Two horses ambled complacently, side by side, down the village trail. Each was ridden by the man it knew best, and was most willing to serve. Peter’s affection for Stanley Fyles was probably little less than his master’s affection for him. The same thing applied to Sergeant McBain, whose hard face suggested little enough of the tenderer emotions. But both men belonged to the prairie, and the long prairie trail inspires a wonderful sympathy between man and beast.

The men were talking earnestly in low voices, but their outward seeming had no suggestion of anything beyond ordinary interest.

“He’s surely leaving a trail all over the valley,” said Sergeant McBain, after listening to his superior’s talk for some moments. “It’s a clear trail, too—but it don’t ever seem to lead anywhere—definite. You’ve made nothing of that corral place, sir?”

Fyles’s eyes roamed over the scene about him in the quick, uneasy fashion of a groping mind.

“I don’t know yet,” he said slowly, “I’ve got to windward of that haying business. The fellow’s haying all right. He’s got a permit for cutting, and he generally puts up fifty tons. Maybe he keeps that wagon out there all the time for convenience. I can’t say. But even if he doesn’t I can’t see where it points.”

“We can watch the place,” said McBain quickly.

“That’s better than speculation, but—it’s clumsy.”

“How, sir?”

“Why, man alive,” replied Fyles sharply. “Do you think we’re going to fool a crook like him by just watching? Besides——”

“Yes, sir?”Fyles had broken off. A woman was moving down the trail ahead of them. She was a good distance away, but he had recognized the easy gait and trim figure of Kate Seton. After a moment’s pause he withdrew his gaze and went on.

“I’ve got all I need out of that place—for the present. You’ve seen the wagon and—recognized it. It’s the wagon they ran that last cargo in. The man who drove it was Pete Clancy. Clancy is one of Charlie Bryant’s gang. I don’t think we need any more—yet. We’ve centralized the running of that last cargo. The rest of the work is for the future. My plans are all ready. The patrol comes in from Amberley to-night. It will be ample reinforcement. We’re just one move ahead of these boys, here, and we’ve got to keep that way. You can get right back to quarters, and wait for my return. I’m going in to the mail office to run my eye over local mail. The envelopes of a local mail make good reading—when a man’s used to it.”

McBain grinned in a manner that seemed to give his hard face pain.

“You get more out of the ad-dress on an envelope than any one I ever see, sir,” he observed shrewdly.

Fyles shrugged, not ill pleased at the compliment.

“It’s practice, and—imagination. Those things, and—a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who’s that coming down the southern trail? Looks like——”

He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley.

McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits.

“It ain’t part of the patrol?” he said questioningly. “Yet it’s one of our fellers. Maybe it’s a—despatch.”

Fyles’s brows drew sharply together in a frown of annoyance.

“If the chief’s sent me the word I’m waiting for that way he’s—a damn fool. I asked him for cipher mail.”

“Mr. Jason don’t ever reckon on what those who do the work want. If that feller’s riding despatch, the whole valley will know it.”

McBain’s disgust was no less than that of Fyles. His hard face was coldly set, and the despatch rider, if he were one, seemed likely to get a rough reception.“He’ll make for the mail office,” said Fyles shortly. “We’ll go and meet him.”

He lifted Peter’s reins, and the horse responded at a jump. In a moment the two men were galloping down to Dy’s office. Fyles was the first out of the saddle, and the two stood waiting in silence for the arrival of the horseman.

There was not much doubt as to the publicity of the man’s arrival. As if by magic a number of men, and as many women, appeared in the vicinity of the saloon, farther down the trail. They, too, had seen the newcomer, and they, too, were consumed with interest, though it was based on quite a different point of view from that of Stanley Fyles and Sergeant McBain.

To them a despatch rider meant important news, and probable action on the part of the authorities. Important action meant, to their minds, something detrimental to the shady side of their village life. Every man was searching his brain for an explanation, a reason for the man’s coming, and every woman, sparing herself mental effort, was asking pointed questions of those who should think for her.

The man rode into the village at full gallop, and, seeing the two police horses outside the mail office, came straight on toward them.

He flung out of the saddle and saluted the inspector. Then he began fumbling in an inner pocket. Fyles understood his intention and sharply warned him.

“Not here. Now, in one word. Is it news from down East?”

The man nodded.

“Yes, sir. I believe so.”

“You believe so?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Jason told me I’d to make here to-day—mid-day. Said you were waiting for this letter to act. He also said I was to avoid speaking to any one in the place till I’d delivered the despatch into your hands. He also said I was to remain here under your orders.”

“Damnation! And we’ve had letters through the mail every day.”

