The news which greeted early morning ears in Rocky Springs was of a quality calculated to upset the entire affairs of the day, and bring a perfect surfeit of grist to O’Brien’s insatiable mill. It even jeopardized the all-important church affairs. No one was inclined to work at all, let alone voluntarily work.

Then, too, there were the difficulties of gathering together a quorum of the Church Construction Committee, and Mrs. John Day, full of righteous indignation and outraged pride, as president, felt and declared that it was a scandal that the degraded doings of a parcel of low-down whisky-runners should be allowed to interfere with the noble cause which the hearts of the valley were set upon. But, being a woman of considerable energy, she by no means yielded to circumstances.

However, her difficulties were considerable. The percolation of the news of the police failure had reduced the male population to the condition of a joyful desire to celebrate in contraband drink. The female population became obsessed with a love of their own doorsteps, whence they could greet each other and exchange loud-voiced opinions with their neighbors, while their household “chores” awaited their later convenience. The children, too, were robbed of their delight in more familiar mischief, and turned their inventive faculties toward something newer and more in keeping with prevailing conditions and sentiments. Thus, a new game was swiftly arranged, and some brighter soul among them christened it the D. I. F. game. The initials were popularly believed to represent “Done is Fyles,” but the enlightened among the boys understood that they stood for “Damn Idjut Fyles,” an interpretation quite in keeping with the general opinion of the people of the valley.

Certainly the atmosphere of the village that morning must have been intolerable to Inspector Fyles, had he permitted himself to dwell upon the indications, the derisive glances, the quiet laugh of men as he chanced to pass. But public opinion and feeling were things he had long since schooled himself to ignore. He was concerned with his superiors, and his superiors only. At all times they were more than sufficient to trouble with, and his whole anxiety was turned in their direction now, in view of his terrible failure of the night before.

Thus he was forced to witness the signs about him, and content himself with the knowledge that he had been bluffed, while he cast about in his troubled mind for a means of appeasing his superior’s official wrath.

The church committee was to assemble at Mrs. John Day’s house at ten o’clock, and the hour passed without a shadow of a quorum being formed. Kate Seton, the honorary secretary, was the only member, besides the president, who put in an appearance at the appointed hour.

So Mrs. Day thrust on her bonnet, and, with every artificial flower in its crown shaking with indignation, set out to “round-up” the members.

O’Brien was impossible. His trade was too overwhelming to be left in the hands of a mere bartender, but there was less excuse for Billy Unguin and Allan Dy, who were merely drinkers in the place. She possessed herself of their persons and marched them off, and gathered up two or three women friends of hers on the way home. Thus, by eleven o’clock, she had the door of her parlor closed upon a more or less efficient quorum.

Then she sat her bulk down with a sigh of enforced content. Her florid face was beaded with perspiration as a result of her efforts.

She turned autocratically to her secretary.

“We’ll dispense with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” she declared half-defiantly. “We’ll take ’em as read and passed. This liquor business is driving us all to perdition, as well as wasting our time, which is more important in Rocky Springs. I’ve never seen the like of this place.” She glared directly at the two men. “And the men—well, say, I s’pose they are men, these fellows who stand around decorating that villain O’Brien’s saloon. If it was a christening, they’d drink; if it was a wedding, they’d drink; if it was a funeral, they’d drink; if they were going to stand before their Maker right away, they’d call for rye first.”

After which few opening remarks, given with all the scornful dignity of one who knows she holds the leading position among her sex in the village, she proceeded with the work in hand with a capacity for detail that quite worried the absent minds of the only two male members of the committee present.

Such was the general yearning for a termination of the meeting, so that its members might once more return to the gossip outside, that Mrs. John Day was permitted to carry all her plans in her scheme of salvation before her, with little or no discussion. And, in consequence, her good nature quickly reasserted itself, and she became more and more inclined to look leniently upon the defects of the majority of her committee.

The president disposed of several lesser complaints against the construction of the church to her own satisfaction. The list of them was an accumulation of opinions sent in by people who felt that it was due to the community, and themselves, particularly, that the elected committee were sufficiently harrassed by pin pricks, lest it became too high-handed and autocratic.

