On this occasion thinking led him nowhither. His worries had come swiftly and significantly. In the first place, on Sunday afternoon he had been seriously concerned about Helen. It was not until Kate's going that either he or Helen had realized the girl's lonely position in the house on the river bank. It came home to them both as they returned thither at about sundown, to find that neither of the hired men had shown up again, and the work, even to the "chores" of the homestead, was at a standstill.

He really became angry in his anxiety. Angry with Kate, angry with the men. However, his displeasure was not likely to help matters, so he and Helen turned to and fed the few livestock, made them snug for the night, and then proceeded to consider Helen's position. After some debate it was decided to appeal to Mrs. John Day. This was promptly done, and the leading citizeness, after a closer cross-examination, consented to take the girl under her brusque wing, and lodged her in her own rather resplendent house.

This was comparatively satisfactory, and Bill breathed his relief. But hard upon this came the more alarming realization that Charlie did not return home on Sunday night. Not only that, but nothing was heard of him the whole of Monday. All the alarmed brother was able to discover was the fact that Charlie had left the saloon at the time O'Brien closed it, about midnight on Sunday, in a hopelessly drunken condition.

So, what with assisting Helen with the work of her homestead, and searching for his defaulting brother, Bill's day was an anxious one. Then, at nightfall, a further concern added fresh trouble to his thought. Kid Blaney had defected as well, and, in consequence, the work of Charlie's little ranch had been completely at a standstill the whole day.

In the end, quite wearied out with his unusual exertions, Bill abandoned all further attempt to get a grip on the situation and went to bed. He knew he must be up early in the morning, at daylight, in fact, for he had promised Helen to be at the ceremony of the felling of the pine tree, for which all preparations had been duly made under the watchful and triumphant eye of Mrs. John Day.

Sleep, however, was long in coming. His brain was too busy, a sign he was secretly pleased at. He felt that during the last two days he had more than proved his ability in emergency. So, lying awake, waiting patiently for sleep to come, he rather felt like a general in action, perfectly assured of his own capacity to meet every situation successfully.

It was nearly midnight when he finally dropped off into a light and rather disturbed slumber. How long he had slept, or even if he really had slept at all, he was never quite sure, for, quite suddenly, he was aroused, and wide awake, by the sound of his own name being called in the darkness.

"Bill! Bill!"

At the second pronouncement of his name he was sitting up with his bare feet on the bare floor, and his great pajamaed body foolishly alert.

"Who in——" he began. But in a moment Charlie's voice cut him short.

"You there? Thank God! Where's the lamp? Quick, light it."

To Bill's credit it must be admitted he offered no further attempt at a blasphemous protest, but leaned over toward the Windsor chair on which the lamp stood, and fumbled for the matches.

The next moment he had struck a light, and the lamp was lit. He stood up and looked across the room. Charlie's slight figure was just inside the doorway. His face was ghastly in the yellow lamplight. His clothes were in a filthy condition, and, altogether, in Bill's own words, he looked like a priceless antique of some forgotten race.

However, the hunted look in the man's eyes smote his brother's generous heart, and a swift, anxious inquiry sprang to his lips.

"What's—what's up, Charlie?" he cried, gathering his clothes together, and beginning to dress himself.

Charlie's eyes glowed with a reflection of the lamplight.

"The game's up, Bill," he cried hoarsely. "My God, it's been given away. Pete Clancy, the feller you hammered, has turned informer. I—I shot him dead. Say, the gang's out to-night. They're coming in with a cargo of liquor. Fyles is wise to their play, and knows just how it's coming in. They'll be trapped to a man."

"You—shot Pete—dead?"

In the overwhelming rush of his brother's information, the death of the informer at his, Charlie's, hands seemed alone to penetrate Bill's, as yet, none too alert faculties.

"Yes, yes," cried the other impatiently. "I'd have shot him, or—or anybody else for such treachery, but—but—it's the other that matters. I've got to get out and stop that cargo. It's midnight now, and—God! If the police get——"

Bill's brain was working more rapidly, and so were his hands. He was almost dressed now.

"But you, Charlie," he cried, all his concern for his brother uppermost. "They'll get you. And—and they'll hang you for killing Pete—sure."

Suddenly a peal of hysterical laughter, which ended in a furious curse, rang through the room.

"God Almighty!" Charlie cried fiercely, "don't stand there yapping about me. Hang me? What in hell do I care what they do to me? I haven't come here about myself. Nothing that concerns me matters. Here, it's midnight. I've time to reach 'em and give 'em the word. See, that's why I'm here. I don't know what's happened by now, or what may happen. You offered to help. Will you help me now? Bill, I've got to get there, and warn 'em. The police will try and stop us. If there are two of us, one may get through—will you——?"

Bill crushed his hat on his head. His eyes, big and blue, were gleaming with the light of battle.

"Give me a gun, and come on," he cried. "I don't understand it all, but that don't matter. I'll think it out later. You're up against it, and that's good enough for me. Somebody's going to have to look bright if he lays hands on you, if it's Fyles, or McBain, or the devil knows who. Come on."

Picking up the lamp, Bill took the lead. Here, in action, he had no doubts or difficulties, Charlie was in trouble; Charlie was threatened; Charlie, his foolish, but well-loved brother.

Five minutes later two horsemen, regardless of rousing the inhabitants, regardless of who might see and recognize them, galloped headlong through the heart of the village.



CHAPTER XXXVI

STILL MONDAY NIGHT

The little river wound its silvery way through the heart of the valley. The broken summer clouds strove to shut out the brilliant light of the moon, and signally failed. The swift-moving currents of air kept them stirring, and breaking. So the tattered breaks through which peeped the radiant lamp of night, illuminated each fringe of mist with the sheen of burnished steel.

In spite of the high wind above, the night was still in the heart of the valley. So still. High up above, the racing wind kept up the constant movement, but not a breath below disturbed one single sun-scorched leaf. It was warm. The night air was heavy with the fragrance of ripening vegetation, and the busy droning sounds of stirring insect life chorused joyously and seductively with the murmuring of speeding waters.

The very stillness thrilled. It was the hush of portent, the hush of watchfulness, the hush of a threatening tension.

In the wide heart of the valley the waters of the river laughed, and sang, and frollicked on their way, while under cover of the deep night-shadows lurking figures waited, with nerves set, and weapons of destruction ready to fulfill their deadly mission. Strife loomed heavy amid the reigning peace, the ruthless, savage strife which seems ever to center the purpose of all sentient life.

So the moments passed. Minutes grew. With every passing minute the threat weighed heavier and heavier, until it seemed, at last, that only the smallest spark was needed to fire the train.

The racing clouds melted. They gathered again. Again and again the changes came and went. It was like one great, prolonged conflict wherein the darkening veil strove to hide the criminal secrets upon the earth below from the searching gaze.

For awhile the moon held sway. The river lit, a perfect mirror. Only the shadowed banks remained. Round the bend came a trifling object, small, uncertain in its outline. A sigh of relief went up from many lips. The tension was relaxed.

Caught in the dazzling light the object shot across the water to the sheltering bank. Then the clouds obscured the moonlight, and eyes strove vainly to penetrate the shadow.

The moments passed. Again the moon shone out. Again was the object caught in the revealing light. Now it was closer, and as it raced once more for the wood-lined bank the watching eyes made out a deep-laden canoe, low in the water, with a solitary figure plying a skillful paddle.

It crept on under the bank. With a wonderful dexterity the man at the paddle steered his course beneath the green of drooping foliage, while now and then his narrow, evil, humorous eyes surveyed the heavy cargo at his feet with a smile of satisfaction.

But the shadows could not claim him for long. The full stream lay beyond in the middle of the river. His cargo was heavy, and the sluggish water under the bank made his progress slow and arduous. Again he sought the stream, and the lesser effort, and the little craft raced on.

Then, of a sudden, the peace of the night was broken. A chorus of night cries awoke to the sharp crack of a carbine. A voice shouted a swift command, and the canoe was turned head on to the hither bank. In a moment a ring of metal was thrust into the face of the man with the paddle, and the hard voice of Sergeant McBain bade him throw up his hands.

The boatman glanced swiftly about him. His evil eyes lit with a smile of appreciation as he dropped his paddle and thrust his hands high above his head. There were ten or twelve police troopers upon the bank—and he was only one.

"Haul him out o' that, boys, and yank the boat up out o' water. We're needin' his cargo bad."

The man was dragged unceremoniously from the boat, and stood before the hard-faced sergeant.

"Name?" he snapped.

"Holy Dick," chuckled the prisoner.

The sergeant peered into his face. At the moment the clouds had obscured the moon.

Was this the man they were waiting for? He made out the gray hair, the smiling, evil eyes. He knew and recognized the features.

The officer struggled with himself for a moment. Then his authority returned.

"You're under arrest for—running this cargo of liquor," he said sharply.

Holy Dick's smile broadened.

"But——"

"If you're going to make a statement I'm here to listen, but—it'll be used against you."

Sergeant McBain rapped out his formula without regard for the letter of it. Then, while one of the troopers placed handcuffs upon the prisoner's wrists, he turned to those at the canoe.

"How many kegs?" he demanded.

For a moment there was no reply. Holy Dick sniggered. McBain glared furiously, and his impatience rose.

"How many?" he cried again, more sharply.

One of the troopers approached him and spoke in a low voice.

"None, sergeant," he said, vainly striving to avoid the sharp ears of their prisoner. "The boat's loaded heavy with loose rocks. It's——"

A cunning laugh interrupted him. Holy Dick was holding out his manacled arms.

"Guess you'd best grab these off, Sergeant; maybe you'll need 'em for someone else."

