As the heavy strokes of the mauls fell he glanced over the faces of the onlookers. What a picture of expectancy, what idiotic delight he saw there!

A crack, sharp and loud, echoed over the clearing. The double team were straining mightily on their heavy tugs. The lumbermen had stood clear. The strain on the _wrong_ guide had increased.

O'Brien looked up. The swing had changed several more degrees, further out of its direction.

The expression of the upturned faces had changed, too. Now it was evident that others had realized what O'Brien had discovered already.

Loud voices began to point it out, and the lumbermen stared stupidly upward. The tree was in the balance, and slowly moving, bearing all its crushing weight upon that single _wrong_ guide.

There was a rapid movement near O'Brien, and Mike and Danny Jarvis joined him hurriedly.

"Say," cried the latter, "the blamed galoots'll bust up the whole durned shootin' match."

Which remark warned O'Brien that Danny had awakened to the threatening danger to the Meeting House.

"They done it," returned O'Brien calmly, his eyes riveted upon the leaning tree.

Mike thrust his hands into the tops of his trousers.

"It sure was time to quit," he said with satisfaction.

The saloonkeeper's only comment was to rub his hands in a sort of malicious glee. Then in a moment, he pointed at the straining guide.

"It's got way," he cried. "Look, she's spinning. The rope. She'll part in half a tick. Get it? Say, might as well try to hold a house with pure rubber, as a new rope. It's got such a spring. It's give the old tree way. Now it's----. Gee!"

His final exclamation came as a terrific rending and cracking, far louder than heavy gunshots, came from the base of the tree. There was a vision of the lumbermen running clear. The next instant the straining guide parted with a report that echoed far down the valley.

Then, caught by the other restraining guide, the whole tree swung around, pivoting on its base, and fell with a roar of splitting and rending, and a mighty final boom, along the whole length of the roof of the Meeting House.

All O'Brien had antic.i.p.ated had come to pa.s.s. Furthermore, the mush of "vegetables" surrounding the house was more than fulfilled. The vast trunk cut its way through the building, everything, like a knife pa.s.sing through b.u.t.ter, and finally came to rest upon the ruined flooring inside.

With the final crash an awful silence prevailed. Not a voice was raised among the onlookers. The old superst.i.tions were fully stirring.

Was this the beginning of some further disaster to come? Was this the work of that old-time curse? Was this only a part of the evil connected with that tree? It was not the destruction of the house alone that filled them with awe. It was the character of the house that had been destroyed.

But in a moment the spell was broken, and O'Brien was the first to help to break it. The tree had fallen. It lay there quite still, like some great, dead, evil giant. Now his callous mind demanded to know the full extent of the damage done.

He left his post, followed closely by his companions, and ran down toward the wrecked building. With his movement a rush came from other directions among the spectators, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the ruined Meeting House was swarmed with an eager, curious throng of men and women clambering over the wreckage.

What a gladdening result for the sensation-loving minds of the callous! O'Brien and his companions were among the first to reach the scene.

There lay the fallen giant, the greater part of its colossal crest far beyond the extreme end of the demolished building. Only a few of the lower, bare branches, just beneath the foliage, had caught the house, these and the trunk. But the wreckage was complete. The walls had fallen as though they had been made of loose sand, walls that had withstood the storms of years, and the old, heavy-timbered roof was torn to shreds, and lay strewn about like matchwood.

As the eager crowd swarmed over the _debris_ an extraordinary sight awaited them. The weight of the tree, and the falling roof timbers, had almost completely destroyed the flooring, and there, in its place, gaped an open cavity extending the length of the building. The place was undermined by one huge cellar, divided by now crushed and broken cross-supporting walls.

The searching eyes of the saloonkeeper and his companions lost no detail. Nor did the prevailing astonishment at the discovery seem to concern them. With some care they clambered among the _debris_ to add further to the discovery, if such additions were to be made. And their efforts were rewarded without stint. The all-unsuspected and unknown cellar was no simple relic of a bygone age, but displayed every sign of recent usage. Furthermore, it was stocked with more than a hundred liquor kegs, many of which were empty, but, also, many of which were full of smuggled rye whisky.

