The remainder of the journey was made in silence, and without further mishap. The thick of the crude trail was left behind and they got on to the well-beaten highway, trudging along at a fast gait until they came to the Snake Loop with its two roads––one leading for a mile or so along the lower shore line; the other running round Big Horn Hills.

Jim stopped at the forks.

“Say!––I’m thinking three of us had better go by one way and four of us by the other;––just in case of accidents.

“McLean, Phil and I can go the low way. You four go by the high road. We can wait for each other at the junction further on.”

The crowd split up and parted.

Jim, Phil and McLean had only got along about half a mile, when they stopped up at the sound of the fast beating of horse hoofs on the highway behind them.

They listened intently.

“Coming from Redmans,” whispered McLean.

“Run on ahead and get in among the bushes at the bend there,” shouted Jim. “I’ll keep to the road, and whoever he may be I’ll stop him as he comes up. If he tries to beat me to it,––shoot! See your ropes are O.K., Mack, for you might have to use them quick.”

The two hurried ahead and disappeared. Jim kept 177 jogging along in the middle of the road, slowly and innocently.

The clatter of the oncomer grew louder and louder, and beat faster.

A horseman came tearing along at breakneck speed. When he was some twenty paces off, Jim swung round, levelled his rifle and shouted.

“Stop! Throw up your hands! Quick!”

The horse drew back on its haunches and sprang up in fear, but the rider had it in check and held his seat. He steadied his beast and put his hands up slowly.

Jim went forward. As he drew closer he recognised the rider––Red McGregor.

“Get down!” ordered Jim, smiling grimly to himself.

McGregor seemed to recognise Langford at the same time and, thinking Jim was alone, took a chance.

His off hand lowered and he pulled a gun quickly, but a shot and a flash from the side of the road were quicker still. His arm dropped limply and he yelled in pain and surprise.

“Get down!” ordered Jim again.

“You be damned!” cried McGregor, swinging his horse round and setting spurs.

The horse sprang in response. Jim thought he was going to make it, when a lariat flew out like a long snake, poised for a second over Red’s head and, in a second more, stretched him on the roadway, half-choked.

McLean held the rope taut, while Jim and Phil ran in and secured their prisoner.

“What’n the hell’s the matter with you bunch,” gasped Red. “Can’t a man go to Vernock when he damned-well wants to?”

“Not always, Red!” answered Jim. “It isn’t always healthy to want to go to Vernock.”

“By God!––let me go and I’ll take you on one at a 178 time––two at a time if you like. You, Langford,––I’ll fix you for this anyway.”

“We’re going to fix you first, Rob Roy McGregor O!”

“I pretty near done you in last time, Langford. I’ll make good and sure next time,––you bet!”

“Oh, shut up!” exclaimed Jim, “you’re wearing your windpipe out talking.”

They half pulled McGregor and half dragged him to a nearby tree, to which they tied him securely, divesting him of his knife and other articles that they considered he might feel constrained to use.

He cursed them roundly, until Jim tied Red’s cravat round his mouth.

“Come on, boys! That’s good enough! We don’t want to take him along. If we don’t hurry up, that bunch may beat us to it yet.”

They reached the junction of the two roads without further adventure. Five minutes later, along came Morrison, Thompson, Deputy Chief Howden and Blair, with one more––an unrecognised––in their company.

“What did you catch?” asked Jim.

“Just little Stitchy Summers!” replied Howden. “We found him out for a constitutional, hoofing it for Vernock. Says he does it every morning early for the good of his health. So we brought him along.”

“We found a somnambulist, too,” said Jim, “Rob Roy McGregor. We tied him up at the roadside, in case he might wake up and hurt himself.”

“Foxy trick that all the same––one each way to make sure of one getting through!”

“Say!––you don’t suppose they’re wise?” asked Morrison.

“Sure they are!”

“But who could give the show away?”

