined. He was snuffing at the splashes of axle "dope" on the ground beneath the wagon. He was young enough to eat, and appreciate, anything he could get his baby teeth into.

There was scarcely a sign of life about the place otherwise. The whole valley was enjoying that perfect, almost holy, calm, to be found pretty well all the world over, yielded by man to the hours of worship.

Inside the house there was greater activity. Kate Seton was in her homely parlor. She was at her desk. That Bluebeard's chamber, which roused so much curiosity in her sister, was open. The drawers were unlocked, and Kate was sorting out papers, and collecting the loose paper money she kept there.

She was very busy and profoundly occupied. But none of her movements were hurried, or suggested anything but the simple preparations of one about to leave home.

Her work did not take her long. All the loose money was collected into a pocketbook, bearing her initials in silver on its outer cover. This she bestowed in the bosom of her dress. Then, very deliberately, she tore up a lot of letters and loose papers, thrust them in the cookstove, and watched them burn in the fragment of fire smouldering there. Next she passed across to the wall where her loaded revolvers were hanging, and took one of them from its nail. Then, with an air of perfect calm and assurance, she passed out of the room to her bedroom, where a grip lay open on the simple white coverlet of her bed.

Her packing was proceeded with leisurely. Yet the precision of her movements and the certainty with which she understood her needs made the process rapid.

Everything was completed. The grip was full to overflowing. She stood looking at it speculatively. She was assuring herself that nothing was forgotten for her few days' sojourn away from home.

In the midst of her contemplation she abruptly raised her eyes to the window and inclined her head in an attitude of listening. A sound had reached her, a sound which had nothing to do with the two puppies, or the hens, outside. It was a sound that brought a swift, alert expression into her handsome eyes, the look of one who belongs to a world where the unusual is generally looked upon with suspicion.

A moment later she was peering out of the window into the radiant sunlight. The sound was plainer now, and she had recognized it. It was the sound of a horse galloping, and approaching her home.

Still the doubtful questioning was in her eyes.

She left the window and passed out of the room. The next moment she was standing in the doorway at the back of the house, and in front of her stood the wagon that was to bear her to Myrtle. The slumberous pup was on its feet standing alertly defiant. Its brother was already yapping truculently in its baby fashion. The old hen had abandoned its search for more delectable provender, and had fled incontinently.

A horseman dashed up to the house. He had ignored the front door and made straight for the barn. He drew up with a jerk, and sat looking at the wagon standing there. Then, with an excited, impatient ejaculation, he flung out of the saddle.

The next moment he became aware of Kate's presence in the doorway. With eyes alight and half-angry, half-impatient, Charlie Bryant turned upon her.

"Why have you taken this wagon, Kate?" he demanded, going to the point of his concern without preamble.

The woman drew a sharp breath. It was as though she realized that a vital moment had arrived, a moment when she must grip the situation, and use all her power of domination over the questioner.

"You've placed it at my disposal at all times," she said, smiling into his excited eyes.

The man rushed on.

"Yes, yes, I know; but why have you taken it now? You say you are going to Myrtle. You don't need it. You could ride to Myrtle—in the ordinary way. You are welcome to the wagon at all times. To anything I have. But why are you taking it now? I only found out it had gone this morning. I—" he averted his gaze—"I only happened to go over to the corral this morning—and I found it—gone."

Quick as a shot Kate's answer was formulated and fired at him.

"Why did you go to the corral—this morning?"

The man's reply was slow in coming. His cheeks flushed, and it looked as though he were seeking excuse.

"I had to go there. I—needed my wagon for to-morrow's work."

Kate smiled. She was feeling more confident.

"For hauling your hay? Won't it wait? You see, I can't carry a grip on the saddle."

Great beads of sweat were standing on Charlie's youthful face. He raised one nervous hand and brushed it across his forehead. He cleared his throat.

"Say, why—why must you go now, Kate? What is this absurd talk I have heard? You going away because—because of that tree business? Kate, Kate, such an idea isn't worthy of you. You going? You flying from superstition? No, no, it's not worthy of you. Kate——" he paused. Then, with a gulp: "You can't have the wagon. I refuse to—lend it you. I simply must have it."

