The gray of dawn was slowly gladdening toward the warmer hue of day. The eastern skies lit with that pallid yellow which precedes the gold and amber of the rising sun. Somewhere, far below the horizon, the great day god was marching onward, ever onward, shedding its splendor upon a refreshed and waking world.

The valley of Leaping Creek was stirring.

Whatever the shortcomings of the citizens of Rocky Springs, morning activity was not one of them. But they knew, on this day of days, a fresh era in the history of the village was about to begin. Every man knew this. Every woman. Even every child who had power to understand anything at all.

So, as the golden light spread upward toward the vault of the eastern heavens, the spirals of smoke curled up from among the trees on the breathless air. Every cookstove in the village was lit by the unwillingly busy hands of the men-folk, while the women bedecked themselves and their offspring, as befitted the occasion and their position.

Breakfast ensued. It was not the leisurely breakfast of every day, when men required an ample foundation to sustain their daily routine of laborious indolence, but a meal at which coffee was drunk in scalding gulps, and bread and butter, and some homely preserve, replaced the more substantial fare of chops and steak, or bacon and cereals.

Then came the real business of the day. Doors opened and men looked out. Children, with big bow ties upon their heads and sashes at their waists, scuttled through, about the legs of their parents, and reached the open. Neighborly voices hailed each other with a cheery greeting, and the tone was unusual. It was the tone of those who anticipate pleasantly, or are stirred by the excitement of uncertainty.

Minutes later the footpaths and unpaved tracks lost their deserted appearance. Solitary figures and groups lounged along them. Men accompanied by their well-starched womenfolk, women striving vainly to control their legions of offspring. They all began to move abroad, and their ways were convergent. They were all moving upon a common goal, as though drawn thither by the irresistible attraction of a magnet.

From the lower reaches of the village, toward the eastern river, that better class residential quarter, where the houses, four in number, of Mrs. John Day, of Billy Unguin, of Allan Dy, and the local blacksmith were located, an extremely decorous cortege emerged. Here there was neither bustle nor levity. These were the chief folk of Rocky Springs, and their position, as examples to their brethren of lesser degree, weighed heavily upon them.

Mrs. John was the light about which all social moths fluttered. The women supporting her formed a bodyguard sufficiently impressive and substantial. The men-folk were allowed no nearer than the fringe of their bristling skirts. It was like the slow and stately progress of a swollen, vastly overfed queen bee, moving on her round of the cells to deposit her eggs. The women were the attendant bees, the men were the guarding drones, whose habits in real life in no way detracted from the analogy, while Mrs. John—well, Mrs. John would have made a fine specimen of a queen bee, except, perhaps, for the egg-laying business.

They, too, were being drawn to the magnet point, but, as the distance they had to travel was greater than that of the other villagers, they would certainly be the last to arrive. This had been well calculated by Mrs. John, who was nothing if not important. She had well seen to it that the ceremony, so shortly to take place, was on no account to begin until her august word had been given. To further insure this trifling piece of self-aggrandizement she was defraying the whole of the expenses for the demolishment of the aged landmark of the valley.

The saloonkeeper, O’Brien, coldly cynical, but eager to miss nothing of the doings of his fellow citizens, took up his position at an early hour with two of the most faithful adherents of his business house.

It was his way to observe. It was his way to watch, and read the signs going on about him. This valley, and all that belonged to it, had little enough attraction for him beyond its possibilities of profit to himself. Therefore the signs about him were at all times important. And the signs of the doings of the forthcoming day more particularly so.

Those who accompanied him were Danny Jarvis and “fighting” Mike. They were entirely after his own heart, and, perhaps, if opportunity ever chanced to offer, after his pocket as well. They accompanied him because he insisted upon it, and with a more than tacit protest. As yet they had not sufficiently slept off the fumes of their overnight indulgence in rye whisky. But O’Brien, when it suited him, was quite irresistible to his customers.

Having roused these two inebriates from their drunken slumbers on the hay in his barn with a healthy kick, he proceeded to herd them out into the daylight with a whole-hearted enthusiasm.

