On his westward journey to camp Stanley Fyles did a good deal of thinking. Generally speaking he was of that practical turn which has no time for indulgence in the luxury of visions, and signs. Long experience had made him almost severe in his practice.

But, as he rode along pondering upon the few pleasant moments spent in Kate’s presence, his imagination slowly began to stir, and he found himself wondering; wondering, at first, at her credulity, and, presently, wondering if it were really possible that an old curse, uttered in the height of impotent human passion, could, by any occult process, possess a real effect.

He definitely and promptly denied it. He told himself more. He believed that only women, highly emotional women, or creatures of weaker intellect, could possibly put faith in such things. Kate belonged to neither of these sections of her sex. Then how did this strange belief come in a woman so keenly sensible, so full of practical courage?

Maybe it was the result of living so closely in touch with the soil. Maybe the narrow life of such a village as Rocky Springs had had its effect.

However, her belief, so strong, so passionate, had left an uncomfortable effect upon him. It was absurd, of course, but somehow he wished he had not heard the story of the old pine. At least not till after Monday. Kate had said they were to fell that tree at dawn. It was certainly a curious coincidence that they should have selected, as Kate had said, practically Monday night. The night of the whisky-running.

He smiled. However, the omen was surely in favor of his success. According to the legend the felling of the tree meant the end of crime in the valley, and the end of crime meant his——But blood would flow. Death. Whose blood? Whose—death?

His smile died out.

In these contingencies it meant a—hand to hand conflict. It meant——Who’s death did she dread? Surely she was not thinking of the police? They always carried their lives in their hands. It was part of their profession. She denied Charlie Bryant’s leadership, so——But in her own secret mind did she deny it? He wondered.

So he rode on probing the problem. Later he smiled again. She was thinking of himself. The vanity of the thought amused him, and he found himself shaking his head. Not likely. It was not her regard for him. He was certain in his mind that her wager was made in the full conviction that he would not win, and, consequently, she would not have to marry him. She certainly was a strange creature, and—charming.

However, she was concerned that somebody was to meet death, and she dreaded it. Furthermore, now he came to think of it, a similar belief, without the accompanying dread, was growing in him. He pulled himself together. The old superstition must not get hold of him. That would indeed be the height of folly.

But once the seed had been sown in his imagination the roots quickly strove to possess themselves of all the fertility such a rich soil afforded. He could not shake clear of their tendrils. Maybe it was the effect of his sympathy and regard for the woman. Maybe he was discovering that he, too, deep down beneath the veneer in which his work armored him, was possessed of that strange superstition which seems to possess all human life. He hated the thought, and still more hated the feeling the thought inspired.

He touched Peter’s flank with his heels, and the unaccustomed spur sent the highly strung beast plunging into a headlong gallop.

He was far beyond the village now, and more than half way to the camp, and presently he slowed down to that steady canter which eats up distance so rapidly without undue exertion for either man or beast. He strove to turn the course of his thoughts. He pondered upon the ungracious official letter of his superior, begrudging, but yielding to his persuasions. Things certainly were “coming his way.” At last he was to be given his final chance, and it was something to obtain such clemency in a force which existed simply by reason of its unfailing success. He had much to be thankful for. McBain would have fresh heart put into him. It would be something like a taste of hell for McBain to find himself reduced to the rank of trooper again, after all his years of successful service. Yes, he was glad for McBain’s——

Suddenly he checked the willing Peter, and drew him down to a walk. There was a horseman on the trail, some thirty or forty yards ahead. He had just caught sight of his dim outline against the starlit sky line. It was only for a moment. But it was sufficient for his trained eyes. He had detected the upper part of the man’s body, and the shadowy outline of a wide-brimmed prairie hat.

Now, as Peter moved at that shuffling, restful amble which all prairie horses acquire, he leaned down over the horn of his saddle and peered ahead. The man was sitting stock still upon his horse.

Instinctively Fyles’s hand went to his revolver, and remained there. When a man waits upon a western trail at night, it is as well that the traveler take no undue chances, particularly when he be one of the none too well loved red coats.

The policeman kept on. He displayed no hesitation. Finally he drew his horse to a standstill with its nose almost touching the shoulder of the stranger’s horse.

Fyles was peering forward in the darkness, and his revolver was in that position which, all unseen, kept its muzzle directly leveled at the horseman’s middle.

“Kind of lonesome sitting around here at night,” he said, with a keenly satirical inflection.

“You can put up your darn gun, inspector,” came the startling response. “Guess I had you covered from way back there, if I’d had a notion to shoot. Guess I ain’t in the ‘hold-up’ bizness. But I’ve been waiting for you—anyway.”

The man’s assurance had no effect upon the policeman. The latter pressed his horse up closer, and peered into the other’s face. The face he beheld startled him, although he gave no outward sign.

“Ah, Pete—Pete Clancy,” he said quietly. “Guess my gun’s always pretty handy. It won’t hurt where it is, unless I want it to. It’s liable to be more effective than your’s would have been—way back there.”

The man seemed to resign himself.

“Guess it don’t pay shootin’ up red coats,” he said, with a rough laugh.“No.” Then in a moment Fyles put a sharp question. “You are waiting for—me? Why?”

Pete laughed, but his laugh was uneasy.

“Because I’m sick to death being agin the law.”

“Ah. Been taking a hand building the church back there?” The sarcasm was unmistakable, but it passed the other by.

“Ben takin’ a hand in most things—back there.”

“Sure. Find some of ’em don’t pay?”

The man shook his head.