Kate was leaning against the door casing. She made no move. Her smile deepened, that was all. She understood all that lay behind the man's desperate manner, and—she had no intention of yielding.

"If you must have it, you must," she said, in her deep voice, so like his own. "You had better send for it, but—" her look suddenly hardened—"don't ever speak to me again. That is all I have to say."

The man's determination wavered before the woman's coldness. He looked into her dark eyes desperately. They were cold and hard. They had never looked at him like that before.

"D'you mean that, Kate?" he demanded desperately. "Do you mean that if I take that wagon you have—done with me forever? Do you?"

"I meant precisely what I said." Kate suddenly bestirred herself. The coldness in her eyes turned to anger, a swift, hot anger, to which the man was unused, and he shrank before it. "If you are sane you will leave that wagon to me. You do not want it for your haying to-morrow. Anyway, your haying excuse is far too thin for me. I know why you want it. If you take it I wash my hands of you entirely. You must choose now between these things, once and for all. I am in no trifling mood. You must choose now—at once. And your choice must stand for all time."

Kate watched the effect of every word she spoke, and she knew, long before she finished speaking, she was to have her way. It was always so. This man had no power to refuse her anything. It was only in her absence, when his weakness overwhelmed him, that her influence lost power over him.

All the excitement had died out of his eyes. Anger gave way to despair, decision to weakness and yielding. And through it all a great despair and hopelessness sounded in his voice.

"Oh, Kate," he cried, "I can't believe this is you—I can't—I can't. You are cruel—crueller than ever I would have believed. You know why I want to keep the wagon just now. I implore you not to do this thing. I will do most anything else you ask me, but—leave that wagon."

Kate shook her head in cold decision.

"My mind is quite made up," she said. "There is nothing more to be said. You must choose here—and now."

The man hesitated. Just for a moment a gleam of anger flashed into his eyes, but it died almost at its birth, and he made a gesture of something like despair.

"You must do as you see fit," he said, yielding. Then, in a moment, his weakness was further displayed in an impotent obstinacy. "You must do as you see fit, and I shall do the same. My mind, too, is made up. I shall carry out the plans I have already made, and if harm comes—blame yourself."

He turned away abruptly. He refused even to look in her direction again. He sprang into the saddle with remarkable agility and galloped off.

* * * * *

Charlie Bryant raced back to his house. For the moment a sort of frenzy was upon him. He flung out of the saddle, and left his horse at the veranda. He rushed into his sitting room, and, in a sort of impotent excitement and anger, he paced the floor.

He went through the little house without object or reason. At the kitchen door he stood staring out, lost in a troubled sea of racing thought. Presently he returned to the sitting room. He was about to pass out on to the veranda, but abruptly paused. With a gesture of impatient defiance he returned to his bedroom and drew a black bottle of rye whisky from beneath the mattress of his bed. Without waiting to procure a glass he withdrew the cork, and, thrusting the neck of the bottle into his mouth, took a long "pull" at the contents. After a moment he removed it, and gasped with the scorch of the powerful liquor. Then he took another long drink. Finally he replaced the cork and returned the bottle to its hiding place.

A few moments later he was on the veranda again looking out over the village with brooding eyes. For a long while he stood thus, his stimulated thought rushing madly through his brain. Then, later, he became aware of movement down there in the direction of the Meeting House. He realized that service was over. In a few moments Bill would return for the mid-day meal which was all unprepared.

With a short, hard laugh he left the veranda and mounted his patient horse. Then, at another headlong gallop, he raced down toward the village.

* * * * *

It was sundown the following day. A horse stood grazing in the midst of a small grass patch surrounded by a thick bush of spruce, and maple, and blue gums. A velvet twilight was gathering over all, and the sky above was melting to the softer hues of evening.

The horse hobbled about in that eager equine fashion when in the midst of a generous feed of sweet grass. Its saddle was slightly awry upon its back, and its forelegs were through the bridle reins, which trailed upon the ground. The creature seemed more than content with its lot, and the saddle disturbed it not at all.