Mrs. Day’s methods of dealing with these was characteristic of her social rule in the village. She rose with a look of contemptuous defiance upon her fiery features. It was Helen who had once declared that Mrs. John always reminded her of one of those very red-combed old hens who never failed to cluck themselves very nearly into an apoplectic fit over a helpless worm, and demanded that all eyes should watch her marvelous display of prowess in its slaughter. A slip of paper had been thrust into her hands by the undisturbed honorary secretary.

“I guess I’m not going to worry you folks with debating these fool complaints sent in by some of the glory-seekers in this village,” she began with enthusiastic heat. “I’ve settled them all myself. I’ll read you the complaints and what I’ve done in each case. First, there’s a kick from Mrs. Morgan, upon the hill. She’s no account anyway, and hasn’t given a bean toward the church—yet. Guess I’ll have to see to that later. She says she saw two of the boys working on log hauling, sitting around in the shade of the church wall, after doing their work, swilling whisky out of the neck of a bottle, and guessed it wasn’t decent. I’ve written her asking her to send two boys to do the work in their place. Guess she hasn’t replied. Katherine L. Sherman, who guesses she’s related to the real Shermans, and has had twins twice in three years, writes: ‘When are we goin’ to arrange for a christening font?’ I handed her this. ‘When folks needing it see their way clear to unrolling their bank wads.’ Then there’s Mrs. Andy Carlton, who’s felt high-toned ever since she bought that second-hand top buggy from Mary Porson. She guesses we need a bell. I told her that if the people of Rocky Springs tried ringing their way to glory, it would be liable to alarm folks there. Best way would be to try and sneak in, and not shout they were coming. Then I heard from Mary Porson, herself. She wants to know who’s to keep the boys who’re drunk out of service, and wouldn’t it be better to hold Meeting on Monday, so’s the boys could get over the Saturday night souse in comfort. I told her she seemed to have a wrong idea of the folks of this village. I guessed if any feller got around to Meeting with liquor under his belt, there was liable to be a lynching right away. The boys wouldn’t stand for any ungentlemanly conduct at Meeting. Then there’s Mrs. Annerly-Jones. Having a hyphen to her name, she’s all for white surplices and organized singing. She figures to start up a full choir, and sing the solos herself. I hinted that the choir racket wasn’t to be despised, but solo work was liable to cause ill-feeling in the village by making folks think the singer was getting the start of them in the chase for glory. And, anyway, the old harmonium wasn’t a match for her voice. Then there’s a suggestion for cuspidors for each bench, and I must say, right here, I’m in favor of them. I’m not one to interfere with the disgusting ways of men. Men are just men, and can’t help it, anyway, and if they contract filthy habits, it’s not for woman to put ’em right. But she’s got the right to refuse having her skirts turned into floor swabs. I’ve fixed all these things right, so we don’t need to vote on ’em. But there’s one little matter that needs discussing right here and now, seeing that the folks are present who’ve brought it up.”

The president paused and glared at the two men through her big, steel-rimmed glasses, and Billy Unguin and Allan Dy found themselves uncomfortably interested in various parts of well-varnished appointments of the lady’s parlor.

Kate Seton eyed the two men with some amusement. She felt that the recent discussion, which took place in the new church itself, was liable to assume a different complexion here. Besides, she knew these two men, and felt it was best to have the suggestion of felling the old pine, as a ridge pole for the church, definitely negatived by the present meeting.

Mrs. John Day was always a difficult woman, of very strong opinions. Therefore it was not policy to suggest her course of action. So Kate had merely warned her that the suggestion had been made.

“It’s been said,” Mrs. Day went on, with an aggressive look in her hot eyes, “that the design of the building is all wrong. That the main body is too long, and that the ridge pole of the roof will have to be joined in several places. This means a great weakness that’ll have to be supported by central columns, which will obstruct the central gangway and the general view. I’d like Mr. Unguin and Mr. Dy to discuss the matter before the meeting.”

Thus challenged, Allan Dy sprang to his feet.

