CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XNow, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.—ScottSeven o’clock came, and the Sergeant, with a few parting instructions to old Hiram Bryan, saddled up and departed for Gallagher’s.The latter who, pipe in mouth, was seated on the steps of his shack busily splicing a hondu in a rawhide lariat, or riata, looked up at the other’s approach, and glanced curiously at the Sergeant’s unfamiliar dress and mount.“Hello,” he said waggishly. “Fancy-dress ball, eh? What’s th’ idea?”For Benton was riding the prisoner’s white horse and also wearing that gentleman’s chaps, coat, hat, and white handkerchief.Ellis grinned. “They’re expaictin’ Shorty,” he said. “Mustn’t disappoint ’em.”Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along the trail leading to Fish Creek. The evening shadows began to close in, but they dawdled, keeping a wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for voices carry far over the range on still nights.“Sergeant,” said Gallagher casually, during their progress. “’Member, it ain’t that I’m grudgin’ givin’ yu’ this bit o’ help but, d’yu’ know, I’ve often thort it kinder queer-like as yu’ don’t get ’em to give yu’ another man to help yu’ out here?”Ellis did not reply immediately. “I could,” he said presently. “But what’d be th’ use? They’d most likely send me along some gentlemanly young ‘Percy,’ just fresh up from Regina, who didn’t know his mouth from a hole in th’ ground. It ain’t no child’s play—handlin’ th’ crooked stock cases in a district like this. A man’s got to be onto his job right from th’ drop o’ th’ hat. Look how they put it over Williamson—what! He should never have come here. He should have stayed with that staff job in th’ Q.M.’s store ... never did nothin’ else since he’s bin in th’ Force. They saddled me with a peach once, I mind—when I was stationed at Goddard. He was a nice, well-meanin’ kid, all right, but all th’ same he queered two o’ th’ best cases I’ve ever had,” he ended bitterly.They rode side by side in silence awhile.“Yu’ heeled?” inquired the Sergeant quietly. And, as the other nodded, and tapped his hip significantly: “Mind, though, I ain’t anxious to have any shootin’ on this business, unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want no cursed chasin’ in th’ dark, either, with th’ chances o’ th’ hawsses comin’ down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around. I ain’t just figuredhowI’m a-goin’ to get ’em yet! Can’t tell, this stage o’ th’ game. It’ll most likely have to be somethin’ almighty sudden, yu’ can take yore oath o’ that!”Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of brush that fringed the west side of Tucker’s pasture, they struck in along the old cow trail and dismounting about thirty yards from the gate, still within the shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and awaited events.A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through a thick rift of clouds and, as their eyes became accustomed to the curious gray light that flooded everything around, objects within a certain radius stood out with surprising clearness.“Lord!” said the policeman in a low undertone, “I wish we could smoke. ’Twon’t do to chance strikin’ a match, though. Reckon they’ll foller th’ fence-line from th’ sou’west angle when theydocome. Good job Tucker ain’t got no dogs to start in yappin’. Guesshe’sdrunk an’ sleepin’ by now. Good job, too, he don’t know no more’n he does. He’d be a-runnin’ around all worked up like a flea in a mitt, with that old Mauser o’ his, an’ shootin’ at th’ moon.”“We’ll have ter look out for them hawsses o’ our’n a-whinnyin’, too,” said Gallagher anxiously. “That’s what I’m scared of.”A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly, and stretched himself.“I’m gettin’ tired o’ settin’ here,” he whispered to the other. “I’m a-goin’ out to th’ edge o’ th’ brush. If either o’ them hawsses starts in, yu’ cut th’ wind off’n him quick.” And he stole away noiselessly.He was barely away ten minutes before he came gliding back.“Here comes somebody,” he whispered. “Along from th’ sou’west angle, as I figured, too. Guess it’s them, all right. If ’tis, I reckon I’ll have to jump somethin’ hot off’n th’ brain ’bout gettin’ ’em.”With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and listened intently. Soon their eager ears caught the sound of approaching horses and the faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the gloom, they presently made out the forms of two riders slowly and cautiously traversing the cleared strip that lay between the fence and the line of brush.Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt, as yet, to dismount or open it, remained lolling on their horses and talking in low tones.“Waitin’ for Shorty,” whispered Ellis to Gallagher who, smothering a chuckle, whispered back: “Some wait!”Even in that dim light they could see that one of the riders loomed up a big, bulky shape, in contrast to his slighter-appearing companion.“That’s Big George, all right,” murmured the rancher into Benton’s ear as a low, deep bass undertone rumbled to them. “Listen ter that voice o’ his!”Ready for emergencies, they quietly watched the two dark forms and patiently waited. Their vigil was short. An unmistakable, smothered oath came to their ears. The guarded, booming growl of the bigger man, became more insistent. They saw the slighter shape dismount and, presently the “tang” of a tightly stretched barbed-wire gate being released and drawn aside sounded sharply in the stillness. The big shape, still mounted, slowly disappeared into the shadows beyond, the smaller one resuming his seat in the saddle and waiting at the opening.Feverishly the Sergeant weighed the situation. “Scotty” Robbins—and, without a doubt, it must be he—possessed an extraordinarily fast horse, he reflected. Even if hewasable, under the guise of Shorty, to range near enough to close, it was not particularly easy to pull a good rider like Scotty out of the saddle. He would be sure to raise a loud outcry at the first attempt, and thus warn Fisk. If he once got away, it would be futile to follow him in the dark.The emergency caused a wild thought to flash into Benton’s fertile brain. Why notropehim? Long years of constant practise had rendered him clever with a lariat. It was worth trying. The tumble would insure Scotty’s partial silence anyway, and Gallagher could fix the rest, leaving him free to tackle Big George, whom he knew it would be suicidal to ever call on to surrender at close range.Clutching his companion, he whispered tensely: “Now they’re split! I’ll have to nail Mister Scotty quick, before he gets a chance to make a breakaway. That roan o’ his—‘Duster’—can run anythin’ around here off’n its laigs. I’m a-goin’ to tryropin’him. Let’s have that rawhide riata o’ yores—that ‘black-jack’ o’ mine kinks. Get yore handkerchief ready, an’ run out an’ cram it into his kisser an’ choke th’ —— if he starts in to holler. Here, Barney!”—he slipped the latter a pair of handcuffs—“hold these. Keep ’em open an’ give ’em to me when I say. Now look out! Gaffle him quick when I jerk him off’n th’ perch.”Leading Shorty’s horse slowly and heedfully back through the brush, the way they had come, he mounted and, after carefully shaking out a loop to his liking in the riata, which he trailed in readiness with back-flung hand, he circled around until he reached the clear space between the fence and the brush.Suddenly his borrowed mount nickered. Scotty Robbins started nervously at the sound, but a sigh of relief escaped him as the shape of the familiar white horse became revealed to his vision.“Oh, Shorty—that yu’?” he called out, in a loud, tense undertone.There was no answer from the rider, who approached near—nearer.Suddenly. “Swis-s-s-s,” came the sibilant hiss of something through the air, and the loop of a riata flopped fairly over his head and shoulders. Taken utterly by surprise, he uttered a frightened squawk and, with a quick upward thrust of his arm, endeavored to free himself of the encumbrance. The movement was too late. That single squawk was his limit. For the other, wheeling his horse on the instant, rammed in the spurs, and the next moment there came a terrible jerk that tore his clutching hands from the saddle-horn and flung him to the ground with all the breath knocked out of his body.The startled, riderless horse gave a violent jump at the unexpected occurrence and tried to run, but the trailing lines under its feet causing its head to be yanked down severely at every step, from customary experience it soon pulled up, snorting nervously.With as much compunction as a cow-puncher who drags a calf up to the branding fire, so Ellis swiftly trailed the unfortunate Scotty towards the opening in the brush. The watchful Gallagher darted noiselessly forward and, turning him on his back, slacked off the lariat.Benton leaped down. “Quick!” he whispered fiercely. “Let’s have ’em!”Snatching the handcuffs from the other, he snipped them on Scotty’s wrists. The latter was still moaning and gasping with the shock of his fall.