“Beg pardon, sir——”

McBain made a sign for silence, and the man broke off. But Fyles bade him go on.“Mr. Jason warned me to be very careful, as it was a despatch he could not trust to the mail.”

Fyles gave a short laugh.

“That’ll do. Now, get mounted, and ride back the way you came into the valley. When you get out of it keep along the edge of it westwards. You’ll come to our camp five miles out. It’s in a bluff. It’s a shack on an abandoned farm. I can’t direct you better, except it’s just under the shoulder in the valley, and is approached by a cattle track. You’ll have to ride around till you locate it. McBain will be coming back soon. Maybe he’ll pick you up. Avoid questions, and still more—answers. Keep the letter till McBain gets in.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man remounted and rode away. His coming had been so sudden, his stay so brief, and his departure so rapid, that Fyles had achieved something of his purpose in repairing any damage Superintendent Jason had done to his plans in acting contrary to his subordinate’s wishes.

The sharp-eyed villagers had witnessed the interview with suspicions lulled. There had been no despatch delivered, and the man was off again the way he had come. Surely nothing very significant had taken place. Possibly, after all, the man was merely a patrol from some outlying station.

Fyles turned to his lieutenant.

“We’re going to get busy,” he said, with a shadowy smile.

The older man could not conceal his appreciation.

“Looks that way, sir.”

“I’ll look over the mail myself,” Fyles went on. “You best get back to camp, and see to that letter. Guess you’ll wait for me to take action. You can get out across the valley south. Ride on west and ford the river up at the crossing—Winter’s Crossing. See if the patrol’s in. Then make camp—and keep an eye skinned for that boy. I’ll get along later.”

The sergeant saluted and sprang into the saddle. Fyles passed into the mail office as the man rode off.

Allan Dy was used to these visits of the inspector. There were very few country postmasters who were not used to such visits. It was a process of espionage which was never acknowledged, yet one that was carried on extensively in suspected districts. There was never any verbal demand, or acquiescence, in the manner in which it was carried out. When the police officer appeared the day’s mail was usually in the process of being sorted, and was generally to be found spread out lying in full view of the searching eyes.

Fyles walked in. Passed the time of day. Collected his own mail and that of the men under him. Chatted pleasantly with the subservient official, and started to pass out again. In those brief moments he had seen all he wanted to see, which on this occasion was little enough.

There were only four letters from the East, The rest were all of local origin. One of the eastern letters was for O’Brien, and it carried an insurance firm’s superscription. There were two letters for Kate Seton, both from New York, and both carrying the firm styles of well-known retail traders in women’s clothing. The fourth was addressed to Charlie Bryant, and bore no trader’s imprint.

As he neared the door of the little office he had to stand aside as Kate Seton made her way in.

Fyles felt that his luck was certainly in. The news he had awaited with so much impatience had been received at last, and now—well, his quick appreciative eyes took in the delightfully fresh, wholesome appearance of this woman, who had made such inroads upon his usually unemotional heart. There was not a detail escaped him. The rounded figure suggesting virility and physical well-being. Her delightful, purposeful face full of a wide intelligence and strength. Those wonderful dark eyes of such passionate, tender depth, which yet held possibilities for every emotion which finds its place in the depth of a strong heart.

She was clad, too, so differently from the general run of the villagers. Like her sister, though in a lesser degree, she breathed the air of a city—a city far from these western regions, a city where refinement and culture inspires a careful regard for outward appearance.

She smiled upon him as he stood aside. Somehow the shyness which her sister had accused her of seemed to have gone. Her whole atmosphere was that of a cordial welcome.

“You’re early down for your mail, Mr. Fyles,” she said, after greeting him. “I’m generally right on the spot before Allan Dy is through. Still, I dare say your mail is more important, and stands for no delay.”“It’s the red tape of our business, Miss Seton,” Fyles replied, with a light shrug. “We’re always getting orders that should rightly be executed before they can possibly reach us. It’s up to us to get them the moment they arrive.”

Kate’s smile was good to see. There was just that dash of ironical challenge in her eyes which Fyles was beginning to associate with her.

“Still working out impossible problems which don’t really—exist?”

The man returned her smile.

“Still working out problems,” he said. Then he added slyly, “Problems which must be solved, in spite of assurances of their non-existence.”

“You mean—what I said to you the other day?”

Fyles nodded.

Kate’s eyes sobered, and the change in their expression came near to melting the officer’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. Then she sighed. “But I s’pose you must see things your own way.” She glanced at the mail counter. “You had a despatch rider in this morning. I saw him coming down the trail. Everybody saw him.”