“I’m thinking that sprained ankle of Brenchfield’s was 179 a darned lame excuse,” Jim answered. And that was all they could get out of him on the subject.

It was sufficient, however, to set all of them a-wondering. But no shadow of suspicion had ever before crossed their minds, and they soon dismissed the suggestion as one more distorted ridiculous romance from the fertile brain of Jim Langford.

The whimpering Stitchy––like most of his kind; never a hero when alone––was secured in the same way as Red had been, then the men hunters continued to the top of the hill, where, as soon as dawn came up, a good view would be had of the single road as it wound, snake-like, for half a mile on the incline.

“It is five o’clock,” remarked Jim. “With no mishaps, they should be here any time now.”

The seven men distributed themselves in the ditches and bushes––three on one side and four on the other, at intervals of ten yards, covering a distance of seventy yards in all.

As they lay there in the ditches by the roadside, the early morning air bit sharp and chilly, having a touch of frost in it––the harbinger of colder weather to come––but still retaining a dampness that searched into the marrow.

A grey light was just beginning to spear the darkness on the top of Blue Nose Mountain away to the east. A heavy blanket of cold fog completely enveloped the low-lying lands. Suddenly, the dark leaden sky seemed to break up into ten thousand sections of gloomy puff-clouds, all sailing hap-hazard inside a dome of the lightest, brightest blue. The sun, cold to look at but shining with the light of a blazing ball, rode up over the hills, sending great shafts of searchlight down the sides of the hills and filling the ghostly valley below, with its tightly-packed firs and skeleton-like pine trees, with a 180 warm, yellow mist, suggestive of luminous smoke rising from some fairy cauldron of molten gold; transforming the dead, chilly night into a crisp, living, moving, late-autumn morning.

As the mists completely melted away, Jim signalled to Phil and Phil repeated to McLean. The sign was passed along the other side as well.

Away down the roadway, at the turn between the low-lying hills, a heavy team appeared, struggling in front of a great wagon, piled high with produce of some kind. Another came into view, and still another, until eight of them, following closely on one another, crept along in what seemed to be a caterpillar movement.

As they came unsuspectingly onward, the drivers urging their horses––cheerful in the knowledge that the worst of their journey was successfully over––the silent watchers crept closer to cover, fearful that the brightening day would betray their whereabouts. But nothing untoward happened, except that a closer view of the oncomers gave out the fact that every wagon was loaded high with alfalfa, while what were looked for were wagon-loads of flour and feed.

McLean wormed his way past Phil and along to Jim.

“Dommit,––we’re fooled!” he whispered angrily.

“Deevil the fool! Get back, Mack,––get back!”

“But it’s alfalfa they’ve got. You canna risk holding them up when maybe the bunch we’re after are comin’ along hauf a mile ahin’.”

Jim bit his lip. This was something he had not reckoned on.

All at once his knowledge of Scottish History came to his aid.

“Something tells me they’re the crowd we’re after,” he answered in a low voice. “And we’ve got them––every mother’s son o’ them. Lord sake, Mack! I’m 181 surprised at ye. You a Scot and you canna remember the takin’ o’ Linlithgow Castle! What was under the hay-carts then, laddie?––what? but good, trusty highlanders. And what’s under the alfalfa now but good feed and flour that’ll show in your next Profit and Loss Account in red figures if you don’t recover it. It’s a fine trick, but it is too thin.

“Go back! Signal the others to hold them up at all costs.”

And McLean went back, bewildered but as nearly convinced as a Scot can be who has not the logical proof right under his nose.

Slowly the teams came straggling up the incline, coming nearer and nearer the men in ambush, until the latter could see clearly that every driver was a half-breed and that every man of them had a rifle across his knees. When they were well within the line, the preconcerted signal––Howden’s rifle––rang out.

Taking chances, the deputy chief sprang out into the centre of the road and shouted, covering the leader. Three men on one side and three on the other sprang up and covered six of the drivers.