“Yu’ ain’t croaked him, hev yu’, Sargint?” said the rancher, in a low voice.“Nah,” snarled the policeman, in a tense whisper. “That flop’s jerked th’ wind outa him, that’s all. He’ll come to in a second an’ most likely start in to bawl, so yu’ll wanta be ready with that handkerchief. Say! that’s sure some rope-horse o’ Shorty’s—c’n turn on a dollar. See here; look! I’m a-goin’ to wait at th’ gate for George. No use for to try an’ ropehim—he’s too heavy. I’ll have to fix him some other road. He’ll be some handful, too, believe me! If I shout for yu’, leave Scotty an’ come on th’ dead run. Mind, though, I don’t want no shootin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”He turned swiftly, and was about to mount again, when a sudden thought flashed into his mind. Scotty was not wearing white chaps. They would be a “dead give away,” he reflected. At close range they would show up plainly to Fisk in that light.The next instant he had unbuckled the waist-strap and kicked them off; then, leaving Shorty’s white horse, he ran to where his late victim’s mount still stood waiting. At his sudden, hasty approach, it edged away slightly, and snorted, scenting an unfamiliar being; but, impatient, he grabbed at and caught one of its trailing lines, and the next minute was in the saddle. The stirrups were about an equal length to his own, so he felt comfortable enough on the beautiful, springy beast. Taking up its owner’s previous position at the open gate, he waited quietly.Soon there came a slowly gathering, muffled thud of many hoofs, and the shadowy blurr of a bunch of horses became visible to him as they drew near. On they came, and the leader, after suddenly stopping and snorting with puffed-out nostrils at the apparition of the rider, who remained so motionless at the side of the gate, darted through, the others speedily following, well strung out by the skilful tactics of their driver to avoid jamming at the opening.As the last horse passed through the gate, Ellis planted himself squarely in the midway, facing the rider, who was bringing up the rear. The huge form gradually loomed up nearer to him in the surrounding gloom.“H—l! what yu’ waitin’ fur, d—n yu’?” rumbled the deep, harsh, low-pitched voice. “Why didn’t yu’ head ’em off, west?”Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.“Sh-sh!” he hissed warningly.Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty’s horse fooled him completely.“What’s up?” he growled.Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free, ranged up alongside as if to have speech with the other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny swiftness, he silently and viciously struck for the angle of the big man’s jaw.The blow crashed home, and the great body went lurching sideways out of the saddle. Like a flash the Sergeant swung down off his horse and jumped for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs as he did so.His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in between the frightened, jostling horses and knocked sprawling. The next instant a huge, bear-like shape that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat, fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he writhed under that terrible grip.“Barney!” he yelled. “Oh, Bar—!”But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other’s hold shifted to his throat. With desperate efforts he fought off the choking clasp and, wriggling somehow from under his enemy’s smothering weight, scrambled with reeling brain to his feet.Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding his teeth with mad, demoniacal passion, and Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling for his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in the Berserker rage that possessed him, the Sergeant sprang at the giant rustler, hitting out with great smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent Fisk staggering back and gave him no opportunity to draw. With a snarl like a wild beast, he closed again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly conscious of Gallagher’s form and voice added to the melee.Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing trio came headlong to the ground. Suddenly, with a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his grip on Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his own throat, fell backwards; his head, meanwhile, giving curious, spasmodic jerks. Uncomprehending, but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his hands, seeking the other’s neck, encountered a rope, and he instantly realized what had happened.“Steady, Barney!” he panted. “Ease up a bit. Yu’ll choke him.”Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed to throwing and hog-tying steers, they trussed up their late formidable antagonist, winding the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and raved, with a maze of knots that left him as helpless as a child. Then, utterly spent with their exertions, they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.Gradually recovering, they regained their speech somewhat.“G—d!” said Ellis, still breathing heavily, “that’s about the worst man-handling I guess I everdidget! Here! This won’t do, lyin’ on our backs all night. Where in h—l’s them bracelets? I dropped ’em somewheres around here.” And, arising unsteadily, he began to kick amongst the short grass.With the aid of some matches the missing articles were eventually found. The two men then turned to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who was still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously, loosening one great arm at a time, they clasped the steel loops around the enormous wrists.“Should have a gun,” muttered the Sergeant. “He was a-tryin’ to draw, all right. Can’t get at it, though, while he’s on his back. Here, let’s roll him over on his face, Barney, so’s I can get at his hip-pocket.”In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting a log with a cant-hook, so the big body was heaved over into the desired position, and Ellis commenced his investigations. A smothered exclamation escaped him.“Hullo!” he said, “what’s this? Sothat’swhy I didn’t get mine, eh?”He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt of a long-barreled Colt’s .45 protruding from the rustler’s right hip-pocket. Being unscabbarded the wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton) caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become firmly fixed therein.“Eyah!” ejaculated Gallagher. “D’yu’ ever see th’ likes o’ that, now? Talk about luck—what!”Ellis carelessly spilled the shells into his hand. “How’s Scotty?” he inquired.“Oh, him?—he’s all right,” answered the rancher. “He come around while yu’ was a-waitin’ at th’ gate fur Big George, here. He started in to snivel, but I d—d soon shoved th’ handkerchief in his trap.”“Mighty good job yu’ fixed George as yu’ did,” said the Sergeant. “I didn’t wanta shoot, but I guess I’d a-had to if yu’ hadn’t come along just then. I ain’t heavy enough to rough-an’-tumble it with a bull like him. He well-nigh got me that first trip. Thank yu’, Barney. Yu’re right there with th’ goods, an’ no mistake.... I’ll never forget it.”“Aw, h—l,” said the other roughly, to hide his feeling. “’Twarn’t nothin’, Sargint. I on’y picked up th’ first thing as come handy—that riata yu’d chucked off’n Scotty. That’s all right.”A string of oaths from the recumbent Fisk aroused them.“Hey!” rumbled the growling, bass voice threateningly. “Who is yu’ fellers, anyways? What’n h—l d’yu’ think yu’re at? Yu’l....“One o’ yu’s Barney Gallagher—I know that. I’ll fix yu’ fur this, Barney!”Ellis unwound the lariat from around the big man’s legs; then, striking another match, held it to his own face.“Knowme, now?” he said. “George—I reckon I’ve got yu’! Get up, yu’ big stiff, or I’ll fixyu’!”A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request, he picked up the riata again and, dropping a loop over the rustler’s head and shoulders, drew it taut.“Yu’ go get me one o’ them hawsses, Barney,” he said quietly.Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals had halted after their first scare and were placidly feeding, and returned with Scotty’s horse. The Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata around the saddle-horn.Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in his seat with shortened leg. “Comin’?” he inquired significantly.Big George was no coward, but he was between the devil and the deep sea; for in the cold cruelty of the policeman’s tones he read aright the signs of a pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy. Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees, and awkwardly raised himself on his feet.“So,” said Ellis approvingly, “that’s better.”Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and coiled up the riata.“Get yu’ over to that openin’ in th’ brush, where yore partner is,” he continued, in an authoritative, menacing voice. “Here!—this way.” And, grasping the big man’s shoulder, he guided him over to the indicated spot.There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty. He had made no attempt to run away. Naturally a timid rogue, the rough handling that he had received had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed out of him completely. Now he whined like a frightened child, blaming Fisk for their mutual mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back, threatening him in horrid terms, so he ceased his lamentations in pure dread of the other’s dominant personality, and relapsed into shivering silence. Fisk began to raise his voice again.“What d’yu’ figure on chargin’ us with, anyways?” he snarled. “Why, yu’ ain’t got nothin’ on us! We was on’y lookin’ fur one o’ our own hawsses, as we thort might—”“George,” said the Sergeant appealingly, with up-raised, protesting hand, “don’t! Yu’ gimme a pain—honest, yu’ do. I’ll tell yu’ what I’m chargin’ yu’ both with, bein’ as yu’re from Missouri, an’ want to be shown.” And in no uncertain terms he proceeded to do so, and cautioned them.“Why didn’t yu’ call on me an’ tell me yore business, as yu’re supposed ter do?” blustered Big George in injured tones. “I’d a-come with yu’ peaceable enough. I’ll make a statement ag’in yu’ two fellers ’bout th’ way I was man-handled.”The policeman uttered a snort of ironical amusement.“‘Come peaceable’!” he echoed. “Yes, yu’d a-come peaceable enough—yu’ve shown that. I’ve got th’ marks an th’ feel o’ yore little donnies on my throat yet. I don’t bear yu’ no grudge fur that, though. Yu’ go ahead, then, with yore statement, Mister Bloomin’ Lawyer, an’ I’ll come back atyu’with a charge of ‘resisting arrest an’ assaultin’ a police-officer in th’ lawful execution of his duty,’ fur which yu’re liable to get two years extra. ‘Call on yu’ an’ tell yu’ my business’ indeed! An’ who’s to prove Ididn’t?” he queried, with an ugly laugh. “If yu’ like to call it square why, all right. But if yu’ mean actin’ dirty, I’ll act dirty, too—an’ ahead o’ yu’ at that.”The force of the other’s argument seemed to impress the big rustler considerably, and he remained silent.“I’ve got yore record from over th’ Line, George,” the Sergeant continued. “It’s sure a peach.... Five years in th’ State ‘pen’ at Huntsville, Texas. Another five in Rawlins, Wyoming. An’ three in Sante Fé, New Mexico.... ‘Call on’ a rough-neck like yu’?” he repeated. “With such a record as that? In th’ dark—at close range—with a .45 on yore hip? ‘Call on yu’! ‘—an’ bring my knittin’. What’d yu’ bin doin’ th’ whiles? Shot me dead, most likely, or made some break that’d a-forced me to shootyu’—just ’bout th’ last thing I wanted to happen. No, Mister George; for reasons yu’ll know later, yu’re worth more to me alive than dead. ‘Call on yu’!’ Not if I know it. I’d trust yu’ ’bout as much as I would a grizzly, a wolf, or a ‘diamond-back.’ Yu’ don’t get me like them two yu’ stretched down at Los Barancedes. Yep, I know all ’boutthat, too. What’s that? On’y ‘greasers’? Mebbe—but if th’ Rurales’d a-caught yu’ they’d a-surely bumped yu’ off, greasers or not. Now, see here; look,” he concluded with a harsh ring in his raised voice, “yu’ get me, once an’ for all. Yu’re a prisoner. I know my duty as a Mounted Police-Sergeant, an’ I don’t have to get arguin’ th’ point with four-flushin’, tin-horn scum like yu’. An’ mind, now, what I said about that charge goes if yu’ make one more break, talkin’ back to me.”A hasty search of the two men’s pockets, revealing nothing more dangerous than a jack-knife belonging to Scotty, he turned to Gallagher and bade him bring up the horses.“Knot th’ lines ’round th’ horns o’ George’s an’ Scotty’s,” he said, “an’ string ’em together ’bout three foot apart with yore lariat, Barney. I want yu’ to trail ’em. I’ll come on behind.”When all was in readiness he jerked out a curt order to the captives, to “Climb aboard an’ hold onta th’ jug-handle!”