“It’s just as you say, ma’m,” he cried. “And I say right here that ridge pole should be in one piece. It’s bad. In a few years’ time we’ll surely have to rebuild that roof.”

He sat down with a jolt, and glared fiercely at his friend beside him.

Billy Unguin was on his feet in a moment.

“I want to say right here that my friend’s been sorting mail so long he’s got nervous. Furthermore, I’d add he don’t need to worry a thing. It’s my opinion the new church is an elegant proposition which reflects credit upon Rocky Springs, and our charming president more than anybody. And, if there’s any liberties taken with the science of architecture, the matter can be got over dead easy. If joining the ridge pole means weakening the structure, then don’t join it. That don’t beat us a little bit. With such a head as our president has for the management of big affairs I’m sure she’ll see a way out of the trouble, ’specially when I draw her attention to the old pine, which is tall enough to cut two ridge poles out of it for our church.”

Like his friend, he sat down with a jolt. But he was smiling with anticipated triumph. He felt that his long experience as a salesman of dry goods had taught him how to reach the most vulnerable point in feminine armor. When it came to winning over Mrs. John Day to his side Allan Dy hadn’t an earthly chance with him.

But his smile slowly disappeared when the honorary secretary promptly rose to her feet.

Kate Seton turned and addressed herself to the president.

“I should like to put in a word of protest,” she began, while Allan Dy smiled and breathed his thankfulness that he was not to remain unsupported.

Instantly Billy Unguin broke in.

“Miss Seton, as secretary, is only ex-officio,” he cried.

Mrs. Day shot a withering glance at him.

“Miss Seton is honorary secretary.”

Allan Dy smiled more broadly as the president promptly nodded for Kate to proceed.

“I wish to protest against the old pine being felled,” she said, with some warmth. “It means disaster to Rocky Springs. There is the old legend. There is a curse on the felling of that tree.”

Her announcement was greeted by a murmur of approval from the women present, all except Mrs. Day. Dy beamed. But Kate was less pleased. She knew her president. She would always listen to the men, but when her own sex ventured on thinking for themselves she was liable to become restive.

The president glanced round the room with a swift challenge shining through her glasses, and her hard mouth closed tightly. Then she turned sharply to the woman at her side.

“I’m—I’m—astonished, Kate,” she cried, with difficulty suppressing her inclination to domineer. “The matter is most simple. It is said the best interests of the church are being jeopardized. There is the obvious necessity of altering the design of the roof of our beautiful building. You—whom I have always regarded as the essence of sanity, and my chief support in the arduous work which has been flung upon my shoulders, and which Mr. Unguin has been pleased to say I’m not incapable of carrying out—you would sacrifice those interests for a lot of old Indian fool talk. I never would have believed it. Never! Say,” she turned to the others, and her eyes challenged the rest of the women, “This surely is a more serious matter than I thought. It must be looked into. I’ll look into it myself. If things are as Mr. Dy says, and it’s necessary, as Mr. Unguin points out, to cut down that tree to fix our church right—why, it’s going to be cut down. That’s all.”

She paused dramatically, but not long enough for anybody to interrupt her. Then, with a wave of her fat arm, which, to the women, became a threat, and to the men appeared to be something like the gesticulation of an animated sausage, she proceeded to terminate the debate.

“Those in favor of my proposition will signify the same in the usual manner,” she cried, with an air that brooked no sort of denial.

Up went every right hand in the room except those of Kate and Allan Dy. Then the “no’s” were taken. After which the result was announced with all the triumph of Mrs. Day’s domineering personality.

“Carried,” she cried.

Then she turned upon her secretary without the least sympathy or kindliness in her manner.

“You’ll enter that resolution in the minutes of the meeting,” she snapped.

Some half-hour later the quorum dissolved itself and trickled out of the oppressive precincts of Mrs. John Day’s highly polished parlor. The trickling process only lasted until the front door was gained. Then came a rush which had neither dignity nor politeness in it.