But the policeman's reply became lost. A rattle of firearms far off on the other side of the river left it unspoken. Something was happening away over there, something they had not calculated upon. The rest of the patrol, with Fyles, was divided between the other bank and the more distant trail. He turned to his men.

"Loose him and get into the saddle sharp!" he cried. "They've fooled us. By God, they've fooled us—again!"

* * * * *

The uncertain moonlight revealed to Stanley Fyles a movement on the distant rise of ground where the trail first mounted, and, beyond, finally disappeared. His night glasses made out a rapidly oncoming vehicle, accompanied by a small band of horsemen.

The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pass him. He would take these men as part of the gang, working in conjunction with the boat. All was well, and his spirits rose. A sharp order was passed back to his men, ambushed in the bluff where he had taken up his position. The thing would be simple as daylight. There would be no bloodshed. A few shots fired to hold the gang up. Then the arrest.

He waited. Then he backed into the ambush out of sight. The wagon came on. Through his leafy screen he watched for the details of the vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant's wagon; that he knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance which did not belong to the village.

Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men's carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses' hoofs were almost abreast. A few seconds more, then——

Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of the wagon, and above the horses' heads. The teamster reined up, throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell headlong from his driving seat.

Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry went up from the wagon's escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the ambush.

In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses, with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.

Then the fight waged furiously.

It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been certain—certain as death itself.

But, after that first furious assault, these untamed prairie souls realized the inevitable result of their action. They broke and fled, scattering across country, vanishing like shadows in the night. The next moment, acting on a sharp command, the police were in red-hot pursuit, like hounds breaking from leash. Only Fyles and three men stayed behind with the fallen teamster and his one other dead comrade.

But at the moment of the flight and pursuit, the sound of racing wheels some distance away caught the officer's ears. In a moment he was at the wagon side. His men were close upon his heels. The wagon was empty. It was the blind he had anticipated, but—that sound of speeding wheels.

He shouted to his men and set off across country in the direction. Nothing must be left to chance. There was no doubt about the peculiar rattle which sounded so plainly. It was a buckboard being driven at a racing speed. Why?

* * * * *

As his horse ploughed through the low scrub his men followed hard upon his heels. Farther on the country was open, and a wide stretch of prairie grass spread out without cover of any sort. It was over this the buckboard was racing.

He strove to estimate its distance away, the start it had of him, by the sound. It could not be much over a mile. A light buckboard and team could travel very fast under the hands of a skilful teamster. It would take a distance of five miles to overhaul it. The direction—yes, it was the direction of the village. The buckboard might get there ahead of them.

Fyles rammed both spurs into the flanks of the faithful Peter, and, as he did so, he saw a party of horsemen converging on him from the left. They drew on, and, in a moment, he recognized McBain and his men.

He called out to the Scot as they came together.

"You get the boat?"

McBain shouted his reply.

"Sure, but—there was nothing doing. It was loaded down with rocks."

Just for one brief instant a bitter imprecation hovered on the officer's lips. Then, in a wave of inspiration, he shouted his conviction.

"By God, then we're on the right trail now. It's the buckboard ahead. We must get it. That's the cargo, sure as fate. Come on!"

* * * * *

A light buckboard was moving leisurely over the open prairie. It was just an ordinary, spidery buckboard drawn by an unusually fine team of horses, and driven by a slightish man clad in a dark jacket and cord riding-breeches, with a wide prairie hat drawn firmly down upon his dark head, its brim deeply shading his boyish, good-looking face. Running beside his team, tied to the neck yoke of the near-side driver, was a saddle horse. It was a fine beast, with racehorse quarters, and a shoulder laid back for speed.

The buckboard was well loaded. Nor was its load disguised. It consisted of a number of the small wooden kegs adopted for the purpose of transporting contraband liquor.

But though the vehicle moved over the rough grass in such a leisurely fashion, the man's eyes were alert and watchful. His ears, too, were sharply set, and lost no sound, as his eyes lost no sight, in the distant prospect of the country through which he was traveling.

His gait was by no means the result of any reposeful sense. It was the well-calculated result of caution. There was caution in his whole poise. In the quick turn of the head at any predominating sound. In the sharp glance of his dark eyes at any of the more fantastic shadows cast by the searching moonlight. Then, too, a tight hand was upon the reins, and there was an alert searching for those badger and gopher holes so perilous for horses in the uncertain light of the moon.

He was traveling in a parallel, a mile to the south of the river trail, and, far ahead, to the right, he could see the bush which marked the winding course of the river.

Now he was listening to the faint rumble of a wagon moving along the trail, and, with which, though so far away, he was carefully keeping pace. This was his whole object—to keep pace, almost step for step, with the rumbling movement of the distant wagon.

At his present gait his wheels gave out practically no sound. They gently, almost silently, crushed their way over the tufted grass, and the sound of his horses' hoofs suggested a muffling.

So he made his way, stealthily, secretly. His was the brain which had planned, and this vital work of convoying his smuggled liquor could be entrusted to no other hand. The work he demanded of others was simple; it was the background to his central purpose. He had no desire to risk his helpers. His must be the risk, as, too, his must be the chief profit.

With all his caution he yet had time to think of those other things which frequently brought a smile to his dark eyes. Why not? There was a wild exhilaration in this work. He reveled in the thought of his risk. He reveled in laying plans which could beat all the best brains among the law officers. The excitement of the chances was as the breath of life to him, and the cargo once safely secreted he could feel that he had not lived in vain.

He knew full well that the penitentiary doors were wide open waiting to greet him, but he meant them to remain open, and spend their whole time in a yearning which he vowed should never be fulfilled. Five years. He smiled. Five years—wearing a striped——

What was that?

A shot! One single shot! Far away, there, by the river. Ah, yes. That big bluff. Holy Dick was probably busy. Holy Dick in his boat. He smiled. But all unconsciously he eased his hand upon the lines, and his horses quickened their gait. It was just the slight, nervous quickening as the critical moment of his effort drew near.

The buckboard was less silent. The wheels began to rattle over the hummocky surface of the prairie grass. He listened even more acutely for the rumble of the wagon on the trail. He must definitely assure himself he was still abreast of it. That was all important.

He could plainly hear it. Was he abreast? For the moment he was not quite sure. Therefore, he further permitted his horses to quicken their pace. It was better to——

He sat up, and a look of alarm peered out from under the brim of his hat. The sound of a volley being fired over there on the trail suddenly disconcerted him. This was something he had not reckoned on. This was something he had wished to——

Hark! Again! An answering volley! The first was the heavier. The latter was the familiar note of revolvers. A definite alarm took hold of him. What was the meaning of it? An attack? Were the men on the trail resisting the police? He had warned them. He——. Listen! The shouting! Now he could distinctly hear the sound of galloping horses.

He leaned forward and grabbed the whip from its socket on the dashboard, and brought it smartly down upon his horses' backs.

In an instant they leaped into a gallop, and he was racing over the rough grass at a perilous pace.

The fools. The mad, idiotic fools. Resisting the police. An armed attack on the police. If they killed any of them——. Great God, was there ever such a pack of fools and madmen? It was no longer simple contraband. It was no longer playing up a ridiculous law. It was——

Again he brought his whip down upon his horses. He must get through now. He must get to the cache with the liquor, and trust to the luck of the reckless to get away. Further concealment was out of the question.

Hark, what was that?

Horsemen coming his way. Yes—horsemen. There could be no doubt of it. The racing hoof-beats were unmistakable. Down came the whip again, and the great team, with the saddle horse beside them, raced with bellies low to the ground.

Now he had no thought but for getting away. His mind ran over the possibilities. If only he could get clear with the liquor there might yet be a chance of his comrades' and his own escape. He had no knowledge of what had happened to the others, except that there was shooting and pursuit. The only comfort to be drawn was from the certainty in his mind that the first shooting he had heard was the heavy firing of police carbines.

Hark! Yes, there was no doubt of the pursuit. Furthermore, the pursuit was hard behind him. Why? The police must have heard the buckboard. He flogged his horses to a greater effort. They were the speediest team in the country, and he had only three miles to go. They——

"Hold up, you beast," he cried, his deep voice hoarse with excitement.

One of the horses lunged forward, stumbling in a badger hole. The buckboard jolted terrifically. The driver was nearly thrown from his seat. Under his firm hands, however, the beast managed to recover itself. Then, as though he saw the gates of the penitentiary closing upon him, a feeling of unutterable horror shivered through the man's body and settled upon his heart. The horse was dead lame.

But there was no time now for feeling, no time for regrets. The pursuers had found his trail, and were hard upon his heels. The cargo must go. Everything must go. Personal safety was the only thing to be considered. From the confidence of victory now he had fallen to the zero of certain failure.

He pulled his sweating team up and sprang to the ground. He ran up to the saddle horse, and, casting the neck-rope loose from the neck yoke, looped it over the horn of the saddle. The next moment he was in the saddle and racing over the grassland in the direction of the village.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE NIGHT TRAIL

The trail declined over a long, gradual slope. At the bottom of it was a broad, almost dried-out slough. A wooden culvert spanned the reed-grown watercourse. Then the trail made a sharpish ascent beyond, and lost itself behind a distant bush, beyond which again stretched out a broad expanse of grass.

Two horsemen were speeding down the longer slope. Their horses were fresh and full of speed. There was no speech passing between them. Eyes and ears were alert, and their grimly set faces gave warning of the anxious thought teeming through their brains.

The indications of the night were nothing to them. The trail might ring with the beat of their horses' hoofs, or only reply with the soft thud of a deep, sandy surface. They were not out to consider either their horses or themselves. Each knew that his journey was one of desperate emergency, and one of them, at least, cared nothing what might be his sacrifice, even if it were life itself.

The horses came down the hill with a headlong rush. Loose reins told of the men's feelings, and the creatures, themselves, as though imbued with something of their riders' spirits, abandoned themselves to the race with equal recklessness.

