For one thing they were impressed with the selfishness of retiring while still Constable Williams sat with never a flicker of sleep in his eyes. They owed him a lot for his attentions of the past few days, and there were few opportunities of squaring the account. In the rude chair he had salved from the village wreckage the big fellow was content to sit to any hour of the night, merely smoking and listening, face beaming, pleased as a child when he found something to say. For two years he had been locked there in the wilds, with never a woman but Tressa Torrance to whom he could speak without a blush. And, looking into the clear eyes of Mrs. Mahon, he blushed a little now at memories of her predecessors in that infamous end-of-steel village—blond-haired, flashing eyed, bejewelled, strident voiced hussies who had worn out their welcome in society less base.

For the sixth time Mahon consulted his watch and shook his head self-reprovingly.

"Half-past eleven! Dissipation. And to-morrow we must dive deeper into the records of those two speeders. I don't know that I'm quite fair, Williams, but I imagine Torrance hasn't been taking us completely into his confidence, though he seems thoroughly stirred over this. They have me guessing—the most unlikely things, even to some silly club wager. But there isn't a club within three hundred miles. I'm off to-morrow to Mile 135. Torrance says the ticker is set up there. I want to talk to Saskatoon."

Constable Williams shrugged his shoulders. "Those speeders were up to something they're not telling Saskatoon or any one else that we're apt to get any information from."

"That's what I'm going to find out. They couldn't go far without being seen, and they'd have to stick to the railway. There's still a gang clearing up at Mile 63, I think."

"That was where I spent the night, wasn't it?" asked his wife. "There's an engineer there with his whole family and two women besides. It's a long way to be from neighbours."

"One never speaks of neighbours out here, Mrs. Mahon," smiled Constable Williams. "It makes one homesick. It's so long since we had neighbours that we've gone a bit rusty on the amenities of society. There's so little we can do for the first woman—"

"Williams, you're fishing." Mahon shook his head affectionately at his subordinate. "If you'd heard my wife this morning—"

"If you don't mind, dear," interrupted Helen, "I prefer to give my own thanks."

"But you just said this morning you couldn't—"

"Don't try, please," said Williams, with a grin. He drew a sigh. "I suppose now I ought to forego a selfish pleasure and let you go to bed. If I could only look sleepy! But I feel as if bed were an interruption, a nasty, bad-dispositioned, irritating kill-joy. And you'll be heavy with the chloroform of this rare air. Ah, me! Just when life begins—"

"It won't go down, Williams," teased Mahon. "The air up here has nothing on Medicine Hat. Not even its wildest booster would claim for the Hat the poison of a manufacturing town. Meteorologically it must be as far from civilisation as Mile 127. The worst up here is trying to compete with the sun in the matter of sleep. In the summer one would get about three hours; in the winter there wouldn't be time to prepare meals. Winter must be eerie. Even now I scent it—"

He shifted suddenly in his chair. Then with a dash he and Williams were crowding through the open door with drawn revolvers.

Through the night came the thunder of racing hoofs.

Mahon knew that speed. Many a time he had ridden thus, the wind whistling past his ears and the horse's mane flicking his stinging face. He knew, too, that a master-hand directed the horse he heard.

Without a word the two Policemen separated and dropped into the shadows on either side of the shaft of light from the doorway.

"Go into the other room, Helen." Mahon's order was sharp and low.

On came the racing horse, the pound of its hoofs echoing through the trees like the charge of a troop, filling the vast silence with piercing fancies. Echo and hoof-beats grew louder and louder; there was no other sound. At the edge of the village the horse turned from the clearing along the grade into the main street, and the echo, sharpened now by crowding walls, sent the blood tingling through the Sergeant's veins.

Over the pounding hoofs broke a muttering voice.

In another five seconds the horse would cross the shaft of light. Mahon and Williams raised their guns. The former edged out toward the narrow path. He had no thought of warning the man—he wished to see him dash into that shaft of light, that eyes might come to the aid of ears. Another moment. . . .

With a slithering of hoofs the horse pulled up in mid-flight at the very edge of the beams. A voice, husky with anxiety, shouted:

"Sergeant, Sergeant Mahon! Quick! For God's sake!"

At the first sound Mahon felt the blood rush to his head. His knees shook. His left hand groped to his forehead. Then he wrenched himself back to his duty.

"What is it?" His voice was quiet, but he avoided the light.

Slowly and soundlessly he was moving down the other edge of the light, revolver poised, eyes straining into the darkness beyond. In the dim fringe he made out the figure of a tall man leaning toward him, a pair of Indian braids falling over his shoulders. Mahon's eyes moved on to the horse. He started, and his teeth clicked. Surely there was something familiar. . . . But his brain was tumbling madly—he would not trust it.

The Indian, blinded by the light, spoke rapidly:

"They're attackin'—right away—a hundred rifles—blow up the trestle—kill the girl an' th' others!"

Neither the ride nor the run was making him pant like that.

The Sergeant leaped across the light and struck. With digging heels the Indian swung the pinto on its hind legs, at the same time striking at the outstretched hand. But he was too late. Mahon's open palm fell on Whiskers' rump, and in the very midst of rearing about she leaped forward into the light.

Mahon rubbed his eyes. A wild laugh came to his lips. This was no pinto. No ugly blotches there—only a dead brown. Whiskers? As ridiculous as his other fancies of late. But it must be Whiskers' twin sister.

The Indian and his horse were gone, racing back at full speed. Mahon ran to the barracks. Once more he was the Mounted Policeman. In the doorway stood Helen.

"Whiskers!" she breathed in an awed voice.

"Blue—"

"Don't be foolish," he scoffed. "You saw the broncho. Not a blotch on it. For God's sake, don't start my dreams again, Helen."

Williams was already cramming his bandolier with cartridges and buckling it over his shoulder. Helen seized a flashlight and hurried through the back door to the stable. In thirty seconds they followed. They saw her reappear—they heard her startled call:

"Gone!"

Mahon stared past her into the empty stalls.



CHAPTER XXVII

AN IRISHMAN AND AN ENGLISHMAN

Constable Williams cursed fervently, forgetting Helen. It was his way of rendering first aid. Mahon's mind was too busy for his lips. Therein lay the foundation of their respective ranks. In ten seconds he was running for the street.

Throwing the flash ahead of him as he ran, he wriggled at top speed down the winding path that led through the village; and Constable Williams stumbled behind. As the last of the deserted shacks fell behind, a luminous spot ahead led them straight to Murphy's tent. From forty yards Mahon shouted:

"How long to get steam up, Murphy? It's life and death, and we need the engine."

A bewhiskered face thrust itself through the opening, carefully pulling the flap below to cut off a fleeting glimpse of bare legs and loose shirt.

"What ye take us for? Night nurses? Think we're taking shifts keeping Mollie snuggled up warm o' nights? Go away and change yeer dhrinks. What's the hullabaloo anyway? Short o' tobacco? Or has the newest tenderfoot discovered the one lone flea in all this lousy village?"

"The bohunks are attacking the trestle! They've stolen our horses."

Murphy asked no more foolish questions; he was busy with his overalls.