The two men set off for the saloon without attempting to disguise their purpose. The women hastily tripped off in the various directions whither they knew their favorite gossips would be found. Even Kate Seton failed to wait to exchange her usual few final words with the president. Truth to tell, she was both disgusted and depressed, and felt that somehow she had made a mess of things. She felt that she had contrived to turn an unimportant matter into something of the first magnitude. The question of felling the old pine had merely been one of those subjects for bickering between Billy and Allan Dy, who had never been known to agree on any subject, and now, through bringing their dispute before the committee, she knew that she had changed it into a question upon which the whole village would take sides. She only trusted that superstition would prevail, and the aged landmark would be left standing. She somehow felt doubtful, however, now that Mrs. Day had taken sides against her, and she hurried off to avoid further discussion.

Billy Unguin arrived at the saloon alone. Allan Dy’s course was diverted when he came within sight of his post office. As he reached the main trail of the village, he saw Inspector Fyles and Sergeant McBain riding down from the west, and the sight of them reminded him of his mail. So, leaving his friend to continue his way to the saloon alone, he went on to his little office, arriving in time to take down a telegraphic message from Amberley, and hand it, with his mail, to the police officer.

He rubbed his hands delightedly as he read the message over to himself a second time before placing it in its envelope. It was from the police headquarters, and its wording was full of significance in the light of last night’s events. Allan Dy was glad he had not gone on to the saloon.

The message was desperately curt.

“Wagon returned to Fort Allerton empty. Report. Jason.”

The postmaster had just placed the message with the officers’ mail when the two policemen entered. Fyles’s expression was morose, and his manner repellent. McBain was grim and silent.

“There’s a goodish mail, Mr. Fyles,” said Dy, without a trace of his real feelings, as he held out the bulky packet of letters. “That message has just come along over the wire.” He pointed at the tinted envelope enclosing the telegram.

While Fyles took his mail, McBain’s keen eyes were at work upon the letters spread out on the counter.

Fyles’s silent manner induced the curious official to go a step further.

“It’s from headquarters—Superintendent Jason,” he said, covertly watching the policeman’s face.But the effect was not quite as satisfactory as he hoped. Fyles smiled.

“Thanks. I was expecting it.”

Then he turned away, and, followed by McBain, passed out of the building.

Once outside, however, it was quite another matter. The officer tore open the message and glanced at its contents. Then he passed it on to McBain with a brief comment.

“They’re wise,” he said. “Guess the band’s going to start playing—right away.”

McBain read the message. “We’re up against it, sir,” was his dry comment.

“Up against it, man?” Fyles cried, with sudden heat. “I tell you that’s very nearly our sentence. We’ve failed—failed, do you understand? And it’s not our first failure. Do you need me to tell you anything? We may just as well stand right here and cut off the badges of our various ranks. That’s what we may as well do,” he added bitterly. “There’s no mercy in Jason, and devilish little reason.”

But the Scot seemed to have very little sympathy for the other’s feelings. He seemed to care less for his rank than something else, and, in his next words, the real man shone out.

“I don’t care a curse for my rank, sir,” he exclaimed. “We’ve been bluffed and beaten like two babes in the game our lives are spent in playing. That’s what hurts me. Have you seen ’em, sir? All the way along as we came down here just now. We passed five or six women at the doors of their miserable shacks, and they smiled as they saw us. We passed four men, and their greeting was maddening in its jeer. Even the damned kids looked up and grinned like the apes they are. They’ve bluffed and beaten us, and I—hate ’em all.”

For some moments Stanley Fyles made no answer. He was gazing out down the village trail, and his eyes were on a small group of people standing some way off talking together. He had recognized them. They were Kate and Helen Seton, and with them was young Bryant, the ingenuous brother of Charlie. He guessed, as well he might, the subject of their talk. His failure. Was not everybody talking of it? And were not most of them, probably all of them, rejoicing? His bitterness grew, and at last he turned on his subordinate.“Bluffed, but not beaten,” he said, with a fierce oath which did the Scot’s heart good. “We’re not beaten,” he reiterated, “if only Jason will leave us alone, and trust us further. I’ve got to convince him. I’ve got to tell him all that’s happened, and I’ve got to persuade him to leave us here. We’ve got to go on. He can recommend my resignation, he can do what he damn well pleases, so long as he leaves me here to finish this work. I tell you, I’ve got to break up this gang of hoodlums.”