Some of the half-breeds immediately threw up their hands, taken completely by surprise. But a shot, fired by one of the uncovered drivers, sang out and big McLean dropped with a bullet through his thigh.

Howden sprang on to the first wagon, knocked the driver over, kicked his rifle aside and climbed right on top of the load, bringing down the man who shot McLean as neatly as could be with his revolver.

That ended what little fight there was in the gang. The half-breeds had no chance, with their horses getting excited and their heavy loads beginning to back on them down-hill.

In a short time, they were all unarmed and secured. 182 McLean and the wounded half-breed were made comfortable on top of some alfalfa, the other seven drivers were set in front of their wagons, under guard, and the entire outfit was soon making its return trip to Vernock.

“Cheer up, Mack!” shouted Jim, by way of heartening.

“Tell me,” groaned McLean, “what is under the alfalfa?”

“Just what I told you already, Mack,––good honest flour and feed in one hundred pound sacks, which will help to swell the credit side of your next balance sheet.”

“The Lord be thankit!” he groaned. “But I wish one of them had been loaded up with King George’s Special.”

Jim shot out his tongue.

“Me too!” he answered pawkily.

They had not got very far on their journey, when a lone horseman came dashing toward them over the hill from the direction of Vernock.

It was Chief Palmer. His horse was in a lather and the Chief looked as if he had ridden hard and had been out all night to boot. He wore a crestfallen expression when he drew up alongside.

“Hullo!” he cried, with an assumption of gaiety. “Holding up the quiet farmer on the public highway? Captured the gang, eh?”

Immensely proud of himself and his achievement, Howden jumped down, intending to give his chief a full account of the capture, but Palmer seemed in no mood to listen, and told him he had better keep his story for later on, and look after his prisoners.

“You don’t seem particularly gay over it, Chief!” commented Jim.

“Why should I?” he replied. “I’ve ridden for two hours, hoping to be in time for the scrap, and you fellows beat me to it.”

The journey townward continued.

When nearing their destination, they were joined by two more horsemen, Brenchfield––his left foot heavily bound round the ankle––and one of his white ranch hands. The Mayor was surly as usual and seemed in desperation to get in touch with Chief Palmer, who obligingly dropped behind with him. As they brought up the rear, they indulged in a very earnest conversation.

When the wagons were safely harboured in the Police Yard and the thieves safely jailed under lock and key, the Chief, as if to make amends for his previous surliness, shook hands all round and congratulated the men on their coup.

“This will help to make an interesting calendar for the next Assizes, boys. I’ll be after all of you for witnesses, so don’t get on the rampage anywhere in between times.”

“I guess, Morrison, old chap,” broke in Brenchfield, “this will end the flour and feed racket for some time to come. We fellows will have a chance to make a little profit out of our businesses at last.”

“Oh, you haven’t much to worry over,” replied Morrison. “You haven’t all your eggs in one basket like I have. It is just pin-money for you, but it means bread and butter and bed for me and mine.”

Brenchfield steered his horse alongside and laid his hand sympathetically on the old man’s shoulder.

“Never mind, Morrison! It is all over now,––so here’s to better days.”

Morrison was not very responsive, and the Mayor excused himself on the plea of his ankle, his want of sleep and the further pressure of mayoral business.

“Darn it!” exclaimed Morrison to Jim and Phil, as he left them at the end of the avenue, “I used to like Brenchfield, but I don’t know what’s come over me lately with him. When he laid his hand on me a few minutes 184 ago, I felt as if a wet toad was squatting on the back of my neck.”

When they reached home, Jim did not go to his own room immediately. He followed into Phil’s and sat down on the edge of the bed as Phil commenced to get out of his clothes preparatory to having a bath.

“Well!––what did you think of it, Phil?” he asked, glad, evidently, to be alone with his comrade where he could at last express his thoughts and pent-up feelings freely.

“Pretty work!”

“What?”

“I said I thought it was pretty work. We did a clean job;––got all we went out for.”