“Out you get, you lousy souses,” he enjoined them. “There’s a big play up at the old tree goin’ to happen right away. Guess that old crow bait, Ma Day’ll need all the youth an’ beauty o’ Rocky Springs around to get eyes on her glory. I can’t say either o’ you boys fit in with these things, but if you don’t git too near hoss soap and cold water mebbe you’ll pass for the picturesque.”After a brief interval of blasphemous upbraiding and protest, after these two men had exhausted their complimentary vocabulary on the subject of the charms of the lumber merchant’s wife, to all of which O’Brien turned a more or less deaf ear, the three set out for the scene of action, and took up an obscure position whence they could watch every detail of the proceedings without, themselves, being too closely observed.

As O’Brien looked out upon the preparations already made, and while his two friends stood chewing the silent cud of angry discontent, with a diluting of black plug tobacco, he had to admit that the moment certainly was a moment, and the scene had assumed a fascination which even contrived to take possession of his now somewhat rusty imagination.

There, in the center of all, stood the villainous old pine, clothed in all its atmosphere of unconscionable evil. It stood out quite by itself in the midst of a clearing, which had been carefully prepared. Every tree and every bush had been cut away, so that nothing should interfere with the impressive fall of the aged giant.

O’Brien studied the position closely. His eye was measuring, and he was forced to admit that the setting was impressive. More than that, he felt constrained to appreciate the imagination of Mrs. John Day. With a view to possibilities the approximate height of the tree had been taken, and a corresponding radius had been cleared of all lesser growths. This was excellent. But—and he contrived to find one objection—the old Meeting House was well within the radius. It was the preparation for its defense to which he took exception. He scorned the surrounding of lesser trees which had been left to guard it from the crushing impact should the tree fall that way. Nor was he slow to air his opinions.

He eyed the discontented features of his companions, and snorted violently.

“Say,” he cried, forcefully. “Look at that, you two bokays o’ beauty.” He pointed at the Meeting House. “There—right there. If that darnation stack o’ kindlin’ was to fall that aways, why, I guess them vegetables wouldn’t amount to a mush o’ cabbige.”

Fighting Mike deliberately spat.“An’ who in hell cares?” he snarled.

O’Brien turned on the other for a sign of interest. But Danny’s stomach was in bad case.

“Oh, hell!” he cried, and promptly turned his gaze in another direction.

O’Brien looked from one to the other, torn by feelings of pity and anger, with a desire for bodily assault uppermost.

“You sure are bright boys,” he said at last, a sort of sardonic humor getting the better of his harsher feelings.

He had no intention of having his enjoyment spoiled by what he termed “bad bile,” so he yielded his full attention to the tree itself. It certainly was a magnificent piece of Nature’s handiwork. Somehow he regretted that he had never studied it carefully before. From the tree he turned to a mild appreciation of the other preparations for its fall. Long guide ropes had been set in place, high up the vast, bare trunk. These, four of them in number, had been secured at the four points of the compass to other trees of stout growth on the fringe of the clearing. They were new ropes provided for the purpose. Then again, a heavy cable chain had been girded about the lower trunk, and to this, well out of range of the fall of the tree, were hitched two teams of heavy draught horses. It was obvious that they were to haul as the tree, steadied by the guides, began to fall.

He summed up the result of his observations for the benefit of his companions, in a pleasantly conversational manner.

“Makes a dandy picture,” he said doubtfully, “but I guess there’s a whole heap o’ things women don’t understand. Hand ’em a baby, an’ they got men beat a mile, an’ they most gener’ly don’t forget to say so. That’s all right, an’ we ain’t kickin’ a thing. Guess we ain’t yearnin’ to share that glory—none of us. But babies and fellin’ trees ain’t got a spark o’ resemblance far as I kin see, ’cep’ it is an axe is a mighty useful thing dealing with ’em when they ain’t needed. What I was comin’ to was this old sawdust bag, Ma Day’ll have a hell of a mouthful to chew when that tree gets busy. These guides ain’t a circumstance. They won’t hold nothin’. An’ I guess I don’t get a step nearer things than I am now.”

Mike gazed around on the speaker with billious scorn.

“Don’t guess that’ll hurt nothin’,” he sneered.Danny was beginning to revive.

“Ain’t you goin’ to hand the leddy compliments?” he inquired sarcastically. “You got an elegant tank o’ hot air laid on.”

O’Brien remained quite unruffled.

“She’ll hand herself all the compliments she’s yearnin’ for. Women like her can’t do without bokays, an’ they don’t care a cuss how they get ’em. Say——”

He gazed up at the tattered crest of the tree. But the immensity of its height, looking so directly up, turned him dizzy, and he was glad to bring his gaze back to the unattractive faces of his companions.