"Dunno about getting you there right away," he grunted, tugging at a suspender, "but sure the next instant. Glory be! ain't we afther getting in late to-noight—and me blasting the hide o' me crew and old man Torrance? And 'Uggins didn't draw the fires, he was that lazy and cantankerous himself—"

"Call the crew!" ordered Mahon. "We'll need them."

"'Ere's 'Uggins," said a small voice from the edge of the cot.

The fireman was pulling on his second sock. He waited for nothing more. Shirt flapping about his short legs, he ran into the night, shouting at the top of his voice.

"Have you arms?" Mahon enquired of Murphy.

"Wish I had about three more o' thim for this collar-button," grumbled the engineer before the mirror.

"Have you a gun, I asked?"

"Well," said Murphy carefully, "if ye're enquir-ring to enfor-rce the law agin carrying arms, nary a jack-knife even. If it's help ye nade, I guess we might be able to scrape up a shooter apiece. We lug 'em along for ballast, ye understand, in the absence o' fire-water. If it's a foighter ye're talking like, ivery devil of a mother's son of us can make a bang like a gun, with a bullet t'rowed in—though for meself I prefer a shillalah. I'm going to be in this foight if I have to use a lead pencil. Ain't I Oirish?"

"For heaven's sake, let the collar and tie go!" groaned Mahon.

Murphy turned a disgusted face on the Policeman. "Niver go into a foight excited-like. It's dangerous. I wouldn't enjoy meself if it's too scrambly a show. 'Tain't ivery day a fellow has a chance out here to get into one. Anyway, 'Uggins has to get steam up. . . . Now I'm ready for anything from dam-sels to any other damn thing."

As they ran from the tent, the shacks the crews had taken to themselves were bustling with activity. Four half-clothed figures, pulling on jackets as they ran, fell in behind them and made for the siding where great gusts of flame revealed Huggins' frantic struggle with the engine.

The half-naked fireman was firing recklessly, madly. Limitless dry wood was at his hand, and from the live coals that remained from the day's work a mass of flame was already throwing heavy sparks against the smokestack guard. But Huggins was a fuming thing of cursing impatience. Mouthing unlisted oaths, his wet shirt lashing against his bare legs, he was repeatedly filling a small pail from a nearby barrel and, standing on the cab steps, was tossing its contents into the blazing fireplace. Great gushes of fire roared out in response, revealing him, face streaming perspiration, lips moving ceaselessly, one sock hanging in tatters, already swinging about for the next pail.

Murphy looked on in anxious admiration.

"Holy smoke! Here I been wor-rking five years to get a hustle on that Englishman, and him arguing coal oil was made for wiping engines and lighting lamps and smelling up a grocery store. . . . That's what I call a medal job. Anyway," he added, as a greater gush than usual burst out and seemed to lick about the frantic fireman, "there ain't much o' him to catch fire, if he don't tumble down them steps in time. . . . Poof! That must have been half the barrel. For the love of Mike!" he bawled, wiping the soot from his eyes, "Here, you crazy bat, go aisy. The cab'll be catching fire."

"Garn!" yelled Huggins, reaching for a fresh supply. "Look arfter yer own blinkin' cab, yu blighter!"

"Blighter, is it?" Murphy was dancing excitedly about—until he got in the fireman's way, to receive such a furious push that he went sprawling on his back. He lifted himself to his feet as if something new had entered his experience, and stood agitatedly chewing his beard.

"When this foight's over," he announced solemnly, "there's going to be another that'll make the one at the threstle look like a Sunday School picnic; and Oireland's going to put England over her knee and spank the place yeer shirt don't cover dacent. . . . Stop it, ye loon! Make a pair o' pants o' the rest o' the ile and look respectable. Ye don't seem to remember Mollie's sex. I'm ashamed o' ye. . . . Climb aboard, ye fools—and ithers. She'll do five miles on what she has, and in three miles she'll be cutting' out twenty. . . . For the sake o' me dead and buried mother, somebody sit on that barrel or we'll be one short in the foight! I got to work in this cab! He's gone daffy! He'll miss the fireplace some time and set the bush on fire!"

Huggins' blind haste was deaf to everything but the clang of the starting lever and the grind of the big wheels. Grabbing the rail, he swung aboard, a half-filled pail clutched tight. And Murphy had only time to knock it from his hand to save the seven of them from one last gush of flame. Huggins swore deeply, swept a black arm across his dripping eyes, and leaned out to estimate their speed.

Engine and tender chugged out from the siding. And Murphy leaned through the window and broke all traffic rules.

"Jump on, ye loon!" he yelled to the brakesman standing by the open switch. "Think I'm going to waste steam stopping for you?" The brakesman swung aboard. "All the specials are cancelled to-noight for the foight. We got three miles o' clear track. Go on, Mollie!"

But he was wrong. Lack of steam pressure alone saved them. Murphy, staring ahead into the beam of the headlight, suddenly grabbed a lever in either hand, yelling a warning:

"Hang on, b'ys!"

The wheels scraped the rails. Mahon unsupported, fell against the fireplace but rolled clear without injury. There was a sickening thump, and the engine sagged forward and stopped abruptly.

"Missed it, be the powers!" snarled Murphy. "Another foot and we'd have kept the rails. They've put one over on us. Bally fools we were not to look for it. How far's the foight away, it's hoofing it we are now."

A sputter of rifle fire burst from the woods and bullets rattled on the metal of engine and tender. No one was hurt, and the two Policemen silenced the fire immediately by returning it with surprising precision. A yell from the darkness told of a nip at least.

"Out behind the grade!" ordered Mahon. "I'll keep them down till you're covered."

A blaze from the trees, and he fired twice at it in rapid succession.

"And lave Mollie?" protested Murphy. "Not by a jugful!"

"To blazes with Mollie!" Mahon exploded, and threw the engineer through the cab door.

Murphy slowly picked himself up. "I see two foights on afther this one," he declared joyously. "And I'll lick the bohunk that stops a one o' thim, I will."

"Somebody st'ys with the engine, any'ow," muttered 'Uggins stubbornly. "'Ere, Murphy, we'll toss."

"What good's that?" asked Mahon. "It's human lives we're saving to-night, not engines."

"Gor lumme! Wots the use o' losin' the engine, too, I says. Any'ow, them rifles in there is more use to us 'ere than there at the trestle. An' I can't be savin' 'uman lives, women ones, in these togs."

Murphy climbed back into the cab. His purpose was the innocent one of letting off the rapidly accumulating steam; but Huggins was suspicious and followed closely.

"It's a toss, I tell yu," he insisted. "'Ere, len' me a tanner; I forgot my wallet."

Murphy extracted a coin from his pocket, and Huggins opened the fireplace door for light. There were to be no tricks in this toss. Three bullets thudded into the metal about them, but Murphy and his fireman were intent on a falling copper.

Huggins pulled his shirt back from the sucking draft of the flames. "'Eads!" he called.

The coin rattled to the floor and both men dropped to their knees. Another rifle tried for them.