“Guess they pay—mostly. ’Tain’t that.”

“What then?”

“Sort o’ feel it’s time to quit—bizness.”

“Oh. So you waited around for—me?”

Fyles understood the type of man he was dealing with. The half-breed was a life study of his. In the great West he was always of more interest to the police than any white man.

“We mostly wait around for the p’lice when we want to get out of business,” the man replied with meaning.

“Yes, some folks find it difficult getting out of business without the help of the police.”

“Sure,” returned Pete easily. “They need to do it right. They need to make things square.”

“For themselves?”

“Jest so—for ’emselves.”

The half-breed leaned over his horse’s shoulder and spat. Then he ostentatiously returned the gun he was holding to its holster.

“Maybe I’ll need him no more,” he said, with an obviously insincere sigh.

Fyles was quite undeceived.

“Surely—if you’re going out of business. What’s your—business?”

The man laughed.

“I used to be runnin’ whisky.” Then he chuckled softly. “Y’see, that chu’ch has got a hold on me. I’m feelin’ that pious I can’t bear the thought of runnin’ whisky—an’ I can’t bear the thought of—other folk runnin’ it. No, I’m quittin’ that bizness. I’m jest goin’ in fer straight buyin’ and sellin’—inside the law.”

Fyles was watching the man closely in the dim night light. He knew exactly what the man was there for now. Furthermore he knew precisely how to deal with him. He was weighing in his mind the extent to which he could trust him. His detestation of the race increased, while yet every nerve was alert to miss no chance.

“Straight buying and selling is good when you’ve found a buyer, and got—something to sell,” he said.

The man shrugged.

“I sure got something to sell, an’ I guess you ought to be the buyer.”

Fyles nodded.

“I mostly buy—what I need. What’s your line?”

Again the man laughed. His uneasiness had passed. He felt they understood each other.

“Mostly hot air,” he said carelessly.

Fyles hated the man’s contemplated treachery. However, his duty was plain.

“Well, I might buy hot air—if it’s right, and the price is right.”

The man turned with an alert look and peered into the police officer’s face.

“They’re both right,” he said sharply. Then his manner changed abruptly to one of hot intensity. “Here let’s quit talkin’ fool stuff. I can tell you what you’re needin’ to know. And I’ll tell you, if you’ll pass me over, and let me quit clear without a question. I need to get across the border—an’ I don’t want to see the inside of no penitentiary, nor come up before any court. I want to get right away quick. See? I can tell you just how a big cargo’s comin’ into Rocky Springs. I know, because I’m one of ’em bringing it in. See? And when I’ve told you I’ve still got to bring it in, or those who’re running it with me would guess things, and get busy after me, or—or change their plans. See? Give us your word of a free run for the border, an’ I’ll put you wise. A free run clear, on your honor, in the name of the Government.”

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Fyles sharply.

“That’s up to me.”

“Why are you doing this?” Fyles insisted. “I need to know before I make any deal.”

“Do you?”

Pete thought for some moments, and Fyles waited. At last the man looked up, and his evil face was full of the venom of his words.

“I want to give ’em away,” he cried with bitter hatred. “I want to see the boss pass on to the penitentiary. See? I want to see the boss rot there for five good, dandy years.”

“Who’s the boss?” demanded Fyles sharply.

The man’s eyes grinned cunningly.

“Why, the feller you’re going to get Monday night, with fifty gallons of good rye.”

Fyles sat up.

“Monday night?” Then he went on. “Say, why do you want to put him away?”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

Again the half-breed hesitated. Then with a sudden exclamation of impatience his desire for revenge urged him on.

“Tcha! What’s the use?” he cried fiercely. “Say, have you ever had hell smashed out of your features by a lousy dude? No. Well, I owe a bit—a hell of a bit—to some one, and I guess I don’t owe nothing in this world else but money. Debts o’ this sort I generally pay when I get the chance. You’re goin’ to give me that chance.”

Fyles had satisfied himself. The man sickened him. Now he wanted to be done with him.

“What’s your story? I’ll pay you the price,” he cried, with utter contempt.

But the man wanted added assurance.

“Sure?” he cried eagerly. “You’re goin’ to get me with the rest? Savee? You’re goin’ to get me, an’ when you get me, you’re goin’ to give me twenty-four hours’ free run for the border?”

“If I get you you can go free—for twenty-four hours.”

The man’s face lit with a devilish grin of cruelty.

“Good. You’ll shake on it?” He held out his hand.

Fyles shook his hand.

“Guess it’s not necessary. My word goes. You’ve got to take my word, as I’ve got to take yours. Come on. I’ve no more time to waste.”

Pete withdrew his hand. He understood. His venom against the white race was only the further increased.

“Say,” he growled, his eyes lighting with added ferocity. “That cargo is to be run down the river on Monday night about midnight. There’ll be a big rack of hay come in by trail—the river trail—and most of the gang’ll be with it. If you locate it they calculate you’ll get busy unloading to find the liquor. Meanwhile the cargo’ll slip through on the river, in a small boat. Savee? Guess there’ll be jest one feller with that boat, an’—he’ll be the feller that’s—that’s had you red coats skinned a mile all these months an’ years.”

Fyles gathered up his reins.

“Just one word,” he said coldly. “I hate a traitor worse than poison, but I’m paid to get these people. So my word goes, if your story’s true. If it isn’t—well, take my advice and get out quick, or—you won’t have time.”

Before the half-breed had time to reply Peter threw up his head, and set off at the touch of his master’s spurs.