Once or twice it looked up from its occupation. Then it went on grazing. Then, quite suddenly, it raised its head with a start, and the movement caused it to raise a foreleg caught in the trailing reins. Something was moving in the bushes.

It stood thus for some moments. Its gaze was apprehensively fixed upon the recumbent figure of a man just within the bush. The figure had rolled over, and a pair of arms were raised above its head in the act of stretching.

Presently the figure sat up and stared stupidly about it.

Charlie Bryant had awakened with a parching thirst, and a head racked and bursting with pain. It was some minutes before his faculties took in the meaning of his surroundings. Some minutes before they took in anything but the certainty of his parched throat and racking head.

He stared around him stupidly. Then, with a dazed sort of movement, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his clenched fists. After that he scrambled to his feet and stood swaying upon his aching limbs. Then he moved uncertainly out into the open. He felt stiff, and sore, and his head was aching maddeningly.

Now he beheld his horse, and the animal's wistful eyes were steadily fixed upon him. Every moment now his mind was growing clearer. He was striving to recollect. Striving to remember what had happened. He remembered going to the saloon. Yes, he had stayed there all day. That he was certain of, for he could recall the lamps being lit—and yet now it was daylight.

For a moment his dazed condition left him puzzled. How did this come about? Then, all in a flash he understood. This must be Monday. He must have left the saloon—drunk, blind drunk. He must have ridden—where? Ah, yes, now it was all plain. He must have ridden till he fell off his horse, and then slept where he fell. Monday—Monday. He seemed to remember something about Monday. What was it—ah!

In a moment the cobwebs of his debauch began to fall from him, and he became alert. He felt ill—desperately ill—but the swift action of his brain left him no time to dwell upon it. He moved across to his horse, and set the saddle straight upon its back. Then he disentangled the reins from about its feet, and threw them over its head. The next moment he was in the saddle and riding away.

It was some moments before he could make up his mind as to his exact whereabouts. He knew he was in the valley, but——. At that instant he struck a cattle track and promptly followed it. It must lead somewhere, and, sooner or later, he knew that he would definitely locate his position.

He rode on down the track, pondering upon all that must have occurred to him. He must have slept for eighteen hours at least. He knew full well he was not likely to have left O'Brien's until the place was closed, and now it was sundown—the next day. Sundown on Monday. He quickened his pace. His nerves were shaking, and—he wondered in what direction the river lay. He was consumed with a fierce thirst.

Suddenly his horse threw up its head and pricked its ears. Charlie sat up, startled, and peered out ahead. The next moment he had reduced his horse's gait to a walk. He knew where he was, and—he heard a sound like a distant neigh.

In a moment he was out of the saddle. He tied his horse just inside the bush and then proceeded on foot. The old corral lay ahead of him. That corral where he usually kept his wagon, and where the old hut stood.

He moved rapidly forward, and, as he neared the clearing, he left the cattle track and took to the bush. That tell-tale sound, his horse's pricked ears, had aroused his suspicions.

A few moments later he reached the fringe of the clearing. Keeping himself well hidden, he pressed to the very edge, and peered out from amid the bush. As he did so he breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Two horses were tied to the corral fence, and the door of the little old shack was wide open.

One of the horses he recognized as belonging to Inspector Fyles—the other didn't matter. So he waited breathlessly, while one hand went to his coat pocket, an unconscious movement, and rested on the revolver it found there.

He had not long to wait. The sound of voices reached him presently. Then they grew louder. And presently he beheld two men appear from within the hut. Inspector Fyles came first, closely followed by a half-breed whom he recognized at once. It was Pete—Pete Clancy.

In a moment the waiting man understood. A sort of blind fury mounted to his brain and set his head swimming. Now, too, his right hand was withdrawn from his gun pocket, and the weapon was gripped tightly, and his finger was around the trigger.

