He was the first to speak, and, in doing so, he felt he was acknowledging his worsting in the encounter.

"It's--it's impossible to fight like this," he said lamely. "I am not accustomed to fight with women."

"Does it matter, so long as a woman can fight?" Kate cried quickly.

"Chivalry?" she went on contemptuously. "That's surely a survival of ages when the old curfew rang, and a lot of other stupid notions filled folks' minds. I--I just love to fight."

Her smile was so frankly infectious that Fyles found himself responding. He heaved a sigh.

"It's no good," he said almost hopelessly. "You must stick to your belief, and I to mine. All I hope, Miss Kate, is that when I've done with this matter the pain I've inflicted on you will not be unforgivable."

The woman's eyes were turned away. They had become very soft as she gazed over at the distant view of Charlie's house.

"I don't think it will be," she said gently. Then with a quick return to her earlier manner: "You see, you will never get the chance of hurting Charlie." A moment later she inquired naively: "When is the cargo coming in?"

But Fyles's exasperation was complete.

"When?" he cried. "Why, when this scamp is ready for it. It's--it's no use, Miss Kate. I can't stop, or--or I'll be forgetting you are a woman, and say 'd.a.m.n!' I admit you have bested me, but--young Bryant hasn't. I----" he broke off, laughing in spite of his annoyance, and Kate cordially joined in.

"But he will," she cried, as Peter began to move away. "Good-bye, Mr.

Fyles," she added, in her ironical fashion as she picked up her sewing. "I can get on with these important matters--now."

The man's farewell was no less cordial, and his better sense told him that in accepting his defeat at her hands he had won a good deal in another direction where he hoped to finally achieve her capitulation.

While the skirmish between Stanley Fyles and Kate Seton was going on, the object of it was discussing the doings of the police and the prospect of the coming struggle with Big Brother Bill on the veranda of his house.

He was leaning against one of its posts while Bill reposed on the hard seat of a Windsor chair, seeking what comfort he could find in the tremendous heat by abandoning all superfluous outer garments.

Charlie's face was darkly troubled. His air was peevishly irritable.

"Bill," he said, with a deep thrill of earnestness in his voice, as he thrust his brown, delicate hands into the tops of his trousers. "All the trouble in the world's just about to start, if I'm a judge of the signs of things. There's a whole crowd of the police in the valley now. They're camped higher up. They think we don't know, but we do--all of us. I wonder what they think they're going to do?"

His manner became more excited, and his voice grew deeper and deeper.

"They think they're going to get a big haul of liquor. They think they're going to get me. I tell you, Bill, that for men trained to smelling things out, they're blunderers. Their methods are clumsy as h.e.l.l. I could almost laugh, if--if I didn't feel sick at their coming around."

Bill stirred uneasily.

"If there were no whisky-running here they wouldn't be around," he said pointedly.

Charlie eyed him curiously.

"No," he said. Then he added, "And if there were no whisky-running there'd be no village here. If there were no village here we shouldn't be here. Kate and her sister wouldn't be here. Nothing would be here, but the old pine--that goes on forever. This village lives on the prohibition law. Fyles may have a reputation, but he's clumsy--d.a.m.ned clumsy. I'd like to see ahead--the next few days."

"He's smelling a cargo--coming in, isn't he?" Bill's tact was holding him tight.

Again Charlie looked at him curiously before he replied.

"That's how they reckon," he said guardedly, at last.

Bill had turned away, vainly searching his unready wit for the best means of carrying on the discussion. Suddenly his eyes lit, and he pointed across at the Seton's house.

"Say, who's that--on that horse? Isn't it Fyles? He's talking to some one. Looks like----"

He broke off. Charlie was staring out in the direction indicated, and, in a moment, his excitement pa.s.sed, swallowed up in a frowning, brooding light that had suddenly taken possession of his dark eyes.

Bill finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

"It's--Fyles?" he said.

"Yes, it's Fyles," said Charlie, with a sudden suppressed fury. "It's Fyles--curse him, and he's talking to--Kate."

At the sound of his brother's tone, even Bill realized his blundering.

He knew he had fired a train of pa.s.sion that was to be deplored, even dreaded in his brother. He blamed himself bitterly for his lack of forethought, his absurd want of discretion.

But the mischief was done. Charlie had forgotten everything else.

Bill stirred again in his chair.

"What does he want down there?" he demanded, for lack of something better to say.

"What does he want?" Charlie laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, a savage laugh. It was a laugh that spoke of sore heart, and feelings crowding with bitterness. "I guess he wants something he'll never get--while I'm alive."

He relapsed into moody silence, and a new expression grew in his eyes till it even dominated that which had shone in them before. Bill thought he recognized it. The word "funk" flashed through his mind, and left him wondering. What could Charlie have to fear from Fyles talking to Kate? Did he believe that Kate would let the officer pump her with regard to his, Charlie's, movements!

Yes, that must be it.

"He won't get more than five cents for his dollar out of her," he said, in an effort to console.

Charlie was round on him in a flash.

"Five cents for a dollar? No," he cried, "nor one cent, nor a fraction of a cent. Fyles is dealing with the cleverest, keenest woman I've ever met in all my life. I'm not thinking that way. I'm thinking how almighty easy it is for a man walking a broken trail to trip and smash himself right up. The more sure he is the worse is his fall, because--he takes big chances, and big chances mean big falls. You've hit it, Bill, I'm scared--scared to death just now. If I know Fyles there's going to be one h.e.l.l of a time around here, and, if you value your future, get clear while you can. I'm scared, Bill, scared and mad. I can't stand to watch that man talking to Kate. I'm not scared of man or devil, but I'm scared--scared to death when I see that. I must get out of this. I must get away, or----"

He moved off the veranda in a frantic state of nervous pa.s.sion.

Bill sprang from his seat and was at his brother's side in two great strides, and his big hand fell with no little force upon the latter's arm and held it.

"What do you mean?" he cried apprehensively. "Where--where are you going?"

With surprising strength Charlie flung him off. He turned, facing him with angry eyes and flushed face.

"Don't you dare lay hand on me like that again, Bill," he cried dangerously. "I don't stand for that from--anybody. I'm going down the village, since you want to know. I'm going down to O'Brien's. And you can get it right now that I wouldn't stand the devil himself b.u.t.ting in to stop me."

CHAPTER XXIII