“Like the devil we did!” shot out Jim.

“Why!––what did we forget, grouchy?”

“Everything! They’re too blamed wise for us, that bunch, and they’re too many.”

Phil stopped pulling off a sock and looked over at Jim.

“Aw, come off!” cried the other. “Let in the daylight, man! What did we get anyway?”

“We got the thieves, didn’t we?”

“Not by a jugfull! Half a dozen half-breed teamsters,––that’s all!”

“Armed and driving stolen goods!”

“Yes! I grant that, but what good is that going to do?”

“Well, Jim,––you’ve discovered the plan they have been operating for doing away with the stuff. That is something.”

“Sure!––that too, and it will end the wholesale thieving for a bit, till they find another way. It will give poor old Morrison a chance to recoup.”

“Then I guess you always expect too much, Jim. You’re never contented.”

“Why should I be;––with Brenchfield’s foreman and head-boss rotter Red McGregor, and that sneaky little devil Stitchy Summers not among the casualties.”

“But Palmer will get them, won’t he?”

“Not on your life!”

“Why not? We stopped each of them making for the gang to warn them off.”

“How are we to prove that? They might have been going anywhere. Why man!––that pair could pretty nearly nail us for unprovoked assault.”

Phil laughed.

“And they were the men who were conducting the entire steal when I fell in among them in the cellar;––but I can’t prove it.”

“You’re sure they were, Jim?”

“Of course I’m sure. Red hit me on the head with the butt-end of his quirt. I’ll get him one for it too, before I’m done.”

“And they engineered the whole affair, set the teamsters on their journey, then beat it ahead for Redmans?”

“‘Oh noble judge! O excellent young man,’” Jim quoted sarcastically.

Phil felt the thrust. He went over to the bed, tilted up Jim’s chin with his forefinger and looked straight into his mischievous eyes.

“Seeing you know so much, Jim Langford,––tell me more. What side is Brenchfield on in this affair?”

Jim grew serious all of a sudden.

“Now you’re talking!” he exclaimed, his eyes snapping angrily and his voice throwing fire. “I’ve had no darned use for that son-of-a-gun for some considerable time. He has his nose in everything. He pretty nearly bosses the whole Valley. He’s political boss, Mayor, 186 rancher, and God knows what else. If he isn’t crooked, why does he have his biggest ranch right in the thick of that Indian settlement? He has the whole of the breeds on the reservation under his thumb. He’s a party heeler, a grafter from away back, and everybody falls for him. And yet,––good Land!––if you did so much as open your mouth against him, you’d get run out of town.”

“Go on! Go on!” applauded Phil. “I like to hear you.”

“Yes!––and you’ve got the biggest grudge against him of any for something or other, or I’m not Wayward Langford. But you’re so darned tight about it.”

Phil’s applause ended abruptly.

“Thought that would stop you!” grinned Jim. “But that man, and the blindness of the so-called wise men of this wee burg make me positively sick in the stomach.

“Who’s at the back of the whole feed steal?––Brenchfield! Half-breeds didn’t make that tunnel. It is a white man’s job all through. It was all nicely done. Oh, ay! A tunnel to the three warehouses, Brenchfield’s included! Thieving right and left and Brenchfield always losing a bit––to himself––every time; just to keep up appearances; and getting richer and richer every theft until he owns about as much land and gear as Royce Pederstone does!”

“Well then, Jim;––why can’t that fertile brain of yours devise something to land him on this?”

“Weel ye may ask!” answered Jim, breaking into the Doric, “and I canna answer ye.

“We can’t prove a thing on him. He would plead absolute ignorance of the entire affair; that he had been away for weeks and only got in yesterday with Royce Pederstone, and was at the dance when it happened. Everybody would believe him and sympathise with him 187 too because of an apparent endeavour to blacken the character of a public man, a prominent citizen and a local benefactor––one who himself had lost so much by the thefts––for, mark you, Brenchfield has made much of it in his conversations.”

