"It's a tough proposition, McBain," he said with a sigh, which had no weakening in it. "But I think we'll make good this time, if only we can get the news of the shipment when it comes along well ahead.

Superintendent Jason is in communication with every local police force east, and should get it all right. If we get that, the rest should be easy. Rocky Springs only has three roads, and it's a small place. I've got a pretty wide scheme ready for them when we get word. In the meantime our present work must be to endeavor to locate their cache.

That discovered, and left alone, our work will be simple pie. I'll read these notes now. Then I'm going into the village. Later on I've a notion to see just how busy Master Bryant is on his--ranch."

Kate gave a final glance round at the walls of green logs, and noted with appreciation the picturesque dovetailing of every angle.

"Well," she declared, after a moment's thought, "all I can say is that the design's working out in truly elegant fashion. Charlie's done his work well--and so have the boys." She beamed pleasantly upon her audience, two men balancing themselves upon the open floor joists of the new church. "It's a real work of art. It's going to be swell, and the folks should be just proud of it."

Billy Unguin smiled confidently.

"Oh, the folks'll be proud of it all right, all right," he said.

"They'll yap about this place, and how they built it, till you'll wish it was swallowed up by that kingdom they guess they're going to get boosted into by means of it. They'll have one h.e.l.l of a burst at the saloon when the work's done, and every feller'll be guessin' he could have done the other feller's job better than he could have done it himself, and the women folk'll just say what elegant critturs their men are, till they get home sossled. Then they'll beat h.e.l.l out of 'em. They'll sure be proud of it, but I don't guess the church'll be proud of them. It'll have hard work helpin' most of 'em into the kingdom. Ain't that so, Allan?"

Billy asked for confirmation of his opinions merely as a matter of form. But Allan Dy displayed little interest in them. He had some of his own.

"Guess so," he murmured indifferently.

"Course it's so," said Billy sharply.

"Dessay you're right," replied Dy, with still less interest. "But I ain't got time thinking conundrums. I get too many, running the mail. Still, I'd like to say right here this doggone church ain't architecture. Maybe it's art, as Miss Kate says. But it ain't architecture. That's what it ain't," he finished up, with decided emphasis.

Kate smiled upon him. She was interested in what lay behind the remark.

"How--how do you make that out, Allan?" she inquired.

The postmaster felt sorry for her and showed it.

"It's easy," he declared. Then he gathered his opinions in a bunch, and metaphorically hurled them at her. "Where's the steel girders an'

stone masonry?" he demanded. "It's just wood--pine. Wher's the figures an' measurements? Who knows the breakin' strain o' them green logs?

Maybe it's art, but it ain't architecture. I ain't so sure about the art, neither. It's to be lined with red pine. Ther' ain't no art to red pine. Now maple--bird's-eye maple, an' we got forests of it.

Ther's art in bird's-eye maple. It's mighty pleasing to the eye. It 'ud make the folks feel good. Red pine? Red?" He shook his head ominously. "Not in this city. You see, red's a shoutin' color. Sets folk gropin' fer trouble. But white's different. It--it sort o' sets folks thinking o' them days when their little souls was white enough, even if their bodies wasn't rid of a month's dirt. I tell you, Rocky Springs 'ud get pious right away under the influence of bird's-eye maple. Maybe they'd be fighting drunk later, but that don't cut no ice. You see, it's sort o' natural to 'em. Still, the church would have done 'em some good if only it kept 'em a few seconds from doing somebody or something a personal injury."

Billy was chafing at his friend's monopoly of the talk and promptly seized the opportunity of belittling his opinions.

"What's the use," he cried. "I'm with Miss Kate. Charlie's done right in fixing on red pine lining. Art's art, an' if you're goin' to be artistic, why, you just got to match things same as you'd match a team of horses, same as a woman does her fixings. 'Tain't good to mix anything. Not even drinks. Red pine goes with raw logs. Say, there's art in everything. Beans goes with pork; cabbage with corned beef. But you don't never eat ice cream with sowbelly. Everybody hates winter.