But the men were talking, and the watcher strained to catch their words. He felt he must know. He must know what treachery was afoot, and how far it affected——

"The game's a pretty bright one," Pete was saying; and the waiting man ground his teeth as he realized the swagger in the man's tones, and the grin of triumph on his still scarred features. "Maybe it ain't a new sort of play, but I guess it ain't none the worse for that. Y'see, that wagon is kept here right along. It's allers my work runnin' it back here, and fetchin' it along when it's needed. That's how I know about things here," he added, with a jerk of the head in the direction of the hut. "It's far enough from the village for folks not to know when it's here or not. Then the feller runnin' this layout keeps other things here. Y'see, when a job's on he don't fancy folks gettin' to know him. So he keeps an outfit o' stuff back in the hut there as 'ud hide up a Dago ice-cream seller. Maybe he has other uses for that shack. I ain't wise. But that hidin' hole I located dead easy. Guess he figgers it's a dead secret—but it ain't."

Then Fyles's voice, sharply imperious, carried to the listening man.

"Who is he?" he demanded, turning suddenly upon his companion as they reached the horses.

The grin left the half-breed's face, and Charlie held his breath.

The half-breed halted. An ironical light possessed his discolored eyes.

"Why, the feller you're getting to-night—in the boat."

Fyles eyed his man sternly.

"That's the second time you've answered me in that way. I'm not to be played with. Who is this man?"

A curious truculence grew in the half-breed's face.

"I've told you all I'm going to tell you. Guess you'll be askin' me to lay hands on him for you, next. I've earned my freedom, and when you get these folks I'll be square with the game. You can't bluff me on this game. No, sir. I got the law clear. You can't touch me for a thing. It's up to you to get your man. I showed you the way."

Charlie breathed again, though his fury at the miserable traitor was no less.

Fyles swung himself into the saddle. He bent down, and his voice was harshly commanding.

"Maybe I can't touch you—now," he cried. "But see you play the game to-night. You get your free run, only if I get the man I'm after. The rest of the gang don't count a lot, nor the liquor. It's the boss of the gang I need. If you've lied to me you'll get short shrift."

"You'll get him all right."

The half-breed grinned insolently up into the officer's face. Then Fyles rode away, and, from the moment his horse began to move until it vanished down the cattle track, the muzzle of Charlie Bryant's gun was covering him. His impulse was homicidal. To bring this man down might be the best means of nullifying the effect of Pete's treachery. Then, in time, he remembered that there were others to replace him, and, in all probability, they knew already the story Pete had told their chief. There was one thing certain, however, that liquor must not be run to-night.

Urgent as was the moment Charlie had not yet finished here. The moment Stanley Fyles had disappeared he turned back to the half-breed. He saw Pete take his horse and lead it on to the grass some distance from the corral fence, and his gun held him covered. Then he watched him go back to the hut and carefully close the door. After that he watched him disturb his own footmarks and those of the policeman in the neighborhood of the doorway.

Charlie moved. The bushes parted, and he made his way into the open. The half-breed's back was turned. Then, quite suddenly, a deep, harsh challenge rang out, breaking up entirely the sylvan peace.

"You damned traitor!"

With a leap the half-breed swung about. As he did so the gleaming barrel of his gun flashed with a sharp report. A bullet whistled through Charlie Bryant's hat, another tore its way through the sleeve of his jacket. But before a third could find a vital spot in his body his own gun spat out certain death. The half-breed flung up his hands, and, with a sharp oath, his knees crumpled up under him, and he fell in a heap on the ground.

His face livid with passion, Charlie hurried across the intervening space. For one moment he stood gazing down upon the fallen man. Then he aimed a kick of spurning at the dead man's body and moved away.

It was some minutes before he left the precincts of the old corral with its evil history. He went into the hut and opened the secret cupboard. It was quite empty, and he closed it again. Then he passed out, and removed the saddle and bridle from the half-breed's horse, and turned it loose. Then, after one last look of hatred and loathing at the dead man, he moved away and vanished among the trees.



CHAPTER XXXV

ON MONDAY NIGHT

Big Brother Bill, after an evening of considerable worry, had retired to his little lean-to bedroom with its low, camp bedstead. It was useless sitting up any longer attempting one of those big worrying "thinks" which, usually, he was rather proud of achieving.