"An' 'eads it is. I st'ys. Any'ow, it's warmer 'ere. Blimey, if them pants o' mine wasn't somethink to blow about after all. Sometimes it's the wind, then it's the bloomin' fire. I'll keep a bit o' steam up; looks as if I'll maybe need a bath when I get 'ome. S'long, ole sport! Tell Miss Tressa—" He broke into a convulsive chuckle, which another burst of rifle fire tried to interrupt. "Cripes! Wouldn't I 'a' been a d'isy for rescuin' lidies? Not 'arf!"

The farewell of the two men who ceaselessly fought and loved each other was nothing more than a pat on the back, Murphy's the more exuberant because it smacked louder on the thin shirt of the fireman. Then the latter was alone. "Mollie sends 'er love," he called into the darkness after the engineer.

For several minutes Huggins searched the tender for a comfortable spot for his unprotected body, but scratchy, knobby pieces of wood, with a foundation of sharp chunks of coal, was not conducive to rest. A bullet rattling against the engine added to his irritation, and he looked over the edge and fired his revolver petulantly.

"That'll larn 'em I'm no blinkin' Irishman with a stick."

He crawled painfully to the very back of the tender and fired again.

"In case they thort the first was a misfire," he growled, "or fright." After a minute or two he began to grin. "Unless them bohunks is bigger fools than they need be, I guess yer friend 'Uggins is due for a rosy wreath from his friend Murphy when the sky clears."

He busied himself with a sputtering return fire to show he was still alive and prepared to exchange compliments. Between intervals of a vain search for something smooth and soft he expressed his feelings by a blind banging into the trees. At last he carefully wiped over the floor, settled himself against the entrance to the tender, and began to doze. A bullet struck close to his ear.

"Always the w'y," he groaned, moving back to safer quarters. "There's a fly in every hointment. An' we're as apt to 'it each other as a woman at a cokernut shy."

A distant burst of firing came down the breeze from toward the trestle. Huggins leaped to his feet and climbed to the pile of wood, and recklessly on to the top of the water tank.

"'Urray!" he yelled, dancing in the cold night air and blazing three shots into the woods. "The charge o' the light brigade! Waterloo! Lidysmith! The Camperdown an' orl the rest! Yu got no traditions, yu sneakin' pups! If I 'it one o' yu yu'd think of nothink but the quickest w'y 'ome."

A bullet whistled past either ear, and he tumbled back into the tender, barking several fresh places on his sore body.

"Wots the use?" he growled. "They don't understand. . . . Lidysmith don't 'elp none if they 'it me, though she's orl right for—for tradition. I better lie low an' stop gassin' 'istory. . . . Any'ow, 'Uggins wouldn't sound right in 'istory."



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SIEGE OF THE SHACK

'Uggins' historical chatter was but a by-play. The others crept along under protection of the grade until they were clear of stray shots from the gang that had waylaid the engine. There they broke into a run, though Murphy complained bitterly at turning his back to a sure fight for one that might never come off. Four hundred yards from the trestle Mahon ordered them to wait.

He had no idea what might be happening in and about the shack, but he realised that only within its walls was his small force formidable. Only he and Williams possessed rifles. The revolvers of the others were of small service except at closer range than was apt to offer. He knew the bohunks well enough to feel certain that an attack at close quarters would be attempted only when defence was practically beaten down.

The silence told him that no immediate danger threatened; he did not doubt that the Indian was somewhere on guard. Uncertain, however, how closely the shack was invested, he crept carefully forward to reconnoitre.

It gave him time to canvass the situation. As far as the curve of the river behind the shack were too few trees to cover serious attack from that direction. Probably the survey for the grade had chosen this line of contact between prairie and forest because of the small expense of clearing the right of way.

It was certain, therefore, that the danger lay in front, where the forest across the grade, and the elevation of the grade itself, protected the besiegers. The bohunks would be slow to expose themselves. Indeed, there was no need that they should, since escape was impossible. Not only was there nowhere to flee, but without its defenders the trestle would be at the mercy of the I.W.W.

Mahon did not trouble to speculate as to the end of the affair. His duty was to fight to the last, to protect life first and then the work of the contractors. Only when he remembered Tressa did his thoughts pass beyond the immediate future. Fortunately his wife, alone three miles away, did not enter his mind as a matter for anxiety.

Arrived within a stone's throw of the shack, and having heard no sound, he knew that his conclusions as to the disposition of the bohunks were correct. Swinging out wide of the grade, he skirted about in the darkness in search of isolated prowlers. The stable was reached without incident.

The late moon was rising, low still but clear enough to throw a dim light and touch the tops of the evergreen trees with a cold radiance so wild and pure that Mahon found it hard to believe in the perils urging him on. In an hour the light would be strong enough to expose movement within the danger zone, though the size of the moon and a thin autumn mist limited it; and the low arc promised long shadows. Far to the south drifted the running echo of coyotes on the hunt, a shriek and a howl that never failed to stir the Sergeant's blood though he had lived with it for years. For a moment he longed for the old prairie life—the coyotes—the feeding cattle—the cowboys and the sweeping open spaces.

As he crawled from the stable to the back door a dim shadow moved round the corner of the shack and disappeared toward the trestle. Though no sound went with it, he was not alarmed. He challenged in a low voice. No reply. He stood erect to expose his uniform and called again. But the thing he had seen filtered into the vague moon shadows and was gone.

Knocking at the door, he waited for a reply. Not a sound reached him, yet he felt that ears were listening. He tried the latch, found it caught, and whispered his name. Immediately the door opened and Tressa Torrance seized his arm.

"All right here?" he enquired.

"Where's Adrian?" Calm and undisturbed was the tone, but he could feel her hand tremble on his arm.

"He'll be all right," he replied cheerily. "No mere bohunk ever got the better of Adrian Conrad. Who went out just now?"

"The Indian. He's been waiting for you."

"Oh!"

"Tell me, is it true—what he told us?"

"Only too true. They fired on us up the track."

She heaved a deep breath. "That was what we heard. Nothing more. I was afraid—Conrad hasn't come. . . . And the Indian wouldn't let any one leave the shack."

He took her hands in his and held them tight. "Miss Torrance, much of the outcome of to-night depends on you. We're going to fight harder for you than for everything else lumped together. I must ask you to forget Adrian for the time being. May we trust you?"

Her reply was a return squeeze to the hands that held hers.

"I'll not flinch," she said. "But I'm not giving up hope."

He laughed. "Adrian will be proud of you."

He dropped her hand and turned back to the door. "Lock it behind me," he ordered. "In fifteen minutes exactly I'll knock twice. Open without a word. I have Williams and the train crew."

He found his companions lying where he had left them. Certain unmistakable signs of life among the trees over the grade they had heard, but that was all. Murphy was growling into the loose sand beneath his chin.

"Mother o' Mike! Why don't ye rush thim? There's bunches jist over there. Fir-rst thing ye know they'll get away. A good scr-rap going to waste, it is. And sure why are we lying here like a gang o' thieves? I got hould of a shillalah that fits me hand like a glove, glory be! The Lord put it there, He did. Sure He intinds me to use it. Mollie'd be ashamed o' me."

"You'll have your stomach full of fighting before you're through," promised Mahon.

"Be gad, I don't belave ye know an Oirishman's appetite at all."

"Keep low," ordered Mahon, crawling forward, "and quiet."