“’Member,” he added warningly. “I’m close behind, so don’t be so foolish as to chance anythin’. First man that does’ll get hurt—bad.”Then, and for the first time, Big George noticed the Sergeant’s mount. Speechless for the moment, he stood, pop-eyed, gaping stupidly.“Look, look!” he ejaculated to his partner in distress, “why, that’s Shorty’s—” his voice failed him.“Eyah! That’s what put th’ kibosh on me,” commiserated poor Scotty feelingly. “He must ha’ corralledhim, too, an’ th’ ——’s given us away.Musthave—who else could ha’ put this feller onta us?”Ellis, in his own saturnine fashion, chuckled grimly at this last remark. “Sure,” he said, “that’swhat. Now, yu’ fellers climb uppronto. I ain’t a-goin’ to hang around here all night.”In dismal silence they obeyed resignedly, and the grim little procession eventually reached the detachment. Wearily they dismounted, and the Sergeant drew Gallagher aside.“Yu’ go on in first Barney,” he whispered. “Light th’ lamp, an’ wake th’ old feller I told yu’ about. Tell him to go an’ camp in th’ kitchen for th’ night—I’ll bring him in some blankets, later. I don’t want them fellers to seehim.”The other, nodding silently, entered the building, and soon a light shone through the open door. Presently he came out again.“All set,” he said.The Sergeant then proceeded to usher in his prisoners and, after leg-ironing them together, with a significant gesture handed the key over to Gallagher. Seen in the light the two rustlers presented a grotesquely dissimilar appearance.Big George fully justified his soubriquet. Standing nearly six feet two, his enormous breadth of shoulder and hairy, barrel-like chest which the torn shirt revealed seemed, somehow, though, to detract from his actual height. His age might have been forty or thereabouts. On some physiognomies evil passions have imprinted their danger signals unmistakably. Fisk’s sinister countenance, with its somber, desperate eyes and bushy tangle of coal-black beard which hid, one instinctively guessed, a cruel mouth and a terrible, animal-like jaw, might to many imaginations have found its prototype in the ruthless visage of a moss-trooping cattle-reiver of the Middle Ages captured, perchance, in some Border night foray.In strange comparison tohisformidable personality, a comparison which might have been likened to that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly bear, stood alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty. He had sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and a large, loose-lipped mouth with a receding chin. It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly weak face and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the truth of old Hiram Bryan’s previous assertion: “Th’ young chap seems ter do as he tells him.”Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but keeping a wary eye on Big George, removed the handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to relieve them of all their belongings, which he placed in separate bags that were specially made for that purpose, and numbered. Then, after making out an itemized list for each, he began to—ostentatiously—count out their money. Each of the men possessed a small quantity, and this he put in a couple of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside. Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the performance with curious interest. He had an inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating himself, beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled together, they awkwardly obeyed. He chose Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills and silver belonging to that individual.“Eight dollars and sixty-five cents,” he concluded. “That correct?” Scotty nodded. “All right, then,” said Ellis, licking up the envelope and pushing over a pen. “Look over that list an’ see ’f it’s O. K. before yu’ sign for it.”Scotty glanced through the items and nervously affixed his signature. The same procedure was gone through with Fisk. As the latter finished signing, the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards him and, extracting a folded paper from a small wallet, leisurely compared the two specimens of caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them both into his pocket and looked across the table with a sinister smile at Big George.