“——I’m gettin’ clear on to higher ground. You boys stop right ther’. If the old tree gets busy your ways it won’t matter nothin’. Guess your score’s overrun down at the saloon, but I lose that without a kick. You’re too bright for me.”

He turned away, and, moving up the hill, took up a fresh position.

Here he had a better view. He had abandoned the pleasure of listening to any speeches which he felt sure would be made, but his safety more than compensated him. Without the distractions of his companions’ society he was better able to concentrate his attention upon details. He observed that the tree was already sawn more than half way through, and he congratulated himself that he had not discovered it before. Also he saw a number of huge, hardwood wedges lying on the ground, and beside them two heavy wooden mauls.

Their purpose was obvious, and he wondered who were the men who would handle them. And, wondering, he cast an interested eye up at the sky with the thought of wind in his mind. The possibility of such a tragedy as the sudden rising of a breeze to upset calculations, and, incidentally, the half-sawn tree, had no effect upon him. He was out of range. Those gathering about the tree in the open were welcome to their belief in the strength of the guide ropes.

In a few moments all his interest was centered about the gathering of the villagers. He knew them all, and watched them with the keenest interest. He could hear the babel of tongues from his security. Nor could he help feeling how much these people resembled a flock of silly, curious sheep.His eyes quickly searched for those whom he felt were really the more important in the concern of the tree. Where were Charlie Bryant, and those men who were concerned in his exploits? His eyes scanned every face, and then, when his search was completed, something like excitement took possession of him.

Charlie Bryant was absent. So were his associates, Kid Blaney, Stormy Longton, Holy Dick, and Cranky Herefer. Where were Pete Clancy and Nick Devereux, Kate Seton’s hired men? They were all absent. So was Kate herself. Ah, yes, he had heard she had gone to Myrtle. Anyway, her sister, Helen, was there—with Mrs. John Day. Where was her beau—Charlie Bryant’s brother?

His excitement rose. The coincidence of these absences suggested possibilities. The possibilities brought a fresh train of thought. He suddenly realized that not a single policeman was present. This, of course, might easily be accounted for on the score of duty. But their absence, taken in conjunction with the absence of the others, certainly was remarkable.

But now the ceremony was beginning. Mrs. John Day had assumed command, and, surrounded by her select bodyguard, she was haranguing the villagers, and enjoying herself tremendously. Yes, there was no manner of doubt about her enjoyment. O’Brien’s maliciously humorous eyes watched her expression of smiling self-satisfaction, and estimated it at its true worth. Her face was very red, and her arms swung about like flails, beating the air in her efforts to carry conviction upon an indifferent audience. He felt that the glory of that moment was something she must have lived for for days, and a feeling of awful anticipation swept over him as he considered her possible verbal and physical antics at such time as the new church should be opened. He felt that it would really be necessary to take a holiday on that occasion.

However, the speech terminated, as speeches sometimes do, and a chorus of applause dutifully followed, as such choruses generally do. And now the great interest of the day was to begin.

Menfolk began to press the crowd back beyond the safety line, and two of Mrs. Day’s lumbermen, evidently sent down for the occasion by her husband from his camp, picked up the two wooden mauls. At the same time a man took his place at each guide rope.

O’Brien rubbed his hands. Now for the fun, and he thought of the old legend. He wondered which of those silly-looking sheep, gazing in open-mouthed expectation, were to be the victims of the old Indian curse. And curiously enough, hard-headed, callous as he was, O’Brien was convinced someone was to pay the penalty.

The great wedges were placed in position, and the heavy stroke of one of the mauls resounded through the valley. A second wedge was placed, and a second stroke fell. Then several strokes in swift succession, and the men stood clear, and gazed upward with measuring eye.

O’Brien, too, looked up. The tree had begun to lean, and two of the guides were straining taut. He wondered. He wondered if the men at the guides were used to the work. Now, for the first time, he realized that the crest of the tree had a vast overhang of foliage on one side, and mighty misshapen limbs. He regarded it speculatively.

Then he glanced at the lumbermen. They were still looking up at the lean of the tree. Suddenly he found himself expressing his opinions aloud, as he ominously shook his head.