Why for do folks fix 'emselves like funeral mutes in winter? It's just the artistic mind in 'em. They'd hate flying in the face of Providence by cheerin' themselves up with a bit of color. Art is art, Dy, my boy; maybe art ain't in your line, seein' you're a Government servant.

Ther' ain't nothin' but red pine for the inside of that church, or all art's bust to h.e.l.l. Start the folks in this city off on notions inspired by anemic woodwork, an' the sight o' so much purity would set 'em off sniveling on their women-folk's bosoms, and give 'emselves internal chills shoutin' fer ice water at O'Brien's bar. You'd set the boys so all-fired good-natured they'd give 'emselves up fer the crimes they never committed, or they'd be startin' up a weekly funeral club so as to be sure of a Christian burial anyway. You'd upset the harmony o' Rocky Springs something terrible. Bird's-eye maple--nothin'. Ain't that so, Miss Kate?"

Kate laughed outright.

"I can't quite follow all the arguments," she said, cautiously.

"But--but--it sounds all right."

"Sure," agreed Billy, complacently.

But Dy was not yet defeated.

"I'm arguin' architecture," he said doggedly. "Here," he indicated the length of the main building, "I don't care a cuss about your art.

What about this? Where's the tree grown hereabouts tall enough to give us a ridge pole for this roof? It means a join in the ridge pole. That's what it means. And that ain't architecture, Master Billy--smarty--Unguin."

Kate ran her eye over the offending length. The man's point seemed obvious.

"It certainly looks like a join," she admitted unwillingly.

For a moment Billy was disconcerted. But his inventive faculties quickly supplied him with a way out. Anyway, he could break up the other's argument.

"Isn't nothin'!" he cried, with fine scorn. "That don't need to worry you. Ain't we got the tallest pine in creation right here on the spot?"

The postmaster's eyes widened. Even Kate was startled at the suggestion.

"You'd cut down the old tree?" she inquired.

"Wher's your sense?" demanded Dy roughly. "Cut down the old pine?

Who's goin to do it? Who's got the grit?"

"It don't need grit to saw that tree--only a saw," smiled Billy, provokingly.

But Dy had no sense of humor at the moment.

"Pshaw! What about the Indian cuss on it?" he demanded. "Ther' ain't a boy in this valley 'ud drive a saw into that tree. You're talking foolish."

Billy grew very red.

"Am I?" he cried, angrily. "Well, I ain't no sawyer, but I'll say right here if the church needs that pine I'll fetch it down if it's only to show you that Charlie Bryant's notions are better than yours.

I'll do it if the work kills me."

"Which it surely will," said Dy significantly.

But Kate had no liking for the turn the conversation had taken, and attempted to divert it.

"No, no," she cried, with a laugh that was a trifle forced. "That's the worst of you men when you begin to argue. You generally get spiteful. Just like women. Art or architecture, it doesn't matter a bit. We're all proud of this lovely little church. But I must be off.

I've a committee meeting to attend. Then there's a church sewing bee.

See you again."

She turned away and began to pick her way from joist to joist toward the doorway in the wall. Her progress occupied all her attention and careful balance. Thus she was left wholly unaware of the man who was standing framed in the opening watching her. Her first realization came with the sound of his voice. And so startling was its effect that she lost her balance, and must have taken an undignified fall between the joists, had not a pair of strong hands been thrust out to save her.

"I'm sorry, Miss Kate," cried Fyles earnestly, as, aided by his supporting arms, she regained her balance. "I thought you knew I was here--had seen me."

Kate freed herself as quickly as she could. Her action was almost a rebuff, and suggested small enough thanks. Probably none of the villagers would have met with similar treatment.

She felt angry. She did not know why, and her words of thanks had no thanks in their tone.

"Thank you," she said coldly. Then she looked up into the keen face before her and beheld its easy confident smile. "It was real stupid of me. But--you see, I didn't guess anybody was there."

"No."

Kate stepped down through the doorway, and stood beside the officer, whose horse was grazing a few yards away upon a trifling patch of weedy gra.s.s. Her annoyance was pa.s.sing.