Service was still proceeding at the Meeting House. The valley was quiet. Scarcely a sound broke the perfect peace of the Sabbath morning. The sun blazed down, a blistering fragrant heat, and the laden atmosphere of the valley suggested only the rusticity, the simple innocence of a pastoral world.

At Kate Seton’s homestead a profound quiet reigned. There was the occasional rattle of a collar chain to be heard proceeding from the barn; the clucking of a foolish hen, fussing over a well-discovered worm of plump proportions, sounded musically upon the air, and in perfect harmony with the radiant, ripening sunlight. A stupid mongrel pup stretched itself luxuriantly upon the ground in the shade of the barn, and drowsily watched the busy hens, with one eye half open. Another, evidently the brother of the former, was more actively inclined. He was snuffing at the splashes of axle “dope” on the ground beneath the wagon. He was young enough to eat, and appreciate, anything he could get his baby teeth into.

There was scarcely a sign of life about the place otherwise. The whole valley was enjoying that perfect, almost holy, calm, to be found pretty well all the world over, yielded by man to the hours of worship.

Inside the house there was greater activity. Kate Seton was in her homely parlor. She was at her desk. That Bluebeard’s chamber, which roused so much curiosity in her sister, was open. The drawers were unlocked, and Kate was sorting out papers, and collecting the loose paper money she kept there.

She was very busy and profoundly occupied. But none of her movements were hurried, or suggested anything but the simple preparations of one about to leave home.

Her work did not take her long. All the loose money was collected into a pocketbook, bearing her initials in silver on its outer cover. This she bestowed in the bosom of her dress. Then, very deliberately, she tore up a lot of letters and loose papers, thrust them in the cookstove, and watched them burn in the fragment of fire smouldering there. Next she passed across to the wall where her loaded revolvers were hanging, and took one of them from its nail. Then, with an air of perfect calm and assurance, she passed out of the room to her bedroom, where a grip lay open on the simple white coverlet of her bed.

Her packing was proceeded with leisurely. Yet the precision of her movements and the certainty with which she understood her needs made the process rapid.

Everything was completed. The grip was full to overflowing. She stood looking at it speculatively. She was assuring herself that nothing was forgotten for her few days’ sojourn away from home.

In the midst of her contemplation she abruptly raised her eyes to the window and inclined her head in an attitude of listening. A sound had reached her, a sound which had nothing to do with the two puppies, or the hens, outside. It was a sound that brought a swift, alert expression into her handsome eyes, the look of one who belongs to a world where the unusual is generally looked upon with suspicion.

A moment later she was peering out of the window into the radiant sunlight. The sound was plainer now, and she had recognized it. It was the sound of a horse galloping, and approaching her home.

Still the doubtful questioning was in her eyes.

She left the window and passed out of the room. The next moment she was standing in the doorway at the back of the house, and in front of her stood the wagon that was to bear her to Myrtle. The slumberous pup was on its feet standing alertly defiant. Its brother was already yapping truculently in its baby fashion. The old hen had abandoned its search for more delectable provender, and had fled incontinently.

A horseman dashed up to the house. He had ignored the front door and made straight for the barn. He drew up with a jerk, and sat looking at the wagon standing there. Then, with an excited, impatient ejaculation, he flung out of the saddle.

The next moment he became aware of Kate’s presence in the doorway. With eyes alight and half-angry, half-impatient, Charlie Bryant turned upon her.

“Why have you taken this wagon, Kate?” he demanded, going to the point of his concern without preamble.

The woman drew a sharp breath. It was as though she realized that a vital moment had arrived, a moment when she must grip the situation, and use all her power of domination over the questioner.

“You’ve placed it at my disposal at all times,” she said, smiling into his excited eyes.

The man rushed on.

“Yes, yes, I know; but why have you taken it now? You say you are going to Myrtle. You don’t need it. You could ride to Myrtle—in the ordinary way. You are welcome to the wagon at all times. To anything I have. But why are you taking it now? I only found out it had gone this morning. I—” he averted his gaze—“I only happened to go over to the corral this morning—and I found it—gone.”

Quick as a shot Kate’s answer was formulated and fired at him.

“Why did you go to the corral—this morning?”

The man’s reply was slow in coming. His cheeks flushed, and it looked as though he were seeking excuse.