“They’re raw hands, or—jest mill hands,” he muttered. “They sure ain’t sawyers.”

And again his eyes lifted to the ominous overhang.

A further scrutiny enlightened him. They were endeavoring to fell the tree so that its crest should drop somewhere on or near the trail toward the new church. This made its fall in the direction of, but to the south of, the old Meeting House. This was obviously for the purpose of simplifying haulage. Good enough—if all went well.

The lumbermen seemed satisfied and turned again to their wedges. As they did so a gleam of smiling irony began to grow in O’Brien’s eyes. He had detected a slight swing in the overhang of the crest, and the strain on the two guides was unequally distributed. The greater strain was on the wrong guide.

The swing of the tree was slightly out of its calculated direction, and inclining a degree or two nearer the direction of the Meeting House.As the heavy strokes of the mauls fell he glanced over the faces of the onlookers. What a picture of expectancy, what idiotic delight he saw there!

A crack, sharp and loud, echoed over the clearing. The double team were straining mightily on their heavy tugs. The lumbermen had stood clear. The strain on the wrong guide had increased.

O’Brien looked up. The swing had changed several more degrees, further out of its direction.

The expression of the upturned faces had changed, too. Now it was evident that others had realized what O’Brien had discovered already. Loud voices began to point it out, and the lumbermen stared stupidly upward. The tree was in the balance, and slowly moving, bearing all its crushing weight upon that single wrong guide.

There was a rapid movement near O’Brien, and Mike and Danny Jarvis joined him hurriedly.

“Say,” cried the latter, “the blamed galoots’ll bust up the whole durned shootin’ match.”

Which remark warned O’Brien that Danny had awakened to the threatening danger to the Meeting House.

“They done it,” returned O’Brien calmly, his eyes riveted upon the leaning tree.

Mike thrust his hands into the tops of his trousers.

“It sure was time to quit,” he said with satisfaction.

The saloonkeeper’s only comment was to rub his hands in a sort of malicious glee. Then in a moment, he pointed at the straining guide. “It’s got way,” he cried. “Look, she’s spinning. The rope. She’ll part in half a tick. Get it? Say, might as well try to hold a house with pure rubber, as a new rope. It’s got such a spring. It’s give the old tree way. Now it’s——. Gee!”

His final exclamation came as a terrific rending and cracking, far louder than heavy gunshots, came from the base of the tree. There was a vision of the lumbermen running clear. The next instant the straining guide parted with a report that echoed far down the valley. Then, caught by the other restraining guide, the whole tree swung around, pivoting on its base, and fell with a roar of splitting and rending, and a mighty final boom, along the whole length of the roof of the Meeting House.All O’Brien had anticipated had come to pass. Furthermore, the mush of “vegetables” surrounding the house was more than fulfilled. The vast trunk cut its way through the building, everything, like a knife passing through butter, and finally came to rest upon the ruined flooring inside.

With the final crash an awful silence prevailed. Not a voice was raised among the onlookers. The old superstitions were fully stirring. Was this the beginning of some further disaster to come? Was this the work of that old-time curse? Was this only a part of the evil connected with that tree? It was not the destruction of the house alone that filled them with awe. It was the character of the house that had been destroyed.

But in a moment the spell was broken, and O’Brien was the first to help to break it. The tree had fallen. It lay there quite still, like some great, dead, evil giant. Now his callous mind demanded to know the full extent of the damage done.

He left his post, followed closely by his companions, and ran down toward the wrecked building. With his movement a rush came from other directions among the spectators, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the ruined Meeting House was swarmed with an eager, curious throng of men and women clambering over the wreckage.

What a gladdening result for the sensation-loving minds of the callous! O’Brien and his companions were among the first to reach the scene.

There lay the fallen giant, the greater part of its colossal crest far beyond the extreme end of the demolished building. Only a few of the lower, bare branches, just beneath the foliage, had caught the house, these and the trunk. But the wreckage was complete. The walls had fallen as though they had been made of loose sand, walls that had withstood the storms of years, and the old, heavy-timbered roof was torn to shreds, and lay strewn about like matchwood.