Halfway down the hill the foremost of the two, the smaller and slighter, abruptly flung a word across his shoulder to his companion behind.

"Someone coming," he said, in a deep, hoarse voice.

The second man beat his horse's flanks with his heels, and drew abreast.

"I can't see," he replied, shading his eyes from the light of the moon, which, at that moment, shone out from behind a cloud.

The other pointed beyond the culvert.

"There. Riding like hell. Gee! Look—it's—trouble."

Bill Bryant now discerned the hazy outline of a moving figure. It seemed to him that whoever, or whatever it was, it was aware of their approach and desirous of avoiding them. The moving object had suddenly left the trail. It had taken to the grass, and was heading straight for the miry slough.

"The fool. The madman," muttered Charlie. "Does he know what he's making for?"

"Is it—a stream, Charlie?"

Bill's question seemed to irritate his brother.

"Stream?—Damn it, it's mire. His horse'll throw himself. Who——?"

He leaned forward in the saddle searching the distance for the identity of the oncoming horseman. His horse shot forward, and Bill's was hard put to it to keep pace.

"Can't we shout a warning?" cried Bill, caught in his brother's anxious excitement.

"Warning be damned," snapped Charlie over his shoulder. "This is no time to be shouting around. We don't——Hallo! He's realized where he's heading. He's——. Oh, the hopeless, seven sorts of damned idiot. Look! Look at that! There he goes. Poor devil, what a smash. Hurry up!"

The two men made a further call upon their horses, urged by the sight of the horseman beyond the slough. He had crashed headlong into the half-dry watercourse at the very edge of the culvert.

The man's disaster was quite plain, even at that distance. He had evidently been unaware of his danger in leaving the trail for a cross-country run to avoid those he saw approaching him. As he came down to the slough, all too late he had realized whither he was heading. Then, instead of keeping on, and taking his chances of getting through the mire, he had made a frantic effort to swing his horse aside and regain the culvert. His reckless speed had been his undoing. His impetus had been so great that the poor beast under him had only the more surely plunged to disaster, from the very magnitude of its effort to avoid it.

Charlie was the first to reach the culvert. In a moment he was out of the saddle.

The stranger's floundering horse struggled, and finally scrambled to its feet. The rider was close beside it, but lay quite still where he had fallen. To Charlie's critical eye there was little doubt as to what had happened. The adjacency of the edge of the culvert warned him of what had befallen. The rider must have struck it as he fell.

As Bill dismounted he pointed at the stranger's horse.

"Grab it," cried Charlie. The next moment was kneeling beside the fallen man.

Then, in a moment, the wondering Bill, looking on, beheld a sight he would never forget.

Charlie bent down over the silent figure. He reached out and placed an arm under the man's body and turned him over. The next instant a cry, half-stifled in his throat, a cry as of some dumb creature mortally wounded, a cry full of hopeless, dreadful pain rose from the kneeling man, and its agony smote the sympathetic brother as though with a mortal blow.

Then came words, a rush of words, imploring, agonized.

"Kate! Kate! Oh, Kate, why did you do it? Why? Oh, God, she's dead! Kate! Kate! Speak to me. For God's sake speak to me. You're not dead. No, no. Not dead. It can't be."

The man's hand caressed the soft pale cheek under it. He had thrust back the prairie hat which still retained its position, pressed low upon the head, and a mass of dark, luxuriant hair fell away from its place, coiled tightly about the small head.

At that moment the horrified voice of Bill broke in.

"Charlie! Charlie! I can hear horses galloping in the distance!" he cried, alarmed, without actually realizing why. And some sort of desperate instinct made him thrust his hand into his revolver pocket.

For an instant only Charlie looked up at him in a dazed, only half-understanding. Then his eyes lit with a stirring alarm as he turned a listening ear to windward.

The next moment his arms were flung about the body of the disguised woman at his feet, and, with a great effort, he lifted her and struggled to his feet.

Bill stared in stupid wonderment when he beheld the figure of Kate Seton clad in man's clothing, but he continued to hold on to the horses, and, with a hand on his revolver, awaited his brother's commands.

At that moment Kate opened her eyes and gazed into the dark face above her. In a moment the ardent eyes of Charlie smiled down at her. Then the injured woman's lips opened, and, as they formulated her halting words, his smile gave place to something like panic. She was still in a fainting condition, but power was vouchsafed her to impart a story which drove him to something like a frenzy of activity.

"It's the police," she gasped. "It's—it's shooting. They're—behind. They're right after me—O-oh!"

She had fainted again with her last word, and the dead weight in the man's arms became almost unsupportable.

But now there was no longer any uncertainty. Kate was alive. The police were behind. At all costs—the woman he loved must be saved.

Charlie looked up at Bill, and his voice became harshly commanding.

"Quick! On your horse, man," he cried, almost fiercely. "That's it," as Bill flung himself into the saddle without question. "Here, now take her. You're strong. Get her across your saddle in front of you. There, that's it—lift. So. Gently. Get her right across your lap. That's it. Now take my horse and lead it. So."

Bill obeyed like a well-disciplined child, and with equal enthusiasm. He leaned down from the saddle and lifted the fainting woman out of his brother's arms. She was like a babe in his powerful arms. He laid her across his knee. Then, as his brother passed the reins of his own horse up to him, he took them and slung them over his supporting arm. The command died out of Charlie's tones, and his whole attitude became an irresistible appeal.

"Now, Bill," he cried, urgently. "Down there, along the bank of the slough." He pointed away southwards. "Along there, into that bush. Get into hiding and remain till the coast is clear. Then get her back to her home. Leave the police to me, and—and remember she's all I care for—in the world."

Bill waited no further word. Once he understood what was required of him he could do it—he would do it—with all his might. He moved off with all the confident air of his simple, purposeful nature.

Charlie watched him go. He saw him vanish amid the shadows of the bush. Then he turned to Kate's horse and sprang into the saddle.

For a moment he sat there watching and listening. But his purpose was not quite clear. It had not been clear to Bill, who had asked no question, feeling such to be superfluous at the moment.

But his own purpose was clear enough to Charlie's devoted mind. There must be no chance of Kate's discovery by the police. Whatever had happened before, there must be no chance of harm to her now. His mind was quite clear. His thought flowed swiftly and keenly.

The distant sound of galloping horses was growing. The summit of the rising ground over which they must come was not more than two hundred yards behind him.

He waited. The clatter of hoofs was growing louder with each passing second. The police must certainly be near the top of the rise now. Bill was well away. He was well in the bush by this time.

Hark! Yes. There they were. The moon was hidden just now, but even so Charlie could see the bobbing figures at the hilltop.

Suddenly he rammed his heels into his horse's flanks and dashed off up the slope which he had so recently descended. As he went he drew his revolver and fired two shots in swift succession in the direction of the horsemen approaching. Well enough he knew, as he raced on toward the village, that the police were beyond his range, but his purpose was that there should be no doubt in their minds that he—he was their quarry—that he was the man they had already been pursuing so far.

* * * * *

Ten men made up the tally of the pursuers riding with Inspector Fyles. McBain was not among them. He had remained with the abandoned buckboard while the rest of the police were scouring the neighborhood for the fugitives from the first encounter.

As Fyles came over the rise, and beheld the culvert below him, and heard the two defiant shots hurled in his direction, a thrill of satisfaction swept through him. The man was less than three hundred yards ahead of him with a long hill to climb, and something over a mile to go before the village, and the possibility of safety, was reached.

There was no match in the country for Peter when it came to a long, uphill chase. He told himself the man hadn't a dog's chance with Peter hard on his heels.

"We've got him, boys," he cried to his men, in his moment of exuberance. "He ought to have been half a mile on by the start he got. It's the poor devil of a horse playing out. He's beat—beat to death. Now, boys, hard on my heels for a spurt."

Peter leaped ahead under the sharp reminder of the spur, and, in a few moments, the clatter of iron-shod hoofs left the wooden culvert behind it, and the race up the hill began.

The moon now blazed out, as though at last it had definitely decided to throw its weight in against the fugitive. The summer clouds were lifting and vanishing with that wonderful rapidity with which, once the brilliant moon gains sway, she seems to sweep all obstruction from her chilly path.

The steely light poured down upon the slim back of the fugitive, and left both horse and rider sharply outlined. The distance diminished under the terrific spurt of the police horses, and a confident look began to dawn in the eyes of their riders.

They were gaining so rapidly that it seemed hardly necessary to press their bronchos so hard. The top of the hill was still a quarter of a mile away. The fugitive's evidently wearying beast could never make that last final incline. The man would be forced to turn and defend himself or yield for very helplessness. The whole thing was too easy. It was absurdly easy. Nor could there be any sort of a "scrap." They were ten to one. It was disappointing. These riders of the plains reveled in a genuine fight.

But Fyles's contentment suddenly received a disconcerting shock. Peter was stretching out like a greyhound. The pace at which they pursued the hunted hare was terrific. But now, although they were, if anything, traveling faster, they seemed to be no longer gaining. The three hundred yards intervening had, in that first rush, been reduced to nearly one hundred. But, somehow, to his disquiet Fyles now realized that there was no further encroachment.

He shook Peter up and left his companions behind. But it quickly became evident he could make no further impression. If anything, his quarry was gaining. An unpleasant conviction began to make itself felt in the mind of the policeman. The man had been foxing. He had been saving his horse up for that hill, calculating to a fraction the distance he had yet to go.

He called to his men to race for it.

They came up on his heels. The man nearest to him was a corporal.

"We're not done with him yet, corporal," he said grimly. "I wanted to get him without trouble. Guess we'll have to bail him up. Once over the top of that hill, he runs into the bush on the outskirts of the village. We daren't risk it."