“Mister Gordon Brown,” he murmured reflectively.The two culprits started violently, and stared with dismay at the man who had thus outwitted them once more. Fisk strove to recover himself. Over his perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless expression of duplicity.“Wha’s that?” he inquired innocently.The Sergeant’s smile vanished. His face hardened, and he began to speak, drawling out his words one by one.“I’m chargin’ yu’ both,” he said sententiously, “with stealin’ a team, wagon, an harness, valued at two hundred an’ seventy-five dollars, from one, Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th’ sixth o’ June; afterwards selling the same as your own property to one, Hiram Bryan, on th’ thirteenth o’ th’ same month.” Then followed the customary warning. “That’s all,” he finished, “an I guess it’s sure enough, too.” He eyed them a moment amidst a dead silence, and then broke out irritably:“What do th’ likes o’ yu’ want to come overthisSide for—peddling yore dirty work in a decent, law-abiding country? Why in h—l couldn’t yu’ stay where yu’ both belong? Now, get yu’ away back there an’ sit on that bench.”Apathetically they obeyed, with the hopeless resignation of men for whom life could hold no more surprises, and which, in Fisk’s case, was all the more remarkable, considering his previous belligerent attitude. It had been on the tip of the policeman’s tongue to question him as to what had become of the money thus fraudulently obtained but, on second thought, he desisted. Some lie or another would be the only result of such an inquiry, he reflected; and besides, he had warned them. Gambling, he knew, was notoriously rife at the Wharnock ranch, which was probably the true cause of its disappearance. (A correct guess, as was subsequently proved at their trial.)Ellis looked at his watch. It was just going on midnight.“Seems too bad—a-commandeering yu’ for all this work, Barney,” he said apologetically, to Gallagher.“Oh, I ain’t worryin’ none, Sargint,” the other answered. “I got that meat in all right, this mornin’; but there’s my team I’d like to turn out inter th’ pasture, a cow as should be milked, an’ some chickens I wanta leave some feed out for. I guess yu’ll be wantin’ me inter Sabbano with yu’ th’ next couple o’ days, eh?”Benton nodded. “P’r’aps it’s more’n likely somebody’ll be around in th’ mornin’,” he said hopefully. “An’ then yu’ll be able to run on down an’ do yore chores. Say, will yu’ off-saddle an’ fix up th’ hawsses? Turn them two belonging to these fellers out in th’ pasture—there won’t be room for no more when yores an’ Shorty’s is in—an’ say, Barney; bring in all th’ blankets yu’ can lay yore hands on in there.”In about half an hour the rancher returned, laden with a heavy bundle of the aforesaid articles, which Ellis shook down on the floor in the corner farthest from the door, subtracting two, however, for old Bryan in the kitchen.“Yu’ll have to bunk down here for th’ night,” he remarked curtly to the prisoners. “Yu’ might as well get down to it right away, an’ get all th’ sleep yu’ can, because it’ll be a long trip tomorrow.”Wearily they rolled their coats for pillows, and curled themselves down, dormant murder gleaming in Fisk’s somber, brooding eyes as he glanced now and again at the cell door whence issued the untroubled snores of Shorty.Benton drew Gallagher on one side. “We’ll have to do a ‘night guard’ on these fellers,” he whispered. “Guess we’ll do two hours apiece. I’ll do th’ first trick an’ hand over th’ watch to yu’ when I’m through. Yu’ go on inta my room there, an’ lie on th’ bed.”Slowly the night dragged through for the tired, haggard, unkempt watchers. After waking the Sergeant up at eight o’clock, the rancher went out and did the stable chores, and when he returned Ellis cooked breakfast for all hands—taking good care to keep Shorty and old Bryan aloof from their former acquaintances.As they were finishing the meal there came a knock at the door, and on opening it the policeman was surprised to see Pryce and two other riders outside. Benton closed the door behind him and stepped forward. The rancher seemed oppressed with a certain shamefacedness, and fidgeted nervously with his quirt.