“I had to go there. I—needed my wagon for to-morrow’s work.”

Kate smiled. She was feeling more confident.

“For hauling your hay? Won’t it wait? You see, I can’t carry a grip on the saddle.”

Great beads of sweat were standing on Charlie’s youthful face. He raised one nervous hand and brushed it across his forehead. He cleared his throat.

“Say, why—why must you go now, Kate? What is this absurd talk I have heard? You going away because—because of that tree business? Kate, Kate, such an idea isn’t worthy of you. You going? You flying from superstition? No, no, it’s not worthy of you. Kate——” he paused. Then, with a gulp: “You can’t have the wagon. I refuse to—lend it you. I simply must have it.”

Kate was leaning against the door casing. She made no move. Her smile deepened, that was all. She understood all that lay behind the man’s desperate manner, and—she had no intention of yielding.

“If you must have it, you must,” she said, in her deep voice, so like his own. “You had better send for it, but—” her look suddenly hardened—“don’t ever speak to me again. That is all I have to say.”

The man’s determination wavered before the woman’s coldness. He looked into her dark eyes desperately. They were cold and hard. They had never looked at him like that before.

“D’you mean that, Kate?” he demanded desperately. “Do you mean that if I take that wagon you have—done with me forever? Do you?”“I meant precisely what I said.” Kate suddenly bestirred herself. The coldness in her eyes turned to anger, a swift, hot anger, to which the man was unused, and he shrank before it. “If you are sane you will leave that wagon to me. You do not want it for your haying to-morrow. Anyway, your haying excuse is far too thin for me. I know why you want it. If you take it I wash my hands of you entirely. You must choose now between these things, once and for all. I am in no trifling mood. You must choose now—at once. And your choice must stand for all time.”

Kate watched the effect of every word she spoke, and she knew, long before she finished speaking, she was to have her way. It was always so. This man had no power to refuse her anything. It was only in her absence, when his weakness overwhelmed him, that her influence lost power over him.

All the excitement had died out of his eyes. Anger gave way to despair, decision to weakness and yielding. And through it all a great despair and hopelessness sounded in his voice.

“Oh, Kate,” he cried, “I can’t believe this is you—I can’t—I can’t. You are cruel—crueller than ever I would have believed. You know why I want to keep the wagon just now. I implore you not to do this thing. I will do most anything else you ask me, but—leave that wagon.”

Kate shook her head in cold decision.

“My mind is quite made up,” she said. “There is nothing more to be said. You must choose here—and now.”

The man hesitated. Just for a moment a gleam of anger flashed into his eyes, but it died almost at its birth, and he made a gesture of something like despair.

“You must do as you see fit,” he said, yielding. Then, in a moment, his weakness was further displayed in an impotent obstinacy. “You must do as you see fit, and I shall do the same. My mind, too, is made up. I shall carry out the plans I have already made, and if harm comes—blame yourself.”

He turned away abruptly. He refused even to look in her direction again. He sprang into the saddle with remarkable agility and galloped off.

Charlie Bryant raced back to his house. For the moment a sort of frenzy was upon him. He flung out of the saddle, and left his horse at the veranda. He rushed into his sitting room, and, in a sort of impotent excitement and anger, he paced the floor.

He went through the little house without object or reason. At the kitchen door he stood staring out, lost in a troubled sea of racing thought. Presently he returned to the sitting room. He was about to pass out on to the veranda, but abruptly paused. With a gesture of impatient defiance he returned to his bedroom and drew a black bottle of rye whisky from beneath the mattress of his bed. Without waiting to procure a glass he withdrew the cork, and, thrusting the neck of the bottle into his mouth, took a long “pull” at the contents. After a moment he removed it, and gasped with the scorch of the powerful liquor. Then he took another long drink. Finally he replaced the cork and returned the bottle to its hiding place.

A few moments later he was on the veranda again looking out over the village with brooding eyes. For a long while he stood thus, his stimulated thought rushing madly through his brain. Then, later, he became aware of movement down there in the direction of the Meeting House. He realized that service was over. In a few moments Bill would return for the mid-day meal which was all unprepared.

With a short, hard laugh he left the veranda and mounted his patient horse. Then, at another headlong gallop, he raced down toward the village.