The corporal's eyes lit.

"Shall we open out and give him a round, sir?"

Fyles nodded.

"Let 'em fire low. Bring his horse down."

The corporal turned back to his men, and gave the necessary order.

"Open out!" he cried. "It's just over a hundred yards. Fire low, and get his horse. We'll be on him before he can pick himself up."

"There's fifty dollars between you if you can bring him down and keep his skin whole," added Fyles.

Still keeping their pace, the men spread out from the trail, withdrawing the carbines from their leather buckets as they rode. Then came the ominous clicking of the breeches as cartridges were thrust home. Fyles, with Corporal Mooney, kept to the trail.

A moment passed. Then the first carbine spat out its vicious pellet. Fyles, watching, fancied that the fugitive had begun to flog his horse. Now, in swift succession, the other carbines added their chorus. There was no check in the pace of the pursuers. The well-trained horses were used to the work.

The first volley seemed ineffective. The men had not yet got their sights. The fugitive had another fifty yards before he reached the top of the long incline.

The distance to the top of the hill was lessening rapidly. Fyles was becoming anxious. It had become a matter of seconds before the man would clear the ridge.

"Keep low," cried the corporal, warningly, in the excitement of the moment. "A ricochet—anything will do. Get his horse."

The horseman was twenty yards from the crest of the hill. Fifteen. The carbines again rattled out their hurried fire.

Ten yards—in a moment he would be——

A cloud of dust arose suddenly among the feet of the fugitive's horse. It cleared. Fyles gave a sigh of relief and raced Peter forward. The man's horse had crashed to the ground.

* * * * *

Fyles was gazing down upon the body of the fallen man. The horse was lying a few yards away, struggling to rise. A great welter of blood flooded the sandy track all about it.

A trooper walked up to the horse. He placed the muzzle of his carbine close behind the poor creature's ear. The next moment there was a sharp report. The head dropped heavily to the ground and remained quite still.

The corporal looked up at his superior. He was kneeling beside the body of Charlie Bryant.

"I'm afraid it's all up with him, sir," he said seriously. "But he wasn't hit. I can't find a sign of a hit. I—think his neck's broken—or—or something. It was the fall. He's dead, sir—sure."

The officer's face never changed its stern expression. But the suspicion of a sigh escaped him. He was by no means an unfeeling man, but he had his duty to do. In this case there was more than his duty concerned. Hence the sigh. Hence any lack of appreciation.

"It's the man I expected," he said. "A foolish fellow, but—a smart man. You're sure he's dead? Sure?"

The corporal nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Poor devil. I'm sorry."



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE FALL OF THE OLD PINE

The gray of dawn was slowly gladdening toward the warmer hue of day. The eastern skies lit with that pallid yellow which precedes the gold and amber of the rising sun. Somewhere, far below the horizon, the great day god was marching onward, ever onward, shedding its splendor upon a refreshed and waking world.

The valley of Leaping Creek was stirring.

Whatever the shortcomings of the citizens of Rocky Springs, morning activity was not one of them. But they knew, on this day of days, a fresh era in the history of the village was about to begin. Every man knew this. Every woman. Even every child who had power to understand anything at all.

So, as the golden light spread upward toward the vault of the eastern heavens, the spirals of smoke curled up from among the trees on the breathless air. Every cookstove in the village was lit by the unwillingly busy hands of the men-folk, while the women bedecked themselves and their offspring, as befitted the occasion and their position.

Breakfast ensued. It was not the leisurely breakfast of every day, when men required an ample foundation to sustain their daily routine of laborious indolence, but a meal at which coffee was drunk in scalding gulps, and bread and butter, and some homely preserve, replaced the more substantial fare of chops and steak, or bacon and cereals.

Then came the real business of the day. Doors opened and men looked out. Children, with big bow ties upon their heads and sashes at their waists, scuttled through, about the legs of their parents, and reached the open. Neighborly voices hailed each other with a cheery greeting, and the tone was unusual. It was the tone of those who anticipate pleasantly, or are stirred by the excitement of uncertainty.

Minutes later the footpaths and unpaved tracks lost their deserted appearance. Solitary figures and groups lounged along them. Men accompanied by their well-starched womenfolk, women striving vainly to control their legions of offspring. They all began to move abroad, and their ways were convergent. They were all moving upon a common goal, as though drawn thither by the irresistible attraction of a magnet.

From the lower reaches of the village, toward the eastern river, that better class residential quarter, where the houses, four in number, of Mrs. John Day, of Billy Unguin, of Allan Dy, and the local blacksmith were located, an extremely decorous cortege emerged. Here there was neither bustle nor levity. These were the chief folk of Rocky Springs, and their position, as examples to their brethren of lesser degree, weighed heavily upon them.

Mrs. John was the light about which all social moths fluttered. The women supporting her formed a bodyguard sufficiently impressive and substantial. The men-folk were allowed no nearer than the fringe of their bristling skirts. It was like the slow and stately progress of a swollen, vastly overfed queen bee, moving on her round of the cells to deposit her eggs. The women were the attendant bees, the men were the guarding drones, whose habits in real life in no way detracted from the analogy, while Mrs. John—well, Mrs. John would have made a fine specimen of a queen bee, except, perhaps, for the egg-laying business.

They, too, were being drawn to the magnet point, but, as the distance they had to travel was greater than that of the other villagers, they would certainly be the last to arrive. This had been well calculated by Mrs. John, who was nothing if not important. She had well seen to it that the ceremony, so shortly to take place, was on no account to begin until her august word had been given. To further insure this trifling piece of self-aggrandizement she was defraying the whole of the expenses for the demolishment of the aged landmark of the valley.

The saloonkeeper, O'Brien, coldly cynical, but eager to miss nothing of the doings of his fellow citizens, took up his position at an early hour with two of the most faithful adherents of his business house.

It was his way to observe. It was his way to watch, and read the signs going on about him. This valley, and all that belonged to it, had little enough attraction for him beyond its possibilities of profit to himself. Therefore the signs about him were at all times important. And the signs of the doings of the forthcoming day more particularly so.

Those who accompanied him were Danny Jarvis and "fighting" Mike. They were entirely after his own heart, and, perhaps, if opportunity ever chanced to offer, after his pocket as well. They accompanied him because he insisted upon it, and with a more than tacit protest. As yet they had not sufficiently slept off the fumes of their overnight indulgence in rye whisky. But O'Brien, when it suited him, was quite irresistible to his customers.

Having roused these two inebriates from their drunken slumbers on the hay in his barn with a healthy kick, he proceeded to herd them out into the daylight with a whole-hearted enthusiasm.

"Out you get, you lousy souses," he enjoined them. "There's a big play up at the old tree goin' to happen right away. Guess that old crow bait, Ma Day'll need all the youth an' beauty o' Rocky Springs around to get eyes on her glory. I can't say either o' you boys fit in with these things, but if you don't git too near hoss soap and cold water mebbe you'll pass for the picturesque."

After a brief interval of blasphemous upbraiding and protest, after these two men had exhausted their complimentary vocabulary on the subject of the charms of the lumber merchant's wife, to all of which O'Brien turned a more or less deaf ear, the three set out for the scene of action, and took up an obscure position whence they could watch every detail of the proceedings without, themselves, being too closely observed.

As O'Brien looked out upon the preparations already made, and while his two friends stood chewing the silent cud of angry discontent, with a diluting of black plug tobacco, he had to admit that the moment certainly was a moment, and the scene had assumed a fascination which even contrived to take possession of his now somewhat rusty imagination.

There, in the center of all, stood the villainous old pine, clothed in all its atmosphere of unconscionable evil. It stood out quite by itself in the midst of a clearing, which had been carefully prepared. Every tree and every bush had been cut away, so that nothing should interfere with the impressive fall of the aged giant.

O'Brien studied the position closely. His eye was measuring, and he was forced to admit that the setting was impressive. More than that, he felt constrained to appreciate the imagination of Mrs. John Day. With a view to possibilities the approximate height of the tree had been taken, and a corresponding radius had been cleared of all lesser growths. This was excellent. But—and he contrived to find one objection—the old Meeting House was well within the radius. It was the preparation for its defense to which he took exception. He scorned the surrounding of lesser trees which had been left to guard it from the crushing impact should the tree fall that way. Nor was he slow to air his opinions.

He eyed the discontented features of his companions, and snorted violently.

"Say," he cried, forcefully. "Look at that, you two bokays o' beauty." He pointed at the Meeting House. "There—right there. If that darnation stack o' kindlin' was to fall that aways, why, I guess them vegetables wouldn't amount to a mush o' cabbige."

Fighting Mike deliberately spat.

"An' who in hell cares?" he snarled.

O'Brien turned on the other for a sign of interest. But Danny's stomach was in bad case.

"Oh, hell!" he cried, and promptly turned his gaze in another direction.

O'Brien looked from one to the other, torn by feelings of pity and anger, with a desire for bodily assault uppermost.

"You sure are bright boys," he said at last, a sort of sardonic humor getting the better of his harsher feelings.

He had no intention of having his enjoyment spoiled by what he termed "bad bile," so he yielded his full attention to the tree itself. It certainly was a magnificent piece of Nature's handiwork. Somehow he regretted that he had never studied it carefully before. From the tree he turned to a mild appreciation of the other preparations for its fall. Long guide ropes had been set in place, high up the vast, bare trunk. These, four of them in number, had been secured at the four points of the compass to other trees of stout growth on the fringe of the clearing. They were new ropes provided for the purpose. Then again, a heavy cable chain had been girded about the lower trunk, and to this, well out of range of the fall of the tree, were hitched two teams of heavy draught horses. It was obvious that they were to haul as the tree, steadied by the guides, began to fall.

