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 pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s. 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 rec.u.mbent 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 gra.s.s 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 d.a.m.ned traitor!"