"The m'anest koind o' foighting I iver took a hand in, it is," grumbled Murphy, shaking the sand from his whiskers. But he fastened his eyes to the dim movement of Constable Williams' heels and crawled after him.

Thirty yards they had advanced on hands and knees, and Mahon was searching for a depression to lead off back of the shack, when Murphy whispered huskily:

"Any chance up there, Sergeant, o' nading a gun? 'Cause I left mine back there. But, praise be, I got the shillalah," he added brightly.

Mahon sighed. "You idiot! Lord"—to Constable Williams—"I'll be glad when I have him locked in. . . ."

A string of muttered oaths told them of Murphy's return.

"Another mouthful o' sand! Darn their hides! If iver I get me hands on a bohunk in this wor-rld again—" He spat noisily. "And all for a gun I don't know how to use. But it'll make a n'ise. Maybe it'll do to disthract their attintion till I get me shillalah swinging."

Torrance received them with a burst of joy, shaking each by hand in turn, scarce knowing what he was doing.

"Keep an eye on Tressa," he cried, and made for the front door.

Mahon grabbed him. "Here, they have that door covered. Conrad will be all right. Anyway, it's throwing yourself away searching for him now."

"Conrad!" The contractor's bull voice was full of disgust. "Conrad to hell! It's the trestle."

Mahon swung him away with a rougher thrust than was necessary. "Damn the trestle! It's life we have to think of first."

"But it's the trestle they want. They're only keeping us in here—"

"Do as you're told. I'm in charge."

A rifle shot split the silence without. There followed a sharp cry of pain and a fusillade from the trees beyond the grade. The Indian was in action.

"Praise be!" chortled Murphy. "Somebody got it where it hurts. That Indian, he's a man afther me own hear-rt. Oh, mother, for me shillalah about the heads o' thim!"

Ten minutes of complete silence—fifteen. Murphy's impatience was becoming vociferous; he began to be jealous of Huggins up there with Mollie, with a fight at hand any time he wanted it. Torrance was scarcely less clamorous.

Relief came from a second shot from beside the trestle. And after it a cry as before, and a volley of wild firing. The Indian was wasting no shots; his night eyes were exacting toll.

Mahon decided to investigate. Also he wished to meet the Indian—to hear his voice—to touch him. Leaving Williams in charge, with definite instructions as to Torrance and Murphy, he crept from the back door to the edge of the trestle. The Indian was not there. Mahon wondered how much of it was dream. Then the redskin was swept from his mind by the sound of life far below about the base of the trestle. The bohunks were attacking there.

He became aware of a strange creaking among the timbers reaching down into the blind depths. Suddenly a spurt of flame from their midst darted to the valley below. Mahon felt himself shiver at the death-shriek that replied. The Indian, somewhere far below his eye, was shooting now to kill. A dash of hasty feet told of momentarily defeated plans. A storm of bullets rattled from the trees among the timbers and whistled above Mahon's head as he lay under cover of the grade. Then a new peril startled him. Three rifles cracked in rapid succession from behind the stable.

For a moment Mahon thought of stalking them, but reflection decided him against it. It was a risk too great to justify exposing his life. For all it would gain at the best he, in charge of the defence, must not undertake it. And there was really no extra danger to the shack, since it could not be taken from the rear.

He wormed his way back more carefully through the kitchen door and reported what he had seen. Torrance, far from feeling gratitude for the Indian's defence of the trestle, fumed that it should be left to the care of any one but himself. In the midst of his grumbling the first bullets struck the shack. They penetrated door and window and embedded themselves in the rear walls. But Mahon had disposed of the defenders with that peril in mind.

Of the eight Constable Williams and Murphy were stationed in the kitchen, with its one window and door. In Tressa's room, the point of least exposure, two of the crew were established. Torrance and another of the crew held the contractor's bedroom at the front. The living room Mahon himself, assisted by the last member of the crew, took in charge. Tressa carried messages, under strict orders to avoid exposure to window or door. One man in each pair was told off to co-operate with the defenders of any threatened point.

The weakness of the defence was the number of rifles. Torrance had two, the Policemen two. One rifle was given to each room; each of the eight had a revolver. Mahon was almost satisfied that the ammunition would last out any siege the bohunks were likely to undertake.

A few minutes' contemplation of the stable exposure convinced him that the attackers could gain nothing there. To fire the stable would only rob them of the sole protection to the rear, and, with what wind there was against it, fire would not spread to the house.

Standing to the left of the living room window while he reflected, he imagined a movement far down the grade. Immediately he fired. From Torrance's room came the thunder of his rifle. Evidently the bohunks were crossing the grade in numbers.

Thereafter nothing happened for half an hour but pointless and desultory potting. It promised nothing to the attackers and the defence was still intact. The windows were shattered, and by the tinkle of glass every picture and ornament in the room must have been smashed. From the trestle the silence was broken only twice. The Indian was saving his cartridges.

Suddenly a burst of five shots in quick succession warned Mahon that the Indian was alarmed. Recklessly the Sergeant looked through the window. From just beneath the sleepers that held the rails a jabbing flight of flashes pierced the darkness, pointing along the edge of the bank above the path leading up from Conrad's shack. A pause of only a moment—the Indian was filling his magazine—then another burst of the most rapid firing Mahon had ever heard from one rifle. Not a shot replied from the trees along the bank.

Mahon was puzzled. Was a big attack forming? Did the Indian see some threat of which those in the shack were unaware? Mahon issued sharp orders for increased vigilance. But why shoot in that direction to ward off concentrated attack?

The Indian's bullets continued to pour along the edge of the forest.

Mahon saw the idea. For some reason the bohunks were being driven temporarily to cover. Something—

The moon had moved a little over the top of the dark mass of trees. The grade was lit up. Mahon's eyes ran back and forward along the twin bands of dimly reflecting steel.

A man leaped to the top of the grade from the other side, swayed a little, and plunged forward toward the shack. With the moon full on him in that first moment he loomed unnaturally huge. In a bound Mahon reached the door and threw it open.

"Conrad!" he shouted. "Quick!"

Adrian Conrad stumbled over the doorstep, laughed, and fell to the floor.

"'S all right," he cheered with a mad laugh. "Haven't got Adrian Conrad yet. Easy—there, Mahon! They've chewed me up—a bit—that rifle at the trestle—saved me." Then he fainted.

A voice that jerked Mahon erect came grimly from the grade.

"Shut that door, durn yuh! I can't keep 'em down all night."

Mahon was obeying mechanically when the Indian dashed through.

"Gor-swizzle, if he ain't the spunkiest chap I ever set eyes on. Jes' swaggered up that path like he was out fer a walk. . . . But plumb loco'ed! An' whistlin'! Oh, gor!"

The Sergeant leaned heavily against the table, staring into the darkness toward the familiar voice. He knew he was dreaming again, that haunting grief for his dead half breed friend had mastered him at last in a moment of excitement.

A cry of alarm from Torrance's room, and a succession of rifle shots, brought him to his senses. He hastened to investigate. Torrance had seen several men running across the grade. One dark lump on the ground gave proof. When he returned to the front room the Indian was still there.