He summed up the result of his observations for the benefit of his companions, in a pleasantly conversational manner.

"Makes a dandy picture," he said doubtfully, "but I guess there's a whole heap o' things women don't understand. Hand 'em a baby, an' they got men beat a mile, an' they most gener'ly don't forget to say so. That's all right, an' we ain't kickin' a thing. Guess we ain't yearnin' to share that glory—none of us. But babies and fellin' trees ain't got a spark o' resemblance far as I kin see, 'cep' it is an axe is a mighty useful thing dealing with 'em when they ain't needed. What I was comin' to was this old sawdust bag, Ma Day'll have a hell of a mouthful to chew when that tree gets busy. These guides ain't a circumstance. They won't hold nothin'. An' I guess I don't get a step nearer things than I am now."

Mike gazed around on the speaker with billious scorn.

"Don't guess that'll hurt nothin'," he sneered.

Danny was beginning to revive.

"Ain't you goin' to hand the leddy compliments?" he inquired sarcastically. "You got an elegant tank o' hot air laid on."

O'Brien remained quite unruffled.

"She'll hand herself all the compliments she's yearnin' for. Women like her can't do without bokays, an' they don't care a cuss how they get 'em. Say——"

He gazed up at the tattered crest of the tree. But the immensity of its height, looking so directly up, turned him dizzy, and he was glad to bring his gaze back to the unattractive faces of his companions.

"——I'm gettin' clear on to higher ground. You boys stop right ther'. If the old tree gets busy your ways it won't matter nothin'. Guess your score's overrun down at the saloon, but I lose that without a kick. You're too bright for me."

He turned away, and, moving up the hill, took up a fresh position.

Here he had a better view. He had abandoned the pleasure of listening to any speeches which he felt sure would be made, but his safety more than compensated him. Without the distractions of his companions' society he was better able to concentrate his attention upon details. He observed that the tree was already sawn more than half way through, and he congratulated himself that he had not discovered it before. Also he saw a number of huge, hardwood wedges lying on the ground, and beside them two heavy wooden mauls.

Their purpose was obvious, and he wondered who were the men who would handle them. And, wondering, he cast an interested eye up at the sky with the thought of wind in his mind. The possibility of such a tragedy as the sudden rising of a breeze to upset calculations, and, incidentally, the half-sawn tree, had no effect upon him. He was out of range. Those gathering about the tree in the open were welcome to their belief in the strength of the guide ropes.

In a few moments all his interest was centered about the gathering of the villagers. He knew them all, and watched them with the keenest interest. He could hear the babel of tongues from his security. Nor could he help feeling how much these people resembled a flock of silly, curious sheep.

His eyes quickly searched for those whom he felt were really the more important in the concern of the tree. Where were Charlie Bryant, and those men who were concerned in his exploits? His eyes scanned every face, and then, when his search was completed, something like excitement took possession of him.

Charlie Bryant was absent. So were his associates, Kid Blaney, Stormy Longton, Holy Dick, and Cranky Herefer. Where were Pete Clancy and Nick Devereux, Kate Seton's hired men? They were all absent. So was Kate herself. Ah, yes, he had heard she had gone to Myrtle. Anyway, her sister, Helen, was there—with Mrs. John Day. Where was her beau—Charlie Bryant's brother?

His excitement rose. The coincidence of these absences suggested possibilities. The possibilities brought a fresh train of thought. He suddenly realized that not a single policeman was present. This, of course, might easily be accounted for on the score of duty. But their absence, taken in conjunction with the absence of the others, certainly was remarkable.

But now the ceremony was beginning. Mrs. John Day had assumed command, and, surrounded by her select bodyguard, she was haranguing the villagers, and enjoying herself tremendously. Yes, there was no manner of doubt about her enjoyment. O'Brien's maliciously humorous eyes watched her expression of smiling self-satisfaction, and estimated it at its true worth. Her face was very red, and her arms swung about like flails, beating the air in her efforts to carry conviction upon an indifferent audience. He felt that the glory of that moment was something she must have lived for for days, and a feeling of awful anticipation swept over him as he considered her possible verbal and physical antics at such time as the new church should be opened. He felt that it would really be necessary to take a holiday on that occasion.

However, the speech terminated, as speeches sometimes do, and a chorus of applause dutifully followed, as such choruses generally do. And now the great interest of the day was to begin.

Menfolk began to press the crowd back beyond the safety line, and two of Mrs. Day's lumbermen, evidently sent down for the occasion by her husband from his camp, picked up the two wooden mauls. At the same time a man took his place at each guide rope.

O'Brien rubbed his hands. Now for the fun, and he thought of the old legend. He wondered which of those silly-looking sheep, gazing in open-mouthed expectation, were to be the victims of the old Indian curse. And curiously enough, hard-headed, callous as he was, O'Brien was convinced someone was to pay the penalty.

The great wedges were placed in position, and the heavy stroke of one of the mauls resounded through the valley. A second wedge was placed, and a second stroke fell. Then several strokes in swift succession, and the men stood clear, and gazed upward with measuring eye.

O'Brien, too, looked up. The tree had begun to lean, and two of the guides were straining taut. He wondered. He wondered if the men at the guides were used to the work. Now, for the first time, he realized that the crest of the tree had a vast overhang of foliage on one side, and mighty misshapen limbs. He regarded it speculatively.

Then he glanced at the lumbermen. They were still looking up at the lean of the tree. Suddenly he found himself expressing his opinions aloud, as he ominously shook his head.

"They're raw hands, or—jest mill hands," he muttered. "They sure ain't sawyers."

And again his eyes lifted to the ominous overhang.

A further scrutiny enlightened him. They were endeavoring to fell the tree so that its crest should drop somewhere on or near the trail toward the new church. This made its fall in the direction of, but to the south of, the old Meeting House. This was obviously for the purpose of simplifying haulage. Good enough—if all went well.

The lumbermen seemed satisfied and turned again to their wedges. As they did so a gleam of smiling irony began to grow in O'Brien's eyes. He had detected a slight swing in the overhang of the crest, and the strain on the two guides was unequally distributed. The greater strain was on the wrong guide.

The swing of the tree was slightly out of its calculated direction, and inclining a degree or two nearer the direction of the Meeting House.

As the heavy strokes of the mauls fell he glanced over the faces of the onlookers. What a picture of expectancy, what idiotic delight he saw there!

A crack, sharp and loud, echoed over the clearing. The double team were straining mightily on their heavy tugs. The lumbermen had stood clear. The strain on the wrong guide had increased.

O'Brien looked up. The swing had changed several more degrees, further out of its direction.

The expression of the upturned faces had changed, too. Now it was evident that others had realized what O'Brien had discovered already. Loud voices began to point it out, and the lumbermen stared stupidly upward. The tree was in the balance, and slowly moving, bearing all its crushing weight upon that single wrong guide.

There was a rapid movement near O'Brien, and Mike and Danny Jarvis joined him hurriedly.

"Say," cried the latter, "the blamed galoots'll bust up the whole durned shootin' match."

Which remark warned O'Brien that Danny had awakened to the threatening danger to the Meeting House.

"They done it," returned O'Brien calmly, his eyes riveted upon the leaning tree.

Mike thrust his hands into the tops of his trousers.

"It sure was time to quit," he said with satisfaction.

The saloonkeeper's only comment was to rub his hands in a sort of malicious glee. Then in a moment, he pointed at the straining guide. "It's got way," he cried. "Look, she's spinning. The rope. She'll part in half a tick. Get it? Say, might as well try to hold a house with pure rubber, as a new rope. It's got such a spring. It's give the old tree way. Now it's——. Gee!"

His final exclamation came as a terrific rending and cracking, far louder than heavy gunshots, came from the base of the tree. There was a vision of the lumbermen running clear. The next instant the straining guide parted with a report that echoed far down the valley. Then, caught by the other restraining guide, the whole tree swung around, pivoting on its base, and fell with a roar of splitting and rending, and a mighty final boom, along the whole length of the roof of the Meeting House.

All O'Brien had anticipated had come to pass. Furthermore, the mush of "vegetables" surrounding the house was more than fulfilled. The vast trunk cut its way through the building, everything, like a knife passing through butter, and finally came to rest upon the ruined flooring inside.

With the final crash an awful silence prevailed. Not a voice was raised among the onlookers. The old superstitions were fully stirring. Was this the beginning of some further disaster to come? Was this the work of that old-time curse? Was this only a part of the evil connected with that tree? It was not the destruction of the house alone that filled them with awe. It was the character of the house that had been destroyed.

But in a moment the spell was broken, and O'Brien was the first to help to break it. The tree had fallen. It lay there quite still, like some great, dead, evil giant. Now his callous mind demanded to know the full extent of the damage done.

He left his post, followed closely by his companions, and ran down toward the wrecked building. With his movement a rush came from other directions among the spectators, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the ruined Meeting House was swarmed with an eager, curious throng of men and women clambering over the wreckage.

What a gladdening result for the sensation-loving minds of the callous! O'Brien and his companions were among the first to reach the scene.

There lay the fallen giant, the greater part of its colossal crest far beyond the extreme end of the demolished building. Only a few of the lower, bare branches, just beneath the foliage, had caught the house, these and the trunk. But the wreckage was complete. The walls had fallen as though they had been made of loose sand, walls that had withstood the storms of years, and the old, heavy-timbered roof was torn to shreds, and lay strewn about like matchwood.

As the eager crowd swarmed over the debris an extraordinary sight awaited them. The weight of the tree, and the falling roof timbers, had almost completely destroyed the flooring, and there, in its place, gaped an open cavity extending the length of the building. The place was undermined by one huge cellar, divided by now crushed and broken cross-supporting walls.

