off to the right in the direction of the old pine, rearing its
vagabond head high above the surrounding wealth of by no means
insignificant foliage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he insult--Helen?"

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

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

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

Kate's eyes were coldly commanding.

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

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

"Do as I tell you--please."

"But he'll----"

Again Kate cut him short.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Helen can tell me," she said coldly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wasn't I a fool?"

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

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

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

But Kate shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

Kate shook her head.

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

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

But Helen gasped.

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

Kate nodded.

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

Bill laughed good-naturedly.

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

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

Bill laughed again in his inconsequent fashion.

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

"Plenty in Rocky Springs," said Kate bitterly.

Bill nodded.

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

Helen laughed, and clapped her hands.

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

"Helen!"

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

"Have you made your peace with--headquarters?"

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

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

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

"I hope so, but--I don't know yet."

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

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

Fyles nodded.

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

"And the chances?"

"About equal to those of a convicted felon."

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

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

"No, I was beaten."

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

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

Fyles shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man snatched a brief hope.

"You mean----?"

Kate looked up again, fearlessly now.

"I mean just what I say."

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

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

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

"Then you----"

Kate made a movement of impatience.

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

But it was Fyles's turn to become impatient.

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

Kate's eyes looked steadily into his.

"Yes--before even myself."

The man returned her look.

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

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

The man thrust out his arms.

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

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

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

The man shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

Kate's eyes flashed.

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

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

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

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

The policeman nodded.

"Yes--anything you like."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate nodded.

"What is your condition?"

Fyles drew a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

"I accept your condition," cried Kate staunchly.

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

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

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

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

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

"That's--the truth?"

"True as--death."

CHAPTER XXIX

BILL'S FRESH BLUNDERING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell him what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen protested indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can be. In an hour?"

Charlie nodded and went on.

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

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

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

Bill shrugged gloomily.

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

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

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

"So am I--now, Charlie."

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

"Why?" he demanded quickly.

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

"Why? Is there need to ask that?"

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

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

There was just the slightest emphasis on the pronoun.

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

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

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

The other smiled bitterly.

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

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

Charlie shook his head, and his smile was affectionate.

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

Bill stirred his bulk uneasily.

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

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

"Maybe," he said.

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

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

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

Charlie shook his head.

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

CHAPTER XXX

THE COMMITTEE DECIDE

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

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

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

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

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

Kate smiled, but without lightness.

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

Helen shook her head.

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

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

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

"You mean----?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen nodded. Then at once she shook her head.

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

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

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

Helen nodded. She was very near tears.

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

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

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

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

"Now tell me," she commanded gently.

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

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

"Frightened?"

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

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

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

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

"Tuesday morning at--daybreak."

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

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

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

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

Helen was on her feet in a moment.

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

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

CHAPTER XXXI

ANTAGONISTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Going away?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the woman's turn to express surprise.

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

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

Kate set the lamp down on one of the benches.

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

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

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

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

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

Kate shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXII

TREACHERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smile died out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man seemed to resign himself.

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

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

Pete laughed, but his laugh was uneasy.

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

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

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

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

The man shook his head.

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

"What then?"

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

"Oh. So you waited around for--me?"

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

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

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

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

"For themselves?"

"Jest so--for 'emselves."

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

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

Fyles was quite undeceived.

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

The man laughed.

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

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

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

The man shrugged.

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

Fyles nodded.

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

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

"Mostly hot air," he said carelessly.

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

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

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

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

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

"That's up to me."

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

"Do you?"

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

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

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

The man's eyes grinned cunningly.

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

Fyles sat up.

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

"Ah."

"Well?"

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

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

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

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

But the man wanted added assurance.

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

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

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

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

Fyles shook his hand.

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

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

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

Fyles gathered up his reins.

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

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

CHAPTER XXXIII

PLAYING THE GAME

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

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

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

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

Fyles nodded.

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

McBain sat down again.

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

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

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

"You think, sir----?"

McBain's voice was sharply questioning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen shook her head, and her face fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kate nodded.

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

"I see."

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

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

Kate's eyes widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyles laughed. Then he sobered almost at once.

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

"Hateful good luck?"

Kate raised a pair of wondering eyes to his face.

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

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

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

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

Stanley Fyles shook his head.

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

Kate breathed a sigh as of regret.

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

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

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

"Am I to--know any more?" she pleaded.

The appeal became irresistible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyles laughed.

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

Kate agreed.

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

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

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

The policeman laughingly shook his head.

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

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

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

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

Kate made no answer, and the man went on.

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

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

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

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

She shook her head without turning to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXIV

AN ENCOUNTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still the doubtful questioning was in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man rushed on.

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

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

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

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

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

Kate smiled. She was feeling more confident.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I meant precisely what I said." Kate suddenly bestirred herself. The
coldness in her eyes turned to anger, a swift, hot anger, to which
the man was unused, and he shrank before it. "If you are sane you
will leave that wagon to me. You _do not_ want it for your haying
to-morrow. Anyway, your haying excuse is far too thin for me. I know
why you want it. If you take it I wash my hands of you entirely. You
must choose now between these things, once and for all. I am in no
trifling mood. You must choose now--at once. And your choice must
stand for all time."

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

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

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

Kate shook her head in cold decision.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presently the figure sat up and stared stupidly about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyles eyed his man sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You'll get him all right."

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

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

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

"You damned traitor!"

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXV

ON MONDAY NIGHT

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

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