"Any spare cartridges? I'm about cleaned out. Jes' two left. Gotta save them."

Mahon dropped a dozen in the extended hand. The Indian worked with them in the darkness for a moment and slammed them on the table with a curse.

"Shud 'a' knowed they wudn't fit. Where's Torrance's?"

But Torrance's likewise were the wrong size, and the Indian disappeared into Tressa's room. The brakesman entrusted with a rifle in that room paid no attention until a strong hand wrenched it from him.

"Yuh'll hurt yerself, sonny, playin' with a real gun. Yuh can have all I shoot to eat."

When he returned to the living room, Mahon laid a hand on his shoulder.

"My God, who are you?"

A moment of silence, then: "Me Indian; no pale-face name."

Torrance rushed from the bedroom.

"Is that the Indian? Good Heavens! The trestle—the trestle!"

He had thrown wide the front door and gone before they could interfere. A hail of bullets came through. Keener eyes among the trees picked out Torrance's running bulk, but their eyes were keener than their aim. The contractor reached the grade and threw himself between the rails, and with head overhanging the abyss below stared through the sleepers into the thinning darkness about the feet of his beloved trestle.

Mottled clouds were dimming the moon. Mahon, peering from the window, could make out only the slight bulk above the rails that marked the place where the contractor lay. A moment later a spot of light sank from beneath him—lower and lower, until it dropped beyond the edge of the bank.

"Me go too," muttered the Indian.

A volley greeted the opening of the door, but the Indian chose the moment when it had dropped away and crawled out.

Torrance was lying on his face, an electric flash dropping at the end of a long cord. As it fell, the bones of the trestle came into view stage after stage and passed upward.

The Indian chuckled. "Durn good!"

"Somebody's got to do something durn good," Torrance returned sulkily.

"Somebody looks as if he'll do some dyin' durn good. Yuh're a bit thick in the breadbasket fer them rails, ain't yuh?"

Torrance flattened himself until he grunted, for bullets were splattering about the dropping light. In a few moments the bohunks understood. They turned their attention then to the top of the trestle.



CHAPTER XXIX

RETRIBUTION BEGINS

As long as Torrance held himself flat on the sleepers he was safer than the Indian supposed. The grade was several feet above the forest floor, and the hundred-pounds rails were almost sufficiently high to provide what further protection was necessary so long as he did not raise any part of his body. But lying still was against every precedent. Torrance felt an uncontrollable desire to curse the bohunks with appropriate gesture, to jeer at them when they missed him, to return their fire when the bullets struck unpleasantly close to his ears on the ringing steel.

But when one made a rumpling dart through his hair, and another exacted tribute from a vengeful finger, he concluded that vengeance might well await a safer opportunity. So he hugged the rails, though his face was red with shame.

When two hours of aimless fighting had spent themselves and daylight was promising, Mahon began to take stock. Would the light of day impose an end? He was not hopeful. The bohunks knew there was no relief for the besieged, day or night, unless a supply train came through. That contingency Koppy would no doubt have provided for by tearing up the track to east and west. And to drop the siege would not save the leaders. The Sergeant knew now that the attack had long been in plan, and every chance would be provided for. Daylight would make no difference, except that the bohunks would be more careful of their cover. Chagrin that he had not read their plans, and concern for the effect of daylight, were not his only emotions. Also there came for the first time twinges of uncertainty as to the outcome. It was a matter of life and death to the leaders of the attack to see that it was maintained until accidental hits, lack of ammunition, fear, or the hopelessness of prolonged resistance, induced the defenders to surrender. The Sergeant wished now that he had sent Williams off to try and reach the ticker at Mile 135, or to make a break for help from the western camps. But Koppy would certainly have cut the wires, and any attempt to go for help would only have weakened the defence. The Pole had proven his brains by the precautions they already knew of; he would probably omit few.

The Indian called to him from the grade, and Mahon unlatched the door and let him in. Grabbing another handful of cartridges, the Indian got the stable key and dashed away through the back door. A moment after he disappeared in the stable the two defenders of the kitchen saw a pair of bohunks run out into the dim morning light and make at mad speed for the few trees that grew in the bend of the river. Even as Constable Williams was taking aim, the man covered fell to a bullet from the stable. The other, apparently beyond the angle of the Indian's range, seemed certain to escape. The Policeman rested his rifle on the window sill. But Murphy gave a joyous whoop and started for the door.

"Glory be, I see some one to foight at last!"

Williams was forced to drop his rifle and catch the excited Irishman in his arms. And the bohunk disappeared into the dimness of the morning.

The Indian, having freed the stable of lurkers, returned to the kitchen. But not for long. A burst of rifle fire in a new direction sent him hastily out again beside the trestle. The men who had retired from the stable before his rifle had discovered a way to the river bottom in the rear and were now from below potting at the recumbent contractor through the sleepers.

Daylight had come suddenly, as it does in the West. The glare of the sun was rising above the trees, and over the snap of the rifles rang the songs of birds. The shack stood fully exposed in the open, while the attackers slunk in the protection of the trees.

As the Indian ran for his old place beside the grade at the end of the trestle bullets whistled about him. Peering over the edge, he saw a bohunk kneeling below, taking careful aim through the sleepers at the outstretched form of the contractor. A bullet from the Indian's rifle caught him full in the neck, and his companions hauled his limp body back under the bank. Thereafter they fired with greater circumspection and poorer aim.

Mahon set his mind seriously now to the problem that faced them. To lie there seemed fruitless; to attack supreme folly. Yet, in the way of the Police, he did not lose hope. Had there been no helpless girl to consider! And that, combined with a growing hunger, brought his mind round again to Helen. Strange how far away she seemed, how much a part of another life! And yet she was only three miles distant. She would be worrying, wondering. If the bohunks should decide to explore the village now! He fought his fears with a memory of Helen's competence to protect herself. She could outshoot any bohunk.

A volley of curses from Torrance directed Mahon's eyes to the trestle. The bohunks had attacked at last! The contractor was struggling madly with two of them! Mahon searched anxiously for the Indian, but he was far up the grade now, shooting among the trees. Torrance was fighting it out alone on that dizzy height.

As the light broke, Ignace Koppowski, too, took stock. He knew he had only to maintain the siege long enough to win; but he also realised that his followers had little stomach for a long struggle. The rising sun, too, was against every precedent as a time to attack authority. The doctrine of his kind was to stab in the dark, to hit and run—a foundation on which was based the successes of his organisation.

As he reviewed the risk of failure through nothing but the cowardice of his men, he found himself hating them with an intensity he could scarcely conceal. The transition from that to an appreciation of his own superiority was natural enough. Perhaps not so natural, a return of the twinges of conscience that had been afflicting him of late at inopportune moments. When he realised the existence of these thoughts, he read in them only weakening nerve, and to steady himself he moved about among his followers, cheering them on. But the glowering, vacillating looks he received here and there succeeded in impressing him only with the extent of his responsibility. Success in this, his grandest effort, assumed monstrous proportions. He dare not fail. Present and future demanded that.

Grimly he summoned his lieutenants to a hasty conference, not to hear quakings or objections, but to give and receive the stimulus necessary to wage the battle to the bitter end.