The searching eyes of the saloonkeeper and his companions lost no detail. Nor did the prevailing astonishment at the discovery seem to concern them. With some care they clambered among the debris to add further to the discovery, if such additions were to be made. And their efforts were rewarded without stint. The all-unsuspected and unknown cellar was no simple relic of a bygone age, but displayed every sign of recent usage. Furthermore, it was stocked with more than a hundred liquor kegs, many of which were empty, but, also, many of which were full of smuggled rye whisky.

Within five minutes the entire village, from Mrs. John Day down to the youngest child, knew that the cache of the whisky-runners had been laid bare by the fall of the old pine.

The wave of sentimental superstition again broke out and fastened itself upon the minds of the people, and the miracle of it was spoken of among them with almost bated breath.

But O'Brien had no time to waste upon any such thought. He clambered round through the cellars with eyes and wits alert. And he chuckled delightedly, as, groping in the half-light among the kegs, he discovered and recognized his own markings upon many of the empty kegs.

The whole thing amused him vastly, and he dilated upon his various discoveries to those who accompanied him.

"Say, Danny, boy, don't it beat hell?" he cried gleefully. "While all them psalm-smiters were busy to death sweepin' the cobwebs out o' their muddy souls upstairs, the old wash-tub o' sins was full to the bung o' good wholesome rye underneath 'em. Was it a bright notion? Well, I'd smile. If it don't beat the whole blamed circus. Is there a p'liceman in the country 'ud chase up a Meetin' House for liquor? Not on your life. That dope was as safe right there from discovery as if it was stored in the United States Treasury. Say, them guys was smart. Smart? Hell—say—what's that?"

Excited voices were talking and calling loudly beyond the walls of the ruined building. Even amid the dark surroundings of the cellars O'Brien and his companions detected the words "police" and "patrol."

Ready for any fresh interest forthcoming, the saloonkeeper clambered hurriedly out of the cellar with the other men close behind him. They mounted the broken walls and looked out upon the crowd.

All eyes were turned along the trail coming up from the village, and O'Brien followed the direction of their gaze. A half-spring police wagon, followed closely by a wagon, which many recognized as that of Charlie Bryant, were coming up the trail, escorted by Inspector Fyles and a patrol of police troopers. The horses were walking slowly, and as they approached a hush fell upon the crowd of spectators.

Suddenly Stanley Fyles urged his horse forward, and came on at a rapid canter. He pulled up at the ruined building and looked about him, first at the wreckage and then at the silent throng. Then, as he beheld O'Brien standing on the wall, he pointed at the ruins.

"An—accident?" he inquired sharply.

O'Brien's eyes twinkled.

"A damn piece of foolish play by folks who orter know better," he said. "They tried wreckin' this durned old tree an' succeeded in wreckin' the soul laundry o' this yer village. Mebbe, too, you'll find things down under it to interest you, inspector. I don't guess you'd be lookin' for whisky an' religion goin' hand in hand, so to speak."

The officer's eyes were sharply questioning.

"How's that?"

"Why, the cellars are full o' kegs of good rye—some full, some empty. Gee, but I'd hate spilling it."

The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coarse police blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying something of the ominous figures hidden under them.

"Say——" cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on. "Say, them—wagons—are loaded some."

Fyles nodded.

"I was bringing 'em along to have them laid out here—in the Meeting House, before—burial."

"Burial?"

O'Brien's eyes opened wide. A sort of gasp went through the silent crowd of onlookers, hanging on the police officer's words.

"Yes, it was a brush with—the runners," Fyles said seriously. "We got them red-handed last night. It was a case of shooting, too. Two of our boys were shot up. They're in the wagons. There's three of the gang—dead, and the boss of it, Charlie Bryant. They're all in the wagons. The rest are across the border by now. Guess there'll be no more whisky run in this valley."

The hush which followed his announcement was far more eloquent than words.

It was O'Brien whose temerity was strong enough to break it.

"That's so," he remarked thoughtfully. Then he sighed a world of genuine regret, and his eyes glanced along the vast timber of the old pine. "Guess the old cuss has worked out," he went on. "No, there'll be no more whisky-running." Then he climbed slowly down from the wall. "I'll have to get—moving on."



CHAPTER XXXIX

FROM THE ASHES

The nine days' wonder had come and passed. Never again could the valley of Leaping Creek return to the conditions which had for so long prevailed there. And strangely enough the victory won was far more a moral than a physical one. True, one or two lives had paid for the victory, but this was less than nothing compared with the effect achieved.

Within three weeks a process of emigration had set in which left the police with scarcely an excuse for their presence in the valley at all. All those who, for long years, had sought sanctuary within the shelter of the vast, forest-clad slopes of the valley, began to realize that the immunity which they had enjoyed for so long was rapidly becoming doubtful. The forces of the police suddenly seemed to have become possessed of a too-intimate knowledge of the shortcomings which had driven them to shelter. In fact, the limelight of government authority was shining altogether too brightly, searching out the shadowed corners in the lives of the citizens, and yielding up secrets so long and so carefully hidden.

The first definite result of the police raid apparent was the "moving on" of Dirty O'Brien. It came quite suddenly, and unexpectedly. Rocky Springs one morning awoke to find that the old saloon was closed. Inquiry soon elicited the true facts. O'Brien had vanished. The barn was empty. His team and spring wagon had gone, and the house, and bar, had been stripped of everything worth taking. The night before O'Brien had served his customers up to the usual hour, and there was nothing unusual to be observed. Therefore, the removal must have been effected swiftly and silently in the dead of night, performed as the result of careful, well-laid plans.

This was the first result of the definite establishment of police authority. Evidently the future of Rocky Springs no longer appealed to the shrewd saloonkeeper, and so he "moved on."

This was the cue for further goings. With the saloon closed, and the police authority established, Rocky Springs was Rocky Springs no longer. So, one by one, silently, without the least ostentation, men began to yield up their claims as citizens, and, vanishing over the distant horizon, were heard of no more.

The sledgehammer of police methods had penetrated through the case-hardening of the village, and the place became hopelessly impossible for its population of undesirables.

For Helen Seton those first three weeks left her with a dull, apathetic feeling that quite suddenly her whole world had been turned upside down. That somehow a complete wreckage of all the life about her, her new life, had been consummated. Nor did she understand why, or how. It seemed to her she was living in a new world where all was misery and depression. Her usually bubbling spirit was weighted down as with an avalanche of responsibility and unhappiness.

For her the change had begun with almost the very moment of the felling of the old pine, and, somehow, it seemed to her as if that wicked, mischievous monument of bygone crimes were responsible.

With the yielding up of the secrets of the Meeting House had started a succession of shocks, each one harder than its predecessor to bear, until she was left almost paralyzed and quite powerless to resist them.

With Stanley Fyles heading the procession of death, with the man's brief outline of the circumstances attending his raid, her heart seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. Her thought turned at once to her sister. That sister, even now away from home, waiting in dreading unconsciousness for the completion of the disaster she so terribly feared. To Helen's sympathetic heart the horror of the position was magnified an hundredfold. Kate had been right. Kate had understood where they had all been blind, and Kate, loyal, strong, brave Kate, must learn that the very disaster she had prophesied had come, and, in coming, had overtaken the one man they had all so earnestly desired to shield—Charlie Bryant.

Without waiting another moment she left the scene. She had blindly rushed from the proximity of that gaping, awe-stricken, curious crowd. And her way had taken her straight home. She had no thought for any object. How could she? Her mind and heart were overflowing with fear and concern, and a world of sympathy for Kate—the absent Kate. Charlie was dead. Charlie had been caught red-handed. Charlie, that poor, helpless, besotted drunkard. He—he—after all their faith in his integrity, after all Kate's lavish affection, he was the real criminal, and—Fyles had run him to his death. She had no thought now of Bill's absence from her side. She had no thought of anything but this one overwhelming disaster.

So she ran on home. Nor did she pause till she flung herself upon the coverlet of her little white bed in a passionate storm of weeping.

How long she lay there she never knew. A merciful Providence finally sent sleep to her weary brain and heart. And when she ultimately awoke it was to start up dazedly, and find herself staring into the solemn, dreadful eyes of her sister, Kate, who was standing just beyond the open doorway of her bedroom, gazing in upon her.

Then followed a scene never likely to be wholly forgotten.

She sprang from her bed and ran toward that ominous figure. She was prepared to fling herself upon that strong support which had never yet failed her. But, for once, no such support was forthcoming. Long before she reached her side Kate had stepped into the room and seemed to collapse into the rocker beside the dressing bureau. The brave Kate was reduced to a pitiful outburst of tearless sobs.

For one brief instant Helen was again on the verge of tears, but she remembered. With a great effort she forced them back, and held herself in a strong grip. Then, slowly, a change began to creep over her. It was not she who must look for support from Kate. It was she who must yield support, and the memory of all those years when Kate, never by word or act had failed her, came to her aid.

But though she sought by every means in her power to comfort the heartbroken woman, her efforts were wholly unavailing. They were perhaps worse than unavailing. For Kate proved as unreasonable as any weak, hysterical girl, and, rebuffing her at every turn, finally broke into such a storm of bitter self-reviling as to leave her sister helpless.

"Leave me, Helen," she cried, through her grievous sobs. "Don't come near me. Go, go. Don't look at me; don't come near. I'm not fit to live. I'm a—murderess. It's I—I who've killed him. Oh, God, was there ever such punishment. No—no. Go away—go away. I—I can't bear it."

Horrified beyond words, stunned and confused, poor Helen knew not where to turn, or what to do. She stood silently by—wondering. Then, without reasoning or understanding, something came to her help just as she was about to yield to her own woman's weakness once more.

She moved out of the room, nor did she know for what reason. Nor was her next action any impulse of her own. Mechanically she set about the housework of her home.