McBain’s eyes glittered.

“That’s how I feel, sir.”

“Feel? We’ve just got to do it—or clear out of the country. Man, I’d give a thousand dollars to know how they got possession of our signals. Those shots, that bluffed us, were fired by some of the gang. How did they learn it? It’s been done by spying, but—say, get on back to camp, and prepare the report of last night. Hold it up for me, and I’ll enclose a private letter to Mr. Jason. I’ll be along later.”

McBain nodded.

“You fix it, sir, so we don’t get transferred back. We need another chance badly. Maybe they won’t bluff us next time.”

He swung himself into the saddle and rode away, while Fyles, linking his arm through the faithful Peter’s reins, strolled leisurely on down the track toward the group which included Kate Seton.

As he drew near they ceased talking, and watched his approach. Their attitude was such that Fyles could not refrain from a half-bitter, half-laughing comment as he came up.

“It doesn’t take much guessing to locate the subject of your talk, Miss Kate,” he cried.

Kate’s dark eyes had no smile in them as she replied to his challenge.

“How’s that?” she inquired, while Bill and Helen watched his face.

Fyles shrugged.

“You stopped talking when you saw I was coming your way.” He laughed. “However, I guess it’s only to be expected. The boys bluffed us all right last night. It was a smartish trick. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “it’s given us an elegant lever—when the time comes.”

Kate made no answer. She was studying the man’s face, and there was a certain regret and even pity in the depths of her regard. Bill and Helen had no such feelings for him. They were frankly rejoiced at his failure.

Helen replied. “That’s so, Mr. Fyles,” she said, almost tartly, “but I guess that lever needs to help them into your traps to do any real good.”

The officer’s smile was quite good-humored, in spite of the sharpness of the girl’s reminder. What he really felt he was not likely to display here.

“Sure,” he said. “The spider weaves his web and it’s not worth a cent if the flies aren’t foolish enough to make mistakes. The spider is a student of winged insect nature, and he lays his plans accordingly. The flies always come to him—in the end.”

Bill laughed good-humoredly.

“That’s dandy,” he cried. “There’s always fool flies around. But sometimes that spider’s web gets all mussed up and broken. I’ve broke ’em myself—rather than see the fool things caught.”

Kate’s eyes were turned on the great bulk of Charlie’s brother. Even Helen looked up with bright admiration for her lover.

Fyles’s gaze was leveled directly into the innocent looking blue eyes laughing into his.

“Yes, I dare say you and other folks have broken those things up, often—but the spiders thrive and multiply. You see, when one net is busted they—make another. They don’t seem to starve ever, do they? Ever seen a spider dead of starvation?”

“Can’t say I have.” Bill shook his great head. “But maybe they’d get a bad time if they set their traps for any special flies—or fly.”

Fyles raised his powerful shoulders coldly.

“Guess the spider business doesn’t go far enough,” he said, talking directly at Big Brother Bill. “When I spoke of that lever just now, maybe you didn’t get my meaning quite clearly. That gang, who ran the liquor in last night, put themselves further up against the law than maybe they think. It was an armed attack on the police, which is quite a different thing to just simple whisky-running. Get me? The police are always glad when crooks do that. It pays them better—when the time comes.”

Bill had no reply. He suddenly experienced the chill of the cold steel of police methods. A series of painful pictures rose up before his mind’s eye, which held his tongue silent. Helen quickly came to his rescue.

“But who’s to say who did it?” she demanded.

Fyles smiled down into her pretty face.

“Those who want to save their skins—when the time comes.”

It was Helen’s turn to realize something of the irresistible nature of the work of the police. Somehow she felt that the defeat of the police last night was but a shadowy success after all, for those concerned in the whisky-running. Her thought flew at once to Charlie, and she shuddered at the suggested possibilities in Fyles’s words.

She turned away.