Werner hesitatingly advised raising the siege. In former tilts with the Mounted Police during his trapping days he had experienced their intrepidity, the hopelessness of winning against them in the long run.

"Oh?" Koppy gloomed at him beneath heavy eyebrows, giving little clue to the thoughts behind. "What next?"

What he really meant was of what profit to the leaders to yield now. Werner's keen wits read it. Volubly he suggested a rearguard of the better fighters to cover the retreat of the leaders and the rest; the besieged would not dare press them.

In reality a personal inspiration lay behind it all. Werner himself would creep away west and join himself to one of the construction gangs where questions were not asked. He could await his chance of slipping across the border to the States. His idea of geography was somewhat hazy.

Koppy listened to the end with veiled eyes. He read Werner much more accurately than Werner read him. But most poignantly of all he realised the hopelessness of submission, at least for the leaders. There was nothing now but to carry the fight through—no other hope for himself. Also he discovered a fresh goad in his hatred of Werner.

When the latter had completed his plan, Koppy suddenly dropped his hand from his face. Werner saw and collapsed. For several seconds Koppy held the coward's faltering eyes, then turned with disgust to the others.

"What will we do with him?"

Morani's knife slid down his wrist and swished across his boot leg. And the others looked agreement.

Werner shuddered—began to bluster.

"You asked what I thought. I told you. I didn't mean to give the whole thing up—not much I didn't." He drew his hand across his dripping forehead. "We'll get the trestle yet—and it's that we want, isn't it? Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lie around and blow it up myself, if I have to spend the whole winter here."

Koppy broke into an insulting laugh. "You! And the trestle ain't all we want. Who pays for last night's deaths? You blow up the trestle! What about Mr. Conrad? You let him escape."

Werner saw difficulties accumulating beyond his oft-tried powers of evasion. He stammered a disconnected tale of bad luck, wiping his face repeatedly. Koppy waved it aside.

"Morani," he ordered solemnly, "watch him. If he tries to escape—" A swift downward stroke completed the command. "We'll settle with him later."

Werner paled. He knew what the settlement would be, and the justice of it. He knew, too, the folly of protesting under the strain of the moment. So he tried to look aggrieved at their suspicions. When the conference broke up, and Morani attached himself to his heels, he smiled ingratiatingly and sauntered to the edge of the bank overlooking the camp. There he seated himself to consider his position. Escape? Even if he succeeded in evading immediate doom by giving his guard the slip, the I.W.W. would never give up the chase till he had paid the penalty of his treason.

As he sat he could see the end of the trestle through the brush. A slight bulge above the rails marked the place where the contractor lay guarding his pet. At the sight a wave of fury against Torrance swept over Werner. The boss was to blame for everything. But for his vigilance the trestle would long ago have been down.

"Chico," he snarled, "watch me pink him."

He lay along the ground and rested his rifle on a rock. But Morani, having suffered helplessly for a whole season at the hands of this nimble-tongued comrade, saw his chance. Before Werner realised his plan, the Italian laid one long supple hand on the stock and wrenched it away. In his left hand gleamed the hovering stiletto.

"No rifle," he rasped. "I watch-a you better." He held the gun behind his back.

For a mad moment Werner thought of hurling himself on his leering enemy, but the knife waved before his eyes. No chance there. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness, of friendlessness, sent him cringing to Morani's feet. The Italian, gloating, leaned forward and prodded with the stiletto. Werner, beside himself now with terror, leaped up and ran a few yards. But the smirking face of the Italian followed. In that direction lay speedy death.

Trembling, Werner sank to his knees like a whipped dog. On his knees he crept on and on. And above him hung those gloating eyes and the threatening stiletto. Urged by that smirk of death the cowering man crept forward. There was blood now on his torn knees and hands, but he did not feel it. Only he must crawl on and on before the horrible Nemesis at his back.

Neither noticed where their path led. They reached the end of the trees. The open ahead promised Werner greater freedom of flight. Morani was blind to everything but the terror of his old enemy. With twisted head Werner moved out from the trees. Something loomed before him, blocking the way. A wall of loose sand! With a gasp he raised his eyes.

Above him loomed the five-foot grade, protecting them from the shack. Werner shifted his horror-stricken eyes only a little—and looked straight into those of the contractor staring through the sleepers. Torrance was moving his rifle to take aim.

Below Werner fell a dizzy depth. Above him the rifle of one who had no reason to spare. The double peril added the touch that makes craven spirits desperate.

With a scream of mad fury he leaped to his feet and charged up the loose sand of the grade. And Morani, suddenly conscious of where he was, and of Werner's chance of escape, gripped his stiletto and dug his toes into the pits Werner had made.



CHAPTER XXX

KOPPY PAYS

Koppy, under the impetus of the conference, set his mind more firmly to the problem facing him. Under the present method of attack the outcome was a question of endurance. And in endurance the disposition of the besieged was an enormous factor to offset the hopelessness of rescue or escape. So long as they remained within the shack they could come to little harm, if food, water, and ammunition held out.

Exposed to the rifles of the besiegers were, however, two of their principal foes. The Indian dashed recklessly from post to post. Sooner or later he would pay for it. The continued impunity of the boss was more maddening. Above the rails Koppy could see the slight bulge on which so many shots had been wasted. Probably it was only Torrance's clothing. From the floor of the forest he seemed to be reasonably protected.

Koppy raised his eyes. With a smile he selected a thick-stemmed tree and, with the aid of willing and suddenly excited hands, lifted himself to the lower boughs. There, leaning against the trunk, a circle of projecting boughs about him, he laughed. Torrance lay in full view. Gloatingly Koppy slid his rifle along a convenient branch, took aim, and fired. The ring of metal told how close he was.

On his followers below he bent malignantly joyful eyes. It was only a question of time now.

The next bullet must have touched Torrance's shoulder, for he winced and edged closer to the near rail. Koppy cheered and recklessly waved his rifle.

A shot snapped from over the grade, and a piece of bark flicked stingingly into the Pole's face. The surprise of it almost tumbled him from his perch. And before he could cover himself completely with the trunk of the tree a second bullet whipped through the leaves so close to his eyes that he felt the wind of it.

Across the grade the Indian jerked in his rifle with an oath and ran to the shack.

"Dang rotten toy!" he sputtered, slamming the borrowed gun on the table. "Gi' me my own. I got two cartridges left. One'll do. Thar ain't no better place for it."

The crowd beneath Koppy's perch was growing fast. The Pole could hear their whispered exclamations, see the whites of their faces turned up to him for the report of each shot. In a wave of anger and misgiving he realised the rashness of adding another responsibility to those of leadership. Only too eagerly they were piling on his solitary shoulders the whole burden of the fight.

He must kill the boss! He must kill the boss!

It ran through his head like a threat—a dirge. His aim wavered. Bullet after bullet sped harmlessly about Torrance. A cold sweat broke out on the Pole. He leaned out to order others into the surrounding trees—but realised as he glowered into their upturned faces that this was no time for orders, but for action.

He reported a hit—boasted, shouted, forced himself to laugh exultantly.

Where would it all end?

