"Hello!" Barry called out. "It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say, Mr. Duff," he shouted, "it isn't the chicken season, you know."

"Better leave him alone," said Sandy.

"But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!" protested Barry indignantly.

Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.

"Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!" The dog refused to move.

"Forward, Slipper!"

Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.

"On, Slipper!"

Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward his master, as if in protest.

"Hello, there!" shouted Barry, "you know--"

Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.

"Missed, as I'm a sinner!" exclaimed Sandy. "I thought he was a better shot than that."

Back came Duff striding wide toward the buckboard. Fifty yards away he shouted:

"Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on the point of shooting!" His face was black with anger. He looked ready to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.

"But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken yet," he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.

"What's that got to do with it! And anyway, whose business is it what I do but my own?"

"But it's against the law!"

"Oh, blank the law! Besides--"

"Besides it isn't--well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out of season." Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.

Duff, speechless with his passion, looked at him as if not quite sure what form his vengeance should take.

"He's quite right, Stewart," said his friend Sandy, who was hugely enjoying himself. "You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know."

"Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points?

I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the--"

"Oh, come on, Stewart! Get in, and get a move on! You know you are in the wrong. But I thought you were a better shot than that," added Sandy.

His remark diverted Duff's rage.

"Better shot!" he stormed. "Who could shoot with a--a--a--" he was feeling round helplessly for a properly effective word,--"with a fellow yelling at you?" he concluded lamely. "I'd have had a brace of them if it hadn't been for him."

"In that case," said Barry coolly, "I saved you from the law."

"Saved me from the law! What the devil do you mean, anyway?" said Stewart. "If I want to pick up a bird who's to hinder me? And what's the law got to do with it?"

"Well, you know, I'm not sure but it might have been my duty to report you. I feel that all who break the game laws should be reported. It is the only way to stop the lawless destruction of the game."

Barry spoke in a voice of quiet deliberation, as if pondering the proper action in the premises.

"Quite right, too," said Sandy gravely, but with a twinkle in his blue eye. "They ought to be reported. I have no use for those poachers."

Duff made no reply. His rage and disgust, mingled with the sense of his being in the wrong, held him silent. No man in the whole country was harder upon the game poachers than he, but to be held up in his action and to be threatened with the law by this young preacher, whom he rather despised anyway, seemed to paralyse his mental activities. It did not help his self-control that he was aware that his friend was having his fun of him.

At this moment, fortunately for the harmony of the party, their attention was arrested by the appearance of a motor car driven at a furious rate along the trail, and which almost before they were aware came honking upon them. With a wild lurch the bronchos hurled themselves from the trail, upsetting the buckboard and spilling its load.

Duff, cumbered with his gun, which he had reloaded, allowed one of the reins to drop from his hands and the team went plunging about in a circle, but Barry, the first to get to his feet, rushed to the rescue, snatched the reins and held on till he had dragged the plunging bronchos to a halt.

The rage which had been boiling in Duff, and which with difficulty had been held within bounds, suddenly burst all bonds of control. With a fierce oath he picked up the gun which he had thrown aside in his struggle with the horses, and levelled it at the speeding motor car.

"For God's sake, Stewart, stop!" shouted Bayne, springing toward his friend.

Barry was nearer and quicker. The shot went off, but his hand had knocked up the gun.

"My God, Stewart! Are you clean crazy!" said Bayne, gripping him by the arm. "Do you know what you are doing? You are not fit to carry a gun!"

"I'd have bust his blanked tires for him, anyway!" blustered Duff, though his face and voice showed that he had received a shock.

"Yes, and you might have been a murderer by this time, and heading for the pen, but for Dunbar here. You owe him more than you can ever pay, you blanked fool!"

Duff made no reply, but busied himself with his horses. Nor did he speak again till everything was in readiness for the road.

"Get in," he then said gruffly, and that was his last word until they drove into the village.

At the store he drew up.

"Thank you for the lift," said Barry. "I should have had a tough job to get back in time."

Duff grunted at him, and passed on into the store.

"I am very glad to have met you," said Bayne, shaking hands warmly with him. "You have done us both a great service. He is my friend, you know."

"I am afraid I have offended him, all the same. But you see I couldn't help it, could I?"

Bayne looked at his young, earnest face for a moment or two as if studying him, then said with a curious smile, "No, I don't believe you could have helped it." And with that he passed into the store.

"What sort of a chap is that preacher of yours?" he asked of the storekeeper.

"I don't know; he ain't my church. Ask Innes there. He's a pillar."

Bayne turned to a long, lean, hard-faced man leaning against the counter.