“Well, all I can say is, I—I hate it all, and wish it was all over and done with. Everybody’s talking, everybody’s gloating, and—and it just makes me feel scared to death.” Then she turned again to Bill. “Let’s go on,” she cried, a little desperately. “We’ll finish our shopping, and—and get away from it all. It just makes me real ill.”

She waved a farewell to Kate and moved away, and Bill, like some faithful watchdog, followed at her heels. Fyles looked after them both with serious, earnest eyes. Kate watched them smiling.

Presently Fyles turned back to her.

“Well?” he demanded.

Kate’s eyes were slowly raised to his.

“Well?” she echoed. “So——”

She broke off. Her generous nature checked her in time. She had been about to twit him with his defeat. She sympathized with his feelings at the thought of his broken hopes.

“Better say it,” said Fyles, with a smile, in which chagrin and tenderness struggled for place. “You were going to say I have been defeated, as you told me I should be defeated.”

“I s’pose I was.” Kate glanced quickly up into his face, but the feeling she beheld there made her turn her eyes away so that they followed Bill and Helen moving down the trail. “Women are usually ungenerous to—an adversary.” Then her whole manner changed to one of kindly frankness. “Do you know my feelings are sort of mixed about your—defeat——”

“Not defeat,” put in Fyles. “Check.”

Kate smiled.

“Well, then, ‘check.’ I am glad—delighted—since you direct all your suspicions against Charlie. Then I am full of regret for you, because—because I know the rigor of police discipline. In the eyes of the authorities you have failed—twice. Oh, if you would only attack this thing with an open mind, and not start prejudiced against Charlie. I wish you had never listened to local gossip. If that were so I could be on your side, and—and with true sportsmanship, wish you well. Besides that, I might be able to tell you things. You see, I learn many things in the village that others do not—hear.”

Fyles was studying the woman’s face closely as she spoke. And something he beheld there robbed his defeat of a good deal of its sting. Her words were the words of partisanship, and her partisanship was for another as well as himself. Had this not been so, had her partisanship been for him alone, he could well have abandoned himself to an open mind, as she desired. As it was, she drove him to a dogged pursuit of the man he was convinced was the real culprit.

“Don’t let us reopen the old subject,” he said, with a shade of irritability. “I have evidence you know nothing of, and I should be mad indeed if I changed my objective at your desire, for the sake of the unsupported belief and regard you have for this man. Let us be content to be adversaries, each working out our little campaign as we think best. Don’t waste regrets at my failures. I know the price I have to pay for them—only too well. I know, and I tell you frankly, but only you, that my career in the police may terminate in consequence. That’s all right. The prestige of the force cannot be maintained by—failures. The prestige of the force is very dear to me. If you have anything to tell me that may lead me in the direction of the real culprit, then tell me. If not—why let us be friends until—until my work has made that impossible. I—I want your friendship very much.”

Kate’s eyes were turned from him. The deep light in them was very soft.

“Do you?” she smiled. “Well—perhaps you have it, in spite of our temporary antagonism. Oh, dear—it’s all so absurd.”

Fyles laughed.

“Isn’t it? But, then, anything out of the ordinary is generally absurd, until we get used to it. Somehow, it doesn’t seem absurd that I want your—friendship. At least, not to me.”

Kate smiled up into his face.

“And yet it is—absurd.”

The man’s eyes suddenly became serious.

“Why?”

Kate shrugged.

“That’s surely explained. We are—antagonists.”

Again that look of impatience crossed the man’s keen features. As he offered no reply, Kate went on.

“About the armed attack on the police. You said it made all the difference. What is the difference?”

“Anything between twelve months in the penitentiary and twenty years—when the gang is landed.”

“Twenty years!” The woman gave a slight gasp.

The man nodded.

“And do you know the logical consequence of it all?” he inquired.

“No.” Kate’s eyes were horrified.

“Why, when next we come into conflict there will be shooting if these people are pressed. They will have to shoot to save themselves. Then there may be murder added to their list of—delinquencies. These things follow in sequence. It is the normal progress of those who put themselves on the side of crime.”