He gripped his fists until the nails bit into his palms, and took a fresh hold of himself. With set teeth, steadier than he had ever been, he thrust the rifle out again along the branch.

At that instant Werner clambered up the grade—and close behind him Morani.

Koppy gasped. A flash of pride at the unexpected temerity of two of his lieutenants. But it faded swiftly before two driving fears. Torrance had risen to meet them; and Koppy knew the force of that great fist. But if his own men won! Koppy had a vision of vanished glory—of lost leadership. Morani and Werner had taken their lives in their hands to accomplish that which he was failing to do from the protection of a tree.

Snapping his teeth together, he put his eye coolly to the rear sight. If his own men were in the way—well, that was their lookout. He was aiming at Torrance.

A hush fell over the forest. From the foot of the tree the bohunks read crucial drama in Koppy's manner. . . .

With a bellow of rage Torrance was on his feet. A single blow he struck at Werner's mad eyes. The head before him snapped back, the bent legs crumpled. As if he had been shot, Werner's limp body slid backwards down the sand. For a moment it hung balanced over the edge, then bent slowly over and plunged out of sight.

Morani, alone now but forced to carry it through, struck swiftly. Torrance managed to take the point of the stiletto on his left arm. With his right he grabbed the Italian's arm and jerked sideways and down. A sickening snap, and Morani's dark face went a sickly cream. Without changing his hold, Torrance flung out sideways, as a petulant child discards a doll that has lost favour. Morani had never a chance. Lifted clear of the trestle, he pitched headlong into the chasm.

But in the effort Torrance's foot slipped. He tried to drop to save himself, but too late. Clawing at the ends of the sleepers, he fell over the way Morani had gone. The breath in a hundred throats held. Mahon closed his eyes.

But in the scramble the contractor's right leg fell between the sleepers, and as his body turned for the final plunge, his foot caught and held. The leg snapped, but it held. Torrance's head, swinging down outside the trestle, crashed into one of the supports. And there he hung, unconscious.

In the fleeting moments of the triple tragedy Koppy could not pull the trigger. But as the boss lay motionless in the open, an evil smile came to the Pole's face. Closing his left eye, he took firm hold of the stock of his rifle and set his finger to the trigger.

Something passed swiftly across the sights. He opened both eyes and raised his head. Tressa Torrance was climbing fearlessly out on the trestle supports to her father's assistance, calling for help.

Koppy gasped. A veil seemed to fall over his eyes. A drop of sweat fell to his rifle butt. When he could see once more he slowly drew back the gun, eyes staring. Slowly he turned to the expectant faces below him. They knew nothing of what had happened—was happening—out there on the trestle. But they felt in some vague way that he was failing them.

With deliberation Koppy shifted his rifle about, reversing it. Wonder began to dawn on the faces at the foot of the tree, but not a sound came from them. Coolly and firmly the butt slid out along the branch where the barrel had been.

He felt steadier now—no nerves—no fears. With unhurried care he caught the trigger over a twig and let it rest there. His head turned slowly about in a half circle, not toward the crowd below but out over the green forest and up into the brightening sky. Then he leaned out and peered at the shack. Moving back in the arc, his eyes rested on Tressa supporting her father's head, though a false step meant certain death.

And Ignace Koppowski smiled—a cleaner, more human smile than had crossed his face for many a year.

"Good girl!" he shouted. "I'll help. Listen."

With the smile still on his lips he jerked the barrel of the rifle toward him.

With the explosion came another from across the grade. And before the first echo two others from the forest behind.

Koppy's body crashed through the branches and fell among his gaping followers.

There was blood now, more than they wished. It spurted over them from their fallen leader. It welled from a shrieking companion who lay twisting on the ground beside their dead leader.

One incredulous moment—then, clutching and clawing, but silent as ever in their fears, they ran for the camp, the only haven they knew. The panic spread through the rest out among the trees. And a trail of weapons marked their course.

From a growth of shrub a woman in an Indian blanket peered toward the grade. She saw the Indian standing there furiously snapping his empty rifle after the fleeing bohunks. And with a smile she faded away.

Westward, along the grade, from the shadows Helen Mahon stepped, rifle in hand. In a puzzled way she looked first toward the spot where the squaw had fired from. Then she ran for the trestle.

When she reached it Torrance's body lay on the grade. Mahon, at the sound of her feet, swung about and held out his arms.

"Darling," he murmured, "you saved us. You haven't lost your aim."

But she shook her head. "I fired to frighten. Some one else—"

They carried the limp body within the shack and laid it tenderly on the couch. There was still life, and they worked with prayers on their lips. . . .

From outside broke two sharp whistles. Mahon, with a puzzled frown, looked from the front door. An awkward little broncho was trotting past the corner of the house toward the stable.

Williams came to him. "I'm afraid it's no use, sir," he whispered. "Nothing could stand up under that."

Mahon appealed to his wife. "Help us, Helen, it's got past us."

The sudden thunder of hoofs along the river side of the shack drew the two Policemen to the door. Three horses, the broncho in the lead, were climbing the grade. The broncho started out on the trestle, head bent, measuring each step, moving from sleeper to sleeper. And at its heels, obedient as sheep, were Torrance's two horses.

Six hundred yards of open trestle before the fill-in at the other side! Mahon held his breath. . . .

"Mother o' Mike!" The horses had trotted out to safety, and Murphy was capering gleefully about.

Mahon rushed to the corner of the shack and looked about. The Indian was nowhere in sight.

Helen, with wet cheeks, was bathing the white face of the contractor. Tressa, searching Helen's eyes for hope, saw it vanish in those tears. With a crooning cry she sank beside the couch and lifted her father's head in her arms.

"Daddy! Daddy, speak to me!"

But the face was the face of the dead.

Stooping, she gently brushed her father's lips with her own, as her mother had done in the days of long ago.

"'Jim!'" she whispered. "'Jim!'"

The eyelids quivered and parted, and the eyes beneath looked vaguely through.

"Mary!" he murmured. Then a sigh. "It hurts—so." One limp hand trembled to his bruised head. "All right, Mary!" Then in a stronger voice: "All right, Mary, I'll stay."

The film passed from before his sight.

"By hickory, Tressa, I thought I was dead—and Mary was taking me in hand. She can get along without me, she says, but you can't. But you needn't tell Adrian. Where's my pipe?"

Murphy was capering about the room, whooping and rubbing his eyes. The injured man fixed him with stern gaze.

"Murphy, what are you doing here, making a fool of yourself at this hour? Don't you know you're due at the gravel pit in less than two hours? That fill-in commences to-day—no matter what's happened."

But Murphy was already far up the grade, brandishing his shillalah and shouting at the top of his voice:

"'Uggins! 'Uggins! I'm coming."



CHAPTER XXXI

BLUE PETE RETURNS

Inspector Barker drummed on his desk.

"Bert, of the 3-bar-Y, has turned up, Priest tells me."

Sergeant Mahon managed to stifle outward evidence of the thrill that sent his blood tingling. He did not reply. "Don't mangle your brains over it, Boy. You've been in the Police long enough to add two and two."

Still no reply.

"While you're digesting it, bite on this: Most of the horses Dutch Henry and Bilsy stole last fall are back in their owners' hands."

