Charlie needed nothing more. Something was approaching. Probably another horse. If so there was equally the probability of a rider upon its back.

He closed the door quickly and carefully behind him, and hurried toward the corral. He threw down the poles that barred it, and made his way to the side of the wagon. Then his movements became more leisurely.

Opening the wagon box he drew out a jack and a tin of grease. Then, still with an easy, leisurely air he jacked up one wheel and removed an axle cap.

He was intent upon his work now--curiously intent. He removed the wheel and smeared the inside of the hub with the filthy looking grease. His horse beyond the fence gave another whinny, which ended in a welcoming neigh. The man did not even look up. He replaced the wheel and spun it round. Then he examined the felloes which had shrunk in the summer heat. An answering neigh, and a final equine duet still failed to draw his attention. Nor, until a voice beyond the fence greeted him, did he look up.

"Getting ready for a journey?" said the voice casually.

Charlie looked round into the keen face of Stanley Fyles. He smiled pleasantly.

"Not exactly a journey," he said. Then he glanced quickly at the hay-rack standing on its side. "Say, doing anything?" he cried, and his smile was not without derision.

"Nothing particular," replied the police officer, "unless you reckon getting familiar with the geography of the valley particular."

Charlie nodded.

"I'd say that's particular for--a police officer." His rich voice was at curious variance with his appearance. It was not unlike a terrier with the bay of a bloodhound.

The phenomenon was not lost upon Fyles. He was studying this meager specimen of a prairie "crook." He had never before met one quite like him. He felt that here was a case of brain rather than physical outlawry. It might be harder to deal with than the savage, illiterate toughs he was used to.

"Yes," returned Fyles, "we need to learn things."

"Sure."

Charlie pointed at the hay-rack.

"Guess you don't feel like giving us a hand tipping that on to the wagon? I'm going haying to-morrow."

"Sure," cried Fyles, with an easy smile, as he leaped out of the saddle. He pa.s.sed into the old corral and his quick eyes took in every detail at a glance. They came to rest on the slight figure of the man and noted his costume. Charlie Bryant was clad in loose riding breeches, but was coatless. Nor did he display any firearms. "Two-man job, isn't it?" he said lightly. "And you guessed to do it--single?"

Charlie's smile was blandly disarming.

"No. I hadn't thought to get it on to-day. The Kid'll be with me to-morrow, or maybe my brother, Bill."

"Ah. Brother Bill could about eat that rack on his own," Fyles declared, as the two men set about the task.

It was a far lighter affair than it looked, and, in less than five minutes was resting perfectly balanced in its place on the wagon.

Fyles looked on while Charlie went round and bolted the rack securely in its place.

"Your wagon?" the officer observed casually, while his sharp eyes took in its last details.

Charlie nodded.

"Yes. Folks borrow it some. You see, I don't need it a heap, except at hay time."

"No, I don't guess you need it a heap. Say, this is a queer place tucked away up here. Old cattle station, I guess."

Fyles's remarks had no question in them. But he intended them to elicit a response. Charlie appeared to have nothing to conceal.

"Well, of a sort, I'd say," he replied. "You see, this was King Fisher's corral. There's others around the valley, though I don't know just where. King Fisher reigned nearly twenty years ago. He lived in the building the folks in Rocky Springs use as a Meeting House. He was pretty tough. One of the worst badmen ever hit this part. Had a signboard set up on the trail down from the prairie. He wrote it.

'This is King Fisher's trail, take any other old trail.' I believe most folks used to take 'any other old trail.' There was one feller didn't though. And that was the end of King Fisher's reign. These secret corrals have always been used by toughs."

Fyles was smiling.

"Yes."

Charlie laughed and pointed at the hut beyond the corral.

"I'd awfully like to know some of the games that went on in there.

Birds and things nest in its roof now. I guess they didn't come within a mile of it one time. They say King Fisher was mad--blood mad. If that's so, I daresay this place could tell a few yarns."

Again came Fyles's monosyllabic agreement.

Charlie turned to his wagon and went on with his greasing. And while he worked and listened to the other's talk, the memory of having seen him with Kate gathered stormily in his mind. But he still smiled when he looked up. He still replied in the light-hearted fashion in which he had accepted the police officer's coming. He was perfectly aware of the reason of the man's presence there. And, equally, he was indifferent to it.

"Where are you haying now?" Fyles inquired presently.

Charlie answered without turning from his work.

"Half a mile down stream. Guess we all hay that way. There's no other sloughs handy on the west side of the village."

"That's why the wagon's kept here?"

"Sure. Saves the horses. They'll come out here to-morrow, and stop right here till we quit."

Charlie spun the last wheel round after replacing the cap.

"Where are you stopping with your men?" he demanded abruptly, as he let the jack down.

"Just around," said Fyles evasively.

"I see. On the prowl." Charlie smiled up into the man's shrewd, good-looking face. "You need to do some prowling around this valley if you're going to clean things up. Yes, and I'd say you need a mighty big broom."

"We've got the broom, and I guess we'll do the work," replied Fyles nodding. "We generally do--in the end."

Charlie's eyes had become thoughtful.

"Yes," he agreed. "I s'pose you do. Guess I'll have to be moving."

He returned the grease and jack to the wagon box, and moved toward the gate of the corral.

"Coming my way?" he asked casually.

"Not just now. I'm looking around--some."

Charlie laughed.

"Ah. I'd forgotten that broom."