Just for a moment Fyles’s strong brows drew together. He was reluctant to deliberately lie to this woman. He felt that to do so was not worthy. He felt that a lie to her was a thing to be despised.

“We had a patrol in,” he said guardedly.

Kate smiled.

“A patrol from—Amberley?”

Again was that ironical challenge in Kate’s eyes. Fyles’s responsive smile was that of the fencer.

“You are too well informed.”

But the woman shook her head.

“Not so well informed as I could wish,” she said. Then she laughed as her merry sister might have laughed, and the policeman wanted to join in it by reason of its very infection. “There’s a whole heap of things I’d like to know. I’d like to know why a government of the people makes a law nobody wants, and spends the public’s money in enforcing it. Also I’d like to know why they take a vicious delight in striving to make criminals of honest enough people in the process. Also I’d like to know how your people intend to trip up certain people for a crime which they have never committed, and don’t intend to commit, and, anyway, before they can be punished must be caught red-handed. You’ve got your problems sure enough, and—and these are some of the simplest of mine. Oh, dear—it almost makes my head whirl when I think of them. But I must do so, because,” her smile died out, and the man watched the sudden determined setting of her lips, “I’m against you as long as you are—against him. Good-bye. I must get my mail.”

It was a long circuitous route which took Stanley Fyles back to his camp. But it seemed short enough on the back of the faithful, fleet-footed Peter. Then, too, the man’s thoughts were more than merely pleasant. Satisfaction that his news was awaiting him at the camp left him free to indulge in the happy memory of his brief passage of arms with Kate Seton.

What a staunch creature she was! He wondered if the day would ever come when she would exercise the same loyalty and staunchness on his behalf. To him it seemed an extraordinary, womanish perversity that made her cling to a poor creature so obviously a wrongdoer. Was she truly blind to his doings, or was she merely blinding herself to them? She was not in love with Charlie Bryant, he felt sure. Her avowal of regard had been too open and sincere to have been of any other nature than the one she had claimed for it. Yes, he could understand that attitude in her. Anything he had ever seen of her pointed the big woman nature in her. She felt herself strong, and, like other strong people, it was a passion with her to help the weak and erring.

Fyles’s knowledge of women was slight enough, but he had that keen observation which told him many things instinctively. And all the best and truest that was in him had been turned upon this woman from the very first time he had seen her.

He told himself warmly, now, that she was the most lovable creature on earth, and nothing but marriage with her could ever bring him the necessary peace of mind that would permit him to continue his work with that zeal and hope of achievement with which he had set about a career.

He saw so many things now, through the eyes of a great passion, that seemed utterly different, rendered transcendentally attractive through the glamor of a strong, deep love. They were things which, before, had always been viewed dispassionately, almost coldly, yet not without satisfaction. They had always been part of his scheme, but had no greater attraction than the mere fact that they were integral parts of one great whole. Now they became oases, restful shades in the sunlight of his effort.

He had always contemplated marriage as an ultimately necessary adjunct to the main purpose. No man, he felt, could succeed adequately, after a certain measure had been achieved, without a woman at his side, a woman’s influence to keep the social side of a career in balance with the side which depended upon his direct effort. Now he saw there was more in it than that. Something more human. Something which made success a thousand times more pleasing to contemplate. He felt that with Kate at his side giant’s work would become all too easy. Her ravishing smile of encouragement would be a gentle spur to the most jaded energies. The delight of bearing her upon his broad shoulders in his upward career, would be bliss beyond words, and, in the interim of his great efforts, the care and happiness of her loyally courageous heart would be a delight almost too good to be true.

His keen mind and straining energies were bathed in the wonderful fount of love. He was looking for the first time into the magic mirror which every human creature must, at some time, gaze into. He was discovering all those pictures which had been discovered countless millions of times before, and which other coming countless millions had yet to discover for themselves.

So he rode on dreaming to the rhythmic beat of Peter’s willing hoofs. So he came at last to the distant camp of his subordinate comrades.

He was greeted by the harsh voice and hard, weather-stained features of McBain wreathed in a smile which was a mere distortion, yet which augured well.

“I haven’t opened the letters, sir,” he said, “but I’ve questioned Jones close. I guess it’s right, all right.”

Fyles was once more the man of business. He nodded as he flung off his horse and handed it over to a waiting trooper.

“Where’s the despatch?” he demanded sharply.McBain produced a long, official envelope. The other tore it open hastily. He ran his eyes over its contents, and passed it back to the sergeant.

“Good,” he exclaimed. “There’s a cargo left Fort Allerton, on the American side, bound for Rocky Springs by trail. It’s a big cargo of rye whisky. We’ll have to get busy.”