Mahon began to laugh happily. "I'll stake my life that every one Blue Pete stole—every one that's alive, anyway—is among them."

"You're coming along, Boy . . . but just a bit too fast. Try and take this standing: Blue Pete never stole a horse after he left the Police!"

Mahon's brows met in surprise.

"No, I'm not crazy," grinned the Inspector. "I'm not even trying to delude myself. . . . And he never was such a friend of mine as you thought he was of yours."

Mahon controlled himself to formality. "I'll go out and find him, sir, if you say so, and let him tell his own story."

"You'll find him when it pleases him to be found."

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to get back to the Lodge right away. I feel as if I need ranchers and cowboys to remove the taste of that north country from my mouth."

A slow smile crept into the Inspector's face.

"I imagine it'll please him to be found—and by you," he said.

As the door was closing behind the Sergeant, the grey-haired man threw a parting word: "Take my advice, Boy, and don't do any adding till Blue Pete gives you the figures. If the addition's unpleasant then . . . wait till I add for you."

Mahon covered the thirty miles to the Police post at Medicine Lodge without a rest. A fever of uncertainty was consuming him. The Inspector's faith in the halfbreed made the whole uncanny affair a deeper mystery than ever. For eight months Blue Pete had been "on the run," and then had come the great sacrifice they had all believed—at least all but the Inspector—to be his death. During those eight months the Sergeant himself had traced northward the horses the halfbreed had stolen. He had actually caught Mira Stanton, Blue Pete's partner, in the act of rustling.

Yet, insisted the Inspector, the halfbreed was not rustling. Mahon gave it up.

Ahead of him loomed the dark line of the beloved Hills, swelling as he cantered along. Over the yellow glare of the dead prairie grass his eyes rested on the deep green with the affection of a long-absent friend. There swept over him an irrepressible longing to dash into the cool shadows and feast his eyes on the maze of hill and dell, rocky height and grass-grown bottom, mirrored lake and whispering stream; to hear the leap of fish and the rustle of creeping things unseen, the cry of distant birds and the howl of prowling wolf. There he would be in touch with the spirit of his old friend, wherever he might be now.

Some day—he felt certain of it—he would grasp the hand of Blue Pete somewhere within the Hills.

Constable Priest was not at the post when he pushed open the barracks door. He was glad of that. Leaving a short note, he galloped off south-east toward the Hills. His horse, with memories of many a free run there, made straight for Windy Coulee, the familiar western entrance to the mysteries of the Cypress Hills.

Mahon did not direct. When the sloping trail leading up into the trees rose before him, he smiled. With Windy Coulee the halfbreed's memory was bound by a hundred incidents. There they had entered their first great adventure together; there they had dived into the shadows on the trail of many a rustler. And there he had erected the rough stone that marked his grief when he thought Blue Pete had given his life for him.

Wrapped in the past, Mahon gave the horse his head.

At the top of the hollowed trail, just where the trees began, the horse came to a halt so suddenly that Mahon jerked against the pommel and lifted his eyes in surprise.

Not thirty yards ahead stood the granite column with its simple tribute, "Greater Love." But Mahon did not notice it. All he saw was a man slouched on its pedestal. He was smiling at him—a twisted, awkward smile of embarrassed affection.

Mahon's lips parted, but he could not speak. With unsteady hand he quieted the impatient horse—blinking incredulously. There were the high cheek bones, the bluish tinge—darker now—the pleading smile, the leather chaps and dirty Stetson and polka dot neckerchief and huge spurs, there the coarse brown hands hanging limply over the leather-clad knees. Two changes had come—one shoulder hung lower than its mate, and the stiff black hair was tidier. The first, he knew, was the result of the old wound; the last the outward token of a woman's care.

"Pete!"

He breathed the beloved name without knowing that he spoke.

The grin on the dusky face widened, the big hands rubbed each other in confusion. For several seconds they faced each other thus. Suddenly the half breed whistled twice, and out from the trees trotted an ugly little pinto. Its right ear turned forward for Mahon's familiar welcome, the left, struggling to follow, fell away grotesquely in its upper half. But the weirdly coloured blotches that made it a pinto were unlike any colour of living hide; and the pinto seemed to feel it.

"Whiskers ain't quite got back 'spectable yet, Boy," grinned Blue Pete. "I sure dosed her fer fair up thar among them bohunks, an' she's hangin' her head a bit. But she's the same ole gal, ain't yuh, Whiskers?"

He whistled again. The pinto sank to the ground and lay as motionless as the rocks about.

"Ain't lost a trick, not a dang one. An' she knows yuh, Boy. Yuh ain't changed—not 's much as me. . . . But I'm sure the same old Blue Pete."

Mahon dug cruel spurs into his horse's sides. Throwing himself from the saddle, he seized the half-breed's hand and held it in both his own without a word. A great tear gathered on either eyelid. Blue Pete laughed in shamefaced happiness and dropped his squinting eyes.

And the pinto tore to shreds the rule of a lifetime: she clambered to her feet without orders and reached up to nibble at the edge of Mahon's Stetson. The Sergeant threw an arm about her neck and pressed his face to the yellow blotch below the left eye. . . .

As the evening shadows from the Hills lay long across the prairie, and the birds chirped sleepily, Mahon stood up with a sigh.

"You'll have to come in to the barracks, Pete. I—I can't help it."

"Get goin'," grinned the halfbreed.

The Sergeant bent over his girth with flushed face.

"I have no idea what's in store for you, Pete. The Inspector has a lot of faith in you."

Blue Pete studied him quizzically. "More'n you have?"

"I don't know. Oh, I don't understand."

A shadow of pain came into the halfbreed's face. "I wudn't try then," he said shortly. And Mahon remembered that the Inspector had advised the same.

When they had been riding a long time the half-breed spoke wistfully. "I wasn't rustlin', Boy. All I did was to take from Duchy and Bilsy some o' the horses they rustled. If I hadn't, yuh wudn't 'a' seed 'em ever again. I've got 'em all back—all I took from them. . . . An' I ain't chargin' nothin' fer it neither."

Mahon thought it all out laboriously.

"But you stole them again from Torrance."

"Sure! Torrance knowed they was stole. He wudn't 'a got any other kind fer ten bucks. Yuh don't call that rustlin'?"

Mahon smiled—the halfbreed's code was so simple.

"Tell it to the Inspector like that," he pleaded.

"Sure I will! An' I know dang well he'll see."

Inspector Barker lifted frowning eyes to the opening door. Stiff, waiting for permission to enter, Sergeant Mahon stood looking at him from the hall. A brown hand reached forward from behind and pushed him aside. And there was the grinning face of the half-breed.

The Inspector cleared his throat huskily. The proper thing, he knew, was to look severe, but the lines wouldn't form in the right places. Hungrily the halfbreed's eyes roamed to the tobacco pouch spilled on the blotter; the old corncob pipe was fumbling expectantly in his big fist.

"Same baccy, Inspector?" he enquired innocently, stepping through the door.

The lines in the Inspector's face were getting out of hand entirely. In another moment—

He swung fiercely on the Sergeant.

"Get out!" he snapped; and slammed the door in his face.

THE END