The moments pa.s.sed. 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 d.i.c.k," 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 d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k sn.i.g.g.e.red. 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 d.i.c.k 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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.ses made out a rapidly oncoming vehicle, accompanied by a small band of hors.e.m.e.n.

The sight rejoiced him. Things were working out well. The man Pete had not lied. McBain held the river. No boat could pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sions. Retaliation had been certain--certain as death itself.

But, after that first furious a.s.sault, 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 antic.i.p.ated, 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 gra.s.s 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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.