As the eager crowd swarmed over the debris an extraordinary sight awaited them. The weight of the tree, and the falling roof timbers, had almost completely destroyed the flooring, and there, in its place, gaped an open cavity extending the length of the building. The place was undermined by one huge cellar, divided by now crushed and broken cross-supporting walls.The searching eyes of the saloonkeeper and his companions lost no detail. Nor did the prevailing astonishment at the discovery seem to concern them. With some care they clambered among the debris to add further to the discovery, if such additions were to be made. And their efforts were rewarded without stint. The all-unsuspected and unknown cellar was no simple relic of a bygone age, but displayed every sign of recent usage. Furthermore, it was stocked with more than a hundred liquor kegs, many of which were empty, but, also, many of which were full of smuggled rye whisky.

Within five minutes the entire village, from Mrs. John Day down to the youngest child, knew that the cache of the whisky-runners had been laid bare by the fall of the old pine.

The wave of sentimental superstition again broke out and fastened itself upon the minds of the people, and the miracle of it was spoken of among them with almost bated breath.

But O’Brien had no time to waste upon any such thought. He clambered round through the cellars with eyes and wits alert. And he chuckled delightedly, as, groping in the half-light among the kegs, he discovered and recognized his own markings upon many of the empty kegs.

The whole thing amused him vastly, and he dilated upon his various discoveries to those who accompanied him.

“Say, Danny, boy, don’t it beat hell?” he cried gleefully. “While all them psalm-smiters were busy to death sweepin’ the cobwebs out o’ their muddy souls upstairs, the old wash-tub o’ sins was full to the bung o’ good wholesome rye underneath ’em. Was it a bright notion? Well, I’d smile. If it don’t beat the whole blamed circus. Is there a p’liceman in the country ’ud chase up a Meetin’ House for liquor? Not on your life. That dope was as safe right there from discovery as if it was stored in the United States Treasury. Say, them guys was smart. Smart? Hell—say—what’s that?”

Excited voices were talking and calling loudly beyond the walls of the ruined building. Even amid the dark surroundings of the cellars O’Brien and his companions detected the words “police” and “patrol.”

Ready for any fresh interest forthcoming, the saloonkeeper clambered hurriedly out of the cellar with the other men close behind him. They mounted the broken walls and looked out upon the crowd.

All eyes were turned along the trail coming up from the village, and O’Brien followed the direction of their gaze. A half-spring police wagon, followed closely by a wagon, which many recognized as that of Charlie Bryant, were coming up the trail, escorted by Inspector Fyles and a patrol of police troopers. The horses were walking slowly, and as they approached a hush fell upon the crowd of spectators.

Suddenly Stanley Fyles urged his horse forward, and came on at a rapid canter. He pulled up at the ruined building and looked about him, first at the wreckage and then at the silent throng. Then, as he beheld O’Brien standing on the wall, he pointed at the ruins.

“An—accident?” he inquired sharply.

O’Brien’s eyes twinkled.

“A damn piece of foolish play by folks who orter know better,” he said. “They tried wreckin’ this durned old tree an’ succeeded in wreckin’ the soul laundry o’ this yer village. Mebbe, too, you’ll find things down under it to interest you, inspector. I don’t guess you’d be lookin’ for whisky an’ religion goin’ hand in hand, so to speak.”

The officer’s eyes were sharply questioning.

“How’s that?”

“Why, the cellars are full o’ kegs of good rye—some full, some empty. Gee, but I’d hate spilling it.”

The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coarse police blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying something of the ominous figures hidden under them.

“Say——” cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on. “Say, them—wagons—are loaded some.”

Fyles nodded.

“I was bringing ’em along to have them laid out here—in the Meeting House, before—burial.”

“Burial?”

O’Brien’s eyes opened wide. A sort of gasp went through the silent crowd of onlookers, hanging on the police officer’s words.

“Yes, it was a brush with—the runners,” Fyles said seriously. “We got them red-handed last night. It was a case of shooting, too. Two of our boys were shot up. They’re in the wagons. There’s three of the gang—dead, and the boss of it, Charlie Bryant. They’re all in the wagons. The rest are across the border by now. Guess there’ll be no more whisky run in this valley.”

The hush which followed his announcement was far more eloquent than words.

It was O’Brien whose temerity was strong enough to break it.

“That’s so,” he remarked thoughtfully. Then he sighed a world of genuine regret, and his eyes glanced along the vast timber of the old pine. “Guess the old cuss has worked out,” he went on. “No, there’ll be no more whisky-running.” Then he climbed slowly down from the wall. “I’ll have to get—moving on.”