It was sundown the following day. A horse stood grazing in the midst of a small grass patch surrounded by a thick bush of spruce, and maple, and blue gums. A velvet twilight was gathering over all, and the sky above was melting to the softer hues of evening.

The horse hobbled about in that eager equine fashion when in the midst of a generous feed of sweet grass. Its saddle was slightly awry upon its back, and its forelegs were through the bridle reins, which trailed upon the ground. The creature seemed more than content with its lot, and the saddle disturbed it not at all.

Once or twice it looked up from its occupation. Then it went on grazing. Then, quite suddenly, it raised its head with a start, and the movement caused it to raise a foreleg caught in the trailing reins. Something was moving in the bushes.

It stood thus for some moments. Its gaze was apprehensively fixed upon the recumbent figure of a man just within the bush. The figure had rolled over, and a pair of arms were raised above its head in the act of stretching.

Presently the figure sat up and stared stupidly about it.

Charlie Bryant had awakened with a parching thirst, and a head racked and bursting with pain. It was some minutes before his faculties took in the meaning of his surroundings. Some minutes before they took in anything but the certainty of his parched throat and racking head.

He stared around him stupidly. Then, with a dazed sort of movement, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his clenched fists. After that he scrambled to his feet and stood swaying upon his aching limbs. Then he moved uncertainly out into the open. He felt stiff, and sore, and his head was aching maddeningly.

Now he beheld his horse, and the animal’s wistful eyes were steadily fixed upon him. Every moment now his mind was growing clearer. He was striving to recollect. Striving to remember what had happened. He remembered going to the saloon. Yes, he had stayed there all day. That he was certain of, for he could recall the lamps being lit—and yet now it was daylight.

For a moment his dazed condition left him puzzled. How did this come about? Then, all in a flash he understood. This must be Monday. He must have left the saloon—drunk, blind drunk. He must have ridden—where? Ah, yes, now it was all plain. He must have ridden till he fell off his horse, and then slept where he fell. Monday—Monday. He seemed to remember something about Monday. What was it—ah!

In a moment the cobwebs of his debauch began to fall from him, and he became alert. He felt ill—desperately ill—but the swift action of his brain left him no time to dwell upon it. He moved across to his horse, and set the saddle straight upon its back. Then he disentangled the reins from about its feet, and threw them over its head. The next moment he was in the saddle and riding away.

It was some moments before he could make up his mind as to his exact whereabouts. He knew he was in the valley, but——. At that instant he struck a cattle track and promptly followed it. It must lead somewhere, and, sooner or later, he knew that he would definitely locate his position.

He rode on down the track, pondering upon all that must have occurred to him. He must have slept for eighteen hours at least. He knew full well he was not likely to have left O’Brien’s until the place was closed, and now it was sundown—the next day. Sundown on Monday. He quickened his pace. His nerves were shaking, and—he wondered in what direction the river lay. He was consumed with a fierce thirst.

Suddenly his horse threw up its head and pricked its ears. Charlie sat up, startled, and peered out ahead. The next moment he had reduced his horse’s gait to a walk. He knew where he was, and—he heard a sound like a distant neigh.

In a moment he was out of the saddle. He tied his horse just inside the bush and then proceeded on foot. The old corral lay ahead of him. That corral where he usually kept his wagon, and where the old hut stood.

He moved rapidly forward, and, as he neared the clearing, he left the cattle track and took to the bush. That tell-tale sound, his horse’s pricked ears, had aroused his suspicions.

A few moments later he reached the fringe of the clearing. Keeping himself well hidden, he pressed to the very edge, and peered out from amid the bush. As he did so he breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Two horses were tied to the corral fence, and the door of the little old shack was wide open.

One of the horses he recognized as belonging to Inspector Fyles—the other didn’t matter. So he waited breathlessly, while one hand went to his coat pocket, an unconscious movement, and rested on the revolver it found there.

He had not long to wait. The sound of voices reached him presently. Then they grew louder. And presently he beheld two men appear from within the hut. Inspector Fyles came first, closely followed by a half-breed whom he recognized at once. It was Pete—Pete Clancy.