“Can’t Chief Palmer make the half-breeds talk? They will surely be pretty sore over the raw deal that has been handed out to them.”

“Palmer be jiggered! He is another of Brenchfield’s cronies, and is feathering his nest like the rest of them. I’ll be very much surprised if the innocent Howden isn’t fired by this time for his share in this morning’s work. I’m half sorry I dragged him into it.”

“Couldn’t a good lawyer wriggle something out of the Indians at the trial?”

“He might,––but the Indians will be darned well paid to keep their mouths shut. Believe me!––it’ll fizzle out. You watch and see!”

Jim sat quiet for a bit, then he began again.

“And that kind of animal has the nerve to want to marry little Eilie Pederstone. Oh, hell!––I’d better stop or I’ll burst a blood-vessel or something.

“Say!”

“Speak on!”

“Are you going to work after breakfast?”

“Of course!” answered Phil. “Aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Are you going to bed?”

“Not yet! This is Saturday morning, man. My usual monthly ‘Penny Horrible’ is only half finished and it has to be ready before mail time.”

Phil laughed.

“What is the name of it this month, Jim?”

“‘Two Fingered Pete’s Come-back, a Backwoods Mystery.’”

“Sounds exciting!” remarked Phil. “I think I would like to read that one. Save a copy for me, Jim, when it comes along.”

“De’il the fear! It’ll never be said that Jim Langford, alias Captain Mayne Plunkett, alias Aunt Christina, ever put anything your way that would fire you, in your rashness, to disgrace me and make a fool of yourself.”

Jim changed the subject again.

“Phil, why don’t you cut that bluffer, Brenchfield, out?”

“Me? What harm have I done, Jim?”

“That’ll do, laddie. You can’t brazen it out that way. Man, I’d give my wee pinkie to see it happen.”

“Oh, don’t talk rot!” returned Phil, serious as an owl, nevertheless pale at the lips. “What chance has an impecunious day-labourer like me with Miss Pederstone?

“Why don’t you try yourself? You’re mighty good at arranging things for your friends.”

Jim laughed.

Phil turned his head and glared at him; and Jim laughed more uproariously.

“What are you yelling your Tom-fool head off for? I don’t see anything funny about the proposition.”

“What? You can’t see anything funny in it? Gee, Phil!––but you’re dull. Eileen Pederstone hitched to Wayward Langford, booze fighter, ne’er-do-weel, good-for-nothing, never-worked-and-never-will; a-penny-a-liner; Aunt Christina and Captain Mayne Plunkett!”

He became sober again.

“Man, Phil!––I’m ashamed of you even suggesting it. I once fell in love. Don’t get anxious; it was a long time ago when I had ambitions of becoming Lord Chief Justice, or at least a High Court Judge.”

“Yes!”

“The lady and I fell out over her father. He asked me one night how much money I had in the bank. I was eighteen.

“I told him I had twenty pounds.

“‘Tuts, tuts!’ said the old fellow, who was one of those human fireworks––all fizzle and flare,––‘that isn’t enough to keep a cat.’

“‘We know it,’ I answered, speaking for both of us, ‘but we thought we might manage to run along for a while without the cat.’”

Phil laughed.

“The old chapie got angry, and the girl sacked me because I was rude to papa and flippant about the most serious thing in the world––marriage. She couldn’t see the joke. Imagine, Phil, being married to a woman that couldn’t see a joke!

“That was the very nearest I ever got. And believe me–––!

“Now you, for instance; you’re different, you’re just made for married life; you’re young, big, handsome, mannerly, sober, sometimes diligent, ambitious. You don’t smoke much, you don’t swear––not all the time––and you can chop wood and brush your own boots. You–––”

But Jim got no further. A cushion, well aimed, stopped his flow of talk.

“All right, all right! We’ll say no more. Go and have your bath! You need it. Give your soul a touch o’ soap and water when you are at it.”