It was her salvation, the salvation of the situation. She worked, and gradually a great calm settled upon her. Thought began to flow. Practical, helpful thought. And as she worked she saw all those things she must do for poor Kate's well-being.

It was a long and terrible day. And when night fell she was utterly wearied out in mind and body. She had already prepared a meal for Kate, which had been left untouched, and now, as evening came, she prepared another.

But this, like the first, was never partaken of by her sister. When she went into her own bedroom, where Kate had remained, to make her second attempt, she found to her relief and joy that her sister was lying on her bed sound asleep.

She stole out and closed up the house for the night.

Nor was Helen prepared for the miracle of the next morning. When she arose it was to find her bedroom empty, and her bed made up. She hurriedly set out in search of her sister. She was nowhere in the house. In rapidly rising dismay she hurried out to search the barn, fearing she knew not what. But instant relief awaited her. Kate was outside doing all those little necessary duties by the livestock of her homestead, which she was accustomed to do, in the calm unruffled fashion in which she always went about her work.

Helen stared. She could scarcely believe her eyes. The miracle was altogether beyond her comprehension. But her delight and relief were profound. She greeted her sister and spoke. Then it was that she realized that here was no longer the old Kate, but a changed, utterly changed woman. The big eyes, so darkly ringed, no longer smiled. They looked out at her so full of unutterable pain, as full of dull aching regrets. There was such a depth of yearning and misery in them that her greeting suddenly seemed to jar upon her own ears, and come back to her in bitter mockery. In a moment, however, understanding came. Intuitively she felt that her sister's grief was her own, into which she could never pry. She must ask no questions, she must offer no sympathy. For the moment her sister's mantle had fallen upon her shoulders. Hers had suddenly become the strength, and it was for her to use it in Kate's support.

So the days wore on, long dreary days of many heartaches and bitter speculation. Kate remained the dark, brooding figure she had displayed herself on that first morning after her return. She was utterly unapproachable in those first days, while yet at the greatest pains to conceal the sorrow she was enduring. No questions or explanations passed between the two women, and Helen was left without the faintest suspicion of the truth.

Sometimes, Helen, in the long silent days, strove to solve the meaning of everything for herself. She thought and thought till her poor head ached. But she always began and ended with the same thought. It was Charlie's capture, Charlie's death which had wrought this havoc in her sister, and she felt that time alone could remove the shadow which had settled itself so hopelessly upon her.

Then she began to wonder and worry at the prolonged absence of her—Bill.

* * * * *

Kate had just finished removing the remains of the evening meal. Helen had curled herself up in the old rocker. She was reading through the numerous pages of a long letter, for perhaps the twentieth time. She was tired, bodily and mentally, and her pretty face looked drawn under its tanning.

Her sister watched her, moving silently about, returning the various articles to the cupboards where they belonged. Her eyes were shadowed. The old assurance seemed to have gone entirely out of her. Her whole manner was inclined to a curious air of humility, which, even now, seemed to fit her so ill.

She watched the girl turn page after page. Then she heard her draw a long sigh as she turned the last page.

Helen looked up and caught the eyes so yearningly regarding her.

"I—I feel better now," she declared, with a pathetic little smile. "And—please—please don't worry about me, Kate, dear. I'm tired. We're both tired. Tired to death. But—there's no help for it. We surely must keep going, and—and we've no one now to help us." She glanced down at the letter in her lap. Then she abruptly raised her eyes, and went on quickly. "Say, Kate, I s'pose we'll never see Nick or Pete again? Shall we always have to do the work of our little patch ourselves?" Then she smiled and something of her old lightness peeped out of her pretty eyes. "Look at me," she cried. "I—I haven't put on one of my nice suits since—since that day. I'm—a tramp."

Kate's returning smile was of the most shadowy description. She shook her head.

"Maybe we'll get some hired men soon," she said, quietly. Then she sighed. "I don't know. I hope so. I guess we'll never see Nick again. He got away—I believe—across the border. As for Pete," she shuddered, "he was found by the police—shot dead."

Helen sat up.

"You never told me," she cried.

Kate shook her head.

"I didn't want to distress you—any more." Just for one moment she averted her eyes. Then they came back to Helen's face in an inquiry. "When—when is—Bill coming back?"

"Bill?" Helen's eyes lighted up, and a warm smile shone in them as she glanced down at her letter again. "He says he'll be through with Charlie's affairs soon. He's in Amberley. He's had to see to things through the police. He's coming right on here the moment he's through. He's—he's going to wire me when he starts. Kate?"

"Yes, dear."

Kate turned from the cook stove at the abruptness of her sister's tone. Helen began to speak rapidly, and as she talked she kept her gaze fixed upon the window.

"It's—it's a long while now, since—that day. We were both feeling mighty bad 'bout things then. We," she smiled whimsically, "sort of didn't know whether it was Rocky Springs, or Broadway, did we? And there was such a lot I didn't know or understand. And I never asked a question. Did I?"

Kate winced visibly. The moment she had always dreaded had come. She had realized that it must eventually come, and for days she had wondered vaguely how she would be able to meet it. The smile which strove to reach her eyes was a failure, and, for a moment, a hunted look threatened. In the end, however, she forced herself to perfect calmness.

"I don't think I could have answered them then if you had," she said gently. "I don't know that I can answer many now—for both our sakes."

Helen thought for some moments. Then she appeared to have arrived at a determination.

"How did you—come home that day—and why? I didn't expect you until the next day."

Kate drew a deep breath.

"I came back—riding," she said. "I came back because—because I had to."

"Why?"

"Because of the—disaster out there."

"You knew?"

Kate nodded.

"Pretty well everything. That is all I can tell you, dear." Kate crossed the room, and stood beside her sister's chair. She laid one gentle hand upon her shoulder. "Don't ask me any more about that. It—it is like—like searing my very soul with red-hot irons. That must be my secret, and you must forgive me for keeping it from you. Ask me anything else, and I will tell you—but leave that alone. It can do nobody any good."

Helen leaned her head on one side till her soft cheek rested caressingly upon her sister's hand.

"Forgive me, Kate," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll never mention it again—never."

For some moments neither spoke. But Kate was waiting. She knew there were other questions that must be asked and answered.

"Was it because of the felling of that tree you went away?" Helen asked presently.

Kate shook her head.

"No."

Helen started up.

"I knew it wasn't. Oh, Kate, I knew it wasn't. It was so unlike you. I know why you went. Listen," she went on, almost excitedly. "You always defended Charlie. You pretended to believe him straight. You—you stuck to him through thick and thin. You flouted every charge made against him. It was because of him you went away. You went to try and help him—save him. All the time you knew he was against the law. That's why you went. Oh, Kate, I knew it—I knew it."

Helen was looking up into her sister's shadowed face with loyal enthusiasm shining in her admiring eyes.

Kate gravely shook her head.

"I believed every word I said of Charlie. As God is my witness I believed it. And I tell you now, Helen, that as long as I live my heart will be bowed down beneath a terrible weight of grief and remorse at the death of a brave, honest, and loyal gentleman. I have no more to say. I never shall have—on the subject. I love you, Helen, and shall always love you. My one thought in life now is your welfare. If you love me, dear, then leave those things. Leave them as part of a cruel, evil, shadowed time, which must be put behind us. All I want you to ever remember of it—when you are the happy wife of your Big Brother Bill—is that Charlie was all we believed him, in spite of all appearances, and he died the noblest, the most heroic death that man ever died."

Kate bent down and tenderly kissed the beautiful head of fair, wavy hair. Then, without waiting for the astonished sister's reply, she moved across to the door.

"Some day," she said, pausing with her hand on the catch, and, turning back, smiling gently through the gathering tears, "Bill will tell you it all. He knows it all—everything. Just now he is bound to secrecy, but he will be released from that some day, and then—he will tell you."



CHAPTER XL

THE DAWN

A girl was leaning against a solitary post, a hundred yards or so from where the descent into the valley of Leaping Creek began. All about her stretched the vast plains of grass, which seemed to know no end. The wide flat trail, so bare and hard, passed her by, and vanished into the valley behind her. In the opposite direction, at long intervals, it showed up in sections as it passed over the rises in the prairie ocean, until the limits of her vision were reached.

Not a single object stood out to relieve the monotony of that desert of grass. Any dwelling of man within reach of the searching eye must have been hidden in the troughs between the crests of summer grass. It was all so wide, so vast, so dreadful in its unspeakable solitude.

Helen's eyes were upon the last section of the trail, away to the northwest, just as far as her bright eyes could see. She was searching, searching. Her heart was beating with a great and buoyant hope, and every little detail she beheld in that far-off distance she searched, and sought to mould into the figure of the horseman she was waiting for.

The sun was hot. It's relentless rays, freed from the wealth of shade in the valley below, beat down upon the parching land with a fiery intensity which must have been insupportable to unaccustomed human life. But to Helen it meant nothing, nothing but the fact that its brilliant light was in keeping with every beat of the warm, thrilling heart within her bosom.

He was on the road. Bill—her Big Brother Bill. He was on the road, and must be somewhere near now, for the telegram in her hand warned her that he hoped to reach the valley by sundown.

Four long weeks since the dreadful day. Four long weeks in which her aching heart and weary thought had left her in wretched unhappiness. Four weeks of doubt and trouble, in which her sister seemed to have shut herself out of her life, leaving her to face all her doubts and fears alone.

Bill was away on his dead brother's affairs. Loyal Bill, seeking by every means in his lumbering power to shield the memory of the dead man from the effects of the manner of his death. Helen honored her lover for it. He was just the good, loyal soul she had believed. And now, as she stood with the tinted paper message, announcing his return in her hand, she smiled, and wondered tenderly what blunders he would contrive in the process.