Within five minutes the entire village, from Mrs. John Day down to the youngest child, knew that the cache of the whisky-runners had been laid bare by the fall of the old pine.

The wave of sentimental superst.i.tion again broke out and fastened itself upon the minds of the people, and the miracle of it was spoken of among them with almost bated breath.

But O'Brien had no time to waste upon any such thought. He clambered round through the cellars with eyes and wits alert. And he chuckled delightedly, as, groping in the half-light among the kegs, he discovered and recognized his own markings upon many of the empty kegs.

The whole thing amused him vastly, and he dilated upon his various discoveries to those who accompanied him.

"Say, Danny, boy, don't it beat h.e.l.l?" he cried gleefully. "While all them psalm-smiters were busy to death sweepin' the cobwebs out o'

their muddy souls upstairs, the old wash-tub o' sins was full to the bung o' good wholesome rye underneath 'em. Was it a bright notion?

Well, I'd smile. If it don't beat the whole blamed circus. Is there a p'liceman in the country 'ud chase up a Meetin' House for liquor? Not on your life. That dope was as safe right there from discovery as if it was stored in the United States Treasury. Say, them guys was smart.

Smart? h.e.l.l--say--what's that?"

Excited voices were talking and calling loudly beyond the walls of the ruined building. Even amid the dark surroundings of the cellars...o...b..ien and his companions detected the words "police" and "patrol."

Ready for any fresh interest forthcoming, the saloonkeeper clambered hurriedly out of the cellar with the other men close behind him. They mounted the broken walls and looked out upon the crowd.

All eyes were turned along the trail coming up from the village, and O'Brien followed the direction of their gaze. A half-spring police wagon, followed closely by a wagon, which many recognized as that of Charlie Bryant, were coming up the trail, escorted by Inspector Fyles and a patrol of police troopers. The horses were walking slowly, and as they approached a hush fell upon the crowd of spectators.

Suddenly Stanley Fyles urged his horse forward, and came on at a rapid canter. He pulled up at the ruined building and looked about him, first at the wreckage and then at the silent throng. Then, as he beheld O'Brien standing on the wall, he pointed at the ruins.

"An--accident?" he inquired sharply.

O'Brien's eyes twinkled.

"A d.a.m.n piece of foolish play by folks who orter know better," he said. "They tried wreckin' this durned old tree an' succeeded in wreckin' the soul laundry o' this yer village. Mebbe, too, you'll find things down under it to interest you, inspector. I don't guess you'd be lookin' for whisky an' religion goin' hand in hand, so to speak."

The officer's eyes were sharply questioning.

"How's that?"

"Why, the cellars are full o' kegs of good rye--some full, some empty.

Gee, but I'd hate spilling it."

The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coa.r.s.e police blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying something of the ominous figures hidden under them.

"Say----" cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on.

"Say, them--wagons--are loaded some."

Fyles nodded.

"I was bringing 'em along to have them laid out here--in the Meeting House, before--burial."

"Burial?"

O'Brien's eyes opened wide. A sort of gasp went through the silent crowd of onlookers, hanging on the police officer's words.

"Yes, it was a brush with--the runners," Fyles said seriously. "We got them red-handed last night. It was a case of shooting, too. Two of our boys were shot up. They're in the wagons. There's three of the gang--dead, and the boss of it, Charlie Bryant. They're all in the wagons. The rest are across the border by now. Guess there'll be no more whisky run in this valley."

The hush which followed his announcement was far more eloquent than words.

It was...o...b..ien whose temerity was strong enough to break it.

"That's so," he remarked thoughtfully. Then he sighed a world of genuine regret, and his eyes glanced along the vast timber of the old pine. "Guess the old cuss has worked out," he went on. "No, there'll be no more whisky-running." Then he climbed slowly down from the wall.

"I'll have to get--moving on."