In a moment the waiting man understood. A sort of blind fury mounted to his brain and set his head swimming. Now, too, his right hand was withdrawn from his gun pocket, and the weapon was gripped tightly, and his finger was around the trigger.But the men were talking, and the watcher strained to catch their words. He felt he must know. He must know what treachery was afoot, and how far it affected——

“The game’s a pretty bright one,” Pete was saying; and the waiting man ground his teeth as he realized the swagger in the man’s tones, and the grin of triumph on his still scarred features. “Maybe it ain’t a new sort of play, but I guess it ain’t none the worse for that. Y’see, that wagon is kept here right along. It’s allers my work runnin’ it back here, and fetchin’ it along when it’s needed. That’s how I know about things here,” he added, with a jerk of the head in the direction of the hut. “It’s far enough from the village for folks not to know when it’s here or not. Then the feller runnin’ this layout keeps other things here. Y’see, when a job’s on he don’t fancy folks gettin’ to know him. So he keeps an outfit o’ stuff back in the hut there as ’ud hide up a Dago ice-cream seller. Maybe he has other uses for that shack. I ain’t wise. But that hidin’ hole I located dead easy. Guess he figgers it’s a dead secret—but it ain’t.”

Then Fyles’s voice, sharply imperious, carried to the listening man.

“Who is he?” he demanded, turning suddenly upon his companion as they reached the horses.

The grin left the half-breed’s face, and Charlie held his breath.

The half-breed halted. An ironical light possessed his discolored eyes.

“Why, the feller you’re getting to-night—in the boat.”

Fyles eyed his man sternly.

“That’s the second time you’ve answered me in that way. I’m not to be played with. Who is this man?”

A curious truculence grew in the half-breed’s face.

“I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you. Guess you’ll be askin’ me to lay hands on him for you, next. I’ve earned my freedom, and when you get these folks I’ll be square with the game. You can’t bluff me on this game. No, sir. I got the law clear. You can’t touch me for a thing. It’s up to you to get your man. I showed you the way.”

Charlie breathed again, though his fury at the miserable traitor was no less.Fyles swung himself into the saddle. He bent down, and his voice was harshly commanding.

“Maybe I can’t touch you—now,” he cried. “But see you play the game to-night. You get your free run, only if I get the man I’m after. The rest of the gang don’t count a lot, nor the liquor. It’s the boss of the gang I need. If you’ve lied to me you’ll get short shrift.”

“You’ll get him all right.”

The half-breed grinned insolently up into the officer’s face. Then Fyles rode away, and, from the moment his horse began to move until it vanished down the cattle track, the muzzle of Charlie Bryant’s gun was covering him. His impulse was homicidal. To bring this man down might be the best means of nullifying the effect of Pete’s treachery. Then, in time, he remembered that there were others to replace him, and, in all probability, they knew already the story Pete had told their chief. There was one thing certain, however, that liquor must not be run to-night.

Urgent as was the moment Charlie had not yet finished here. The moment Stanley Fyles had disappeared he turned back to the half-breed. He saw Pete take his horse and lead it on to the grass some distance from the corral fence, and his gun held him covered. Then he watched him go back to the hut and carefully close the door. After that he watched him disturb his own footmarks and those of the policeman in the neighborhood of the doorway.

Charlie moved. The bushes parted, and he made his way into the open. The half-breed’s back was turned. Then, quite suddenly, a deep, harsh challenge rang out, breaking up entirely the sylvan peace.

“You damned traitor!”

With a leap the half-breed swung about. As he did so the gleaming barrel of his gun flashed with a sharp report. A bullet whistled through Charlie Bryant’s hat, another tore its way through the sleeve of his jacket. But before a third could find a vital spot in his body his own gun spat out certain death. The half-breed flung up his hands, and, with a sharp oath, his knees crumpled up under him, and he fell in a heap on the ground.

His face livid with passion, Charlie hurried across the intervening space. For one moment he stood gazing down upon the fallen man. Then he aimed a kick of spurning at the dead man’s body and moved away.

It was some minutes before he left the precincts of the old corral with its evil history. He went into the hut and opened the secret cupboard. It was quite empty, and he closed it again. Then he passed out, and removed the saddle and bridle from the half-breed’s horse, and turned it loose. Then, after one last look of hatred and loathing at the dead man, he moved away and vanished among the trees.