Sundown. Sundown would not be for at least two hours. Two hours. Two hours meant some fourteen or sixteen miles by horse upon the trail. She told herself she could not see for sixteen miles, nor even for eight. It was absurd waiting there. She had already been waiting there over an hour. Then she smiled, laughing at herself for her absurd yearning for this lover of hers. He was so big, so foolish, so honest and loyal—and, he was just hers.

She sat down again on the ground, as already she had seated herself many times. She would restrain her impatience. She would not just get up at every——

She was on her feet again at the very moment of making her resolve. This time her eyes were straining and wide open. Every nerve in her body was at a tension. Some one was on the trail this time. Certain. It was a horseman, too. There was no mistake, but he was near, quite near, comparatively. How had she come to miss him in the far distance?

She saw the figure as it came over a rising ground. She watched it closely. Then she saw it was not on the trail, but was making for it—across country. Now she knew. Now she was certain, and she laughed and clapped her hands. It must be Bill, and—of course he had lost himself, and now, at last, had found his way.

The horseman came on at a great pace.

As he drew nearer a frown of doubt crossed the girl's face. He did not appear big enough—somehow.

He dropped down into a hollow, and mounted the next crest. In a moment, as he came into view, Helen felt like bursting into tears of disappointment.

The next moment, however, all thought of tears passed away and a steady coldness grew in her eyes. She felt like hiding herself back there in the valley. She had recognized the man. Without a doubt it was Stanley Fyles. But he wore no uniform. He was clad in a civilian costume, which pronouncedly smacked of the prairie.

It was too late to hide. Besides, to hide would be undignified. What was he coming to the valley for? Helen's eyes hardened. Nor did she know quite why she felt resentful at the sight of him. Yes, she did. It was for poor Charlie, Bill's brother. And Kate had sworn that Charlie was innocent.

She stood thinking, thinking, and then a further change came over her. She remembered this man's work. She remembered his duty. Ought she to feel badly toward him?

And Kate? What of Kate? Would she——What on earth brought him to the valley—now?

It was too late to avoid him now, if she had wanted to. And, somehow, on reflection, she was not sure she did want to. So she stood her ground as he came up.

He reined Peter in as he came abreast, and his dark eyes expressed his surprise at sight of the waiting girl.

"Why—Miss Helen, this——" He broke off abruptly, and, turning in his saddle, looked back over the long, long trail. When his eyes came back to the girl's face they were smiling. "It's kind of hot out here," he said. "Aren't you afraid of the sun?" Then he became silent altogether, while he interpreted to himself the somewhat stony regard in her eyes.

In a moment something of the awkwardness of the encounter occurred to him. His mind was full of other things, which before he had missed the possibility of.

"I don't mind the sun, Mr. Fyles," said Helen coldly. "Besides, I guess I'm not standing around here for—fun. I'm waiting for some one."

Fyles glanced back over the trail. Then he nodded. "He's coming along," he said quietly. "Guess he started out from Amberley before me. Say, he's a bully feller, sure enough, and I like him. I've seen a good deal of him in Amberley. But I guessed he wouldn't be thanking me for my company on the trail, so I came another way, and passed on ahead. You see—I, well, I had to do my duty—here, and—well, he's a bully feller, Miss Helen, and—you'll surely be happy with him."

While he was talking, just for a moment, a wild impulse stirred Helen to some frigid and hateful retort. But the man's evident sincerity won the day and the girl's eyes lit with a radiant smile.

"He's—on the trail?" she cried, banishing her last shadow of coldness. "He is? Say, tell me where, and when he'll get in. I—I had this message which said he'd be here by sundown, and—and I thought I'd just come right along and meet him. Have—have you seen him? And—and——"

Fyles shook his head. "Not until just now," he said kindly. "He's about four miles back. Say," he added, with less assurance, "maybe your sister's home?"

For a moment Helen stared incredulously. "Yes," she answered slowly. Then in agitation: "You're not going to——?"

The man nodded, but his smile had died out. "Yes. That's why I've come along," he said seriously. "Is—is she well? Is she——?"

But Helen left him no time to finish his apprehensive inquiries. At that moment she caught sight of a distant figure on the trail. It was the figure of a big man—so big, and her woman's heart cried out in love and thankfulness.

"Oh, look! It's Bill—my Bill! Here he comes. Oh, thank God."

Stanley Fyles flung a glance over his shoulder. Then without a word he lifted Peter's reins. Then he seemed to glide off in the direction of the setting sun.

As he went he drew a long sigh. He was wondering—wondering if all the happiness in the world lay there, behind him, in the warm heart of the girl who was waiting to embrace her lover.

* * * * *

Kate Seton was standing at the window of her parlor. Her back was turned upon the room, upon the powerful, loose-limbed figure of Stanley Fyles.

Her face was hidden, she wanted it to remain hidden—from him. She felt that he must not see all that his sudden visit, without warning, meant to her.

The man was near the center table. One knee was resting upon the hard, tilted seat of a Windsor chair, and his folded arms leaned upon the back of it. His eyes were full of a deep fire as he gazed upon the woman's erect, graceful figure. A great longing was in him to seize her, and crush her in arms that were ready to claim and hold her against all the world.

All the atmosphere of his calling seemed to have fallen from him. He stood there just a plain, strong man of no great eloquence, facing a position in which he might well expect certain defeat, but from which there was no thought of shrinking.

Silence had fallen since their first greeting. That painful silence when realization of that which lies between them drives each to search for a way to cross the barrier.

It was Kate who finally spoke. She moved slightly. It was a movement which might have suggested many things, among them uncertainty of mind, perhaps of decision. Her voice came low and gentle. But it was full of a great weariness and regret, even of pain.

"Why—why did you come—now?" she asked plaintively. "It seems as though I've lived through years in the last few weeks. I've tried to forget so much. And now—you come here to remind me—to stir once more the shadows which have nearly driven me crazy. Is it merciful—to do that?"

The woman's tone was baffling. Fyles searched for its meaning. Resentment he had anticipated. He had been prepared for it, and to resist it, and break it down by the ardor of his appeal. That dreary regret was more than he could bear, and he hastened to protest.

"Say, Kate," he cried, his sun-tanned features flushing with a quick shame. "Don't think I've come here to remind you. Don't think I've come along to taunt you with the loss of our—our mad wager. I want to forget it. It became a gamble on a man's life, and—and I hate the thought. You're free of it, and I wish to God it had never been made."

The bitter sincerity of his final words was not without its effect. Kate stirred. Then she turned. Her beautiful eyes, so full of pathos, so full of remorse, looked straight into his.

"Then—why did you come here?" she asked.

The man started up. The chair dropped back on to its four legs with a clatter. His arms were outstretched, and the passionate fire of his eyes blazed up as the quick, hot words escaped his lips.

"Why? Why?" he demanded, his eyes widening, his whole body vibrant with a consuming passion. "Don't you know? Kate, Kate, I came because I couldn't stay away. I came because there's just nothing in the world worth living for but you. I came because I just love you to death, and—there's nothing else. Say, listen. I went right back from here with one fixed purpose. Maybe it won't tell you a thing. Maybe you won't understand. I went back to get quit of the force—honorably. I'd made my peace with them. Oh, yes, I'd done that. Then I demanded leave of absence pending my resignation. They had to grant it. I am never going back. Oh, yes, I knew what I was up against. I wanted you. I wanted you so that I couldn't see a thing else in any other direction. There is no other direction. So I came straight here to—to ask you to forget. I came here to tell you all I feel about—the work I had to do here. I came here with a wild sort of forlorn hope you could forgive. You see, I even believed that but for—for that—there was just a shadow of hope for me. Kate——!"

The woman suddenly held up her hand. And when she spoke there was nothing of the Kate he had always known in the humility of her tone.

"It is not I who must forgive," she said quickly. "If there is any forgiveness on this earth it is I who need it."

"You? Forgiveness?"

The man's face wore blank incredulity.

Kate sighed. It was the sigh of a broken-hearted woman.

"Yes. If there is any forgiveness I pray that it may come my way. I need it all—all. I can never forgive myself. It was I who caused Charlie's death."

Quite suddenly her whole manner changed. The humility, the sadness of her tone rose quickly to a passionate self-denunciation.

"Yes, yes. I will tell you now. Oh, man, man. Your words—every one of them, have only stabbed me more and more surely to the heart. You don't understand. You can't, because you do not know what I mean. Oh, yes," she went on desperately, "why shouldn't I admit it? I love you. I always have loved you. Let me admit everything fully and freely."

"Kate!" The man stepped forward, his eyes alight with a world of happiness, of overwhelming joy. But she waved him back.

"No, no," she cried, almost harshly. "I have told you that just to show you how your words have well nigh crazed me. I can be nothing to you. I can be nothing to anybody. It was I who brought about Charlie's death. He, the bravest, the loyalest man I ever knew, gave his life to save me from the police, who were hunting me down. Oh," she went on, at sight of Fyles's incredulous expression, "you don't need to take my word alone. Ask Charlie's brother. Ask Bill. He was there. He, too, shared in the sacrifice, although he did not understand that which lay in the depths of his brother's brave heart. And now—now I must live on with the knowledge of what my wild folly has brought about. For weeks the burden of thought and remorse has been almost insupportable, and now you come to torture me further. Oh, God, I have paid for my wanton folly and wickedness. Oh, God!"

Kate buried her face in her hands, and abruptly flung herself into the rocker close behind her.

Fyles looked down upon her in amazed helplessness. He watched the woman's heaving shoulders as great, dry, hard sobs broke from her in tearless agony. He waited, feeling for the moment that nothing he could say or do but must add to her despair, to her pain. Her self-accusation had so far left him untouched. He could not realize all she meant. All that was plain to him was her suffering, and he longed to comfort her, and help her, and defend her against herself.