“Sargint,” he began. “I guess I kinder riled yu’ yesterday—actin’ as I did—but I was fair mad, an’ I—well, it’s that cursed temper o’ mine gets th’ better o’ me. I ask yu’ to try an’ forgit it.”“Oh, that’s all right, Pryce,” said Ellis shortly. “I’m glad yu’ve come around, anyways, as I was just figurin’ how I was goin’ to get word to yu’ to come inta Sabbano.” And in a few words he acquainted the other with an account of the previous night’s adventures.“Well, yu’ do surprise me!” exclaimed Pryce wonderingly and, with rising wrath: “Why, Big George, an’ Scotty—I always give ’em th’ run o’ my place as if they belonged there, whenever they come a-ridin’ around. Why! come to think o’ it, three days before my outfit was stole, I ’member meetin’ up with Scotty in th’ Four-mile coulee; we was both lookin’ for strayed stock—an’ I mind tellin’ him as me an’ th’ woman figured on drivin’ inta Sabbano on th’ Thursday, an’ he asked me to bring him some Bull-Durham ’baccer from there. Guess I forgot it. Anyways, Big George, he was around about a week afterwards, an’ listen! He had th’ gall to tell th’ woman as how what a dirty deal it was to rustle a feller’s outfit, an’ what th’ parties deserved as did it. Where was them hawsses all th’ time, d’yu’ think, Sargint, before they sold ’em to th’ old man, I mean?”“Staked out in th’ bush somewheres, I guess,” said Benton. “They’ve both o’ ’em got touches o’ rope-burn around th’ fetlocks. Say, who’s yore friends, Pryce?”“Two fellers as kin swear to my outfit,” replied the rancher. “I brought ’em around to see it.” And, turning, he introduced the men to the Sergeant.“Well, put yore hawsses up an’ come on in,” said Ellis. “Don’t yu’ get a-talkin’ to th’ prisoners mind, though,” he added. “Least said, soonest mended. We figure on pullin’ out in ’bout an hour’s time.”A clatter of wheels disturbed them and, turning, they beheld a wagon and team approaching, driven by none other than old Bob Tucker. There was something irresistibly funny in the excited motions of the dissipated, elderly Jehu, as he urged his team forward with an unending string of Afrikander expletives, which made them all burst out laughing.“Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ké!” he bawled.The policeman stepped forward and held up his hand as the sweating horses drew near.“Wana!” he shouted. “Wacht-een-bietje!What’s bitin’ yu’ now, Dad?”Tucker was tremulous and incoherent, but by degrees he managed to impart the somewhat belated news that “’is ’orses ’ad bin let aht of ’is field” during the night, and that “’e ’ad fahnd ’em abaht free mile sou’west from ’is plice.”“Yu better let ’em stay out now, too,” said the Sergeant. And he told the old man everything. “Yu needn’t be scared of yore bunch no more now. What! Yu’ didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night? Why, I reckon we made ’bout as much racket amongst us as yu’ do a-shovin’ yore old team along. I guess ‘Johnny Burke’ putyu’to sleep, all right. Yu’d betteroutspan, now yu’ve got here, an’ turn yore team out in my pasture. We’ll want yu’ along with us in Sabbano as a witness. Yu’ can come back with Barney Gallagher on Shorty’s hawss. Yu’ can ridehim, all right—he’s quiet.”Fisk looked up brazenly at the new-comers as they entered, but Scotty remained with downcast eyes, in nervous trepidation as Ellis and his visitors, withdrawing into a corner, commenced to converse in low tones. Seeing the re-enforcements, Gallagher slipped away and departed to his ranch. When he returned, he found Pryce’s wagon and team standing outside the detachment, with old Hiram Bryan occupying the driver’s seat and Tucker alongside him.Putting the stable-blankets and some hay in the bottom of the box, the Sergeant led forth the handcuffed and shackled Fisk and Robbins, and assisted them into the wagon. Shorty, for obvious reasons, he placed on the former’s own horse, which was led by Gallagher. A wise precaution, considering the glances of deadly hatred which, from time to time, were exchanged between the former and Big George, each still firmly believing the other to have turned traitor. Ellis brought up the rear on the buckskin, with Shorty’s rifle in a carbine sling at the saddle-horn.It was a long, monotonous trip, but nothing untoward happened. To avoid stopping anywhere for dinner, the Sergeant had previously put in the wagon a big pack of cooked food and a jar of water; so, halting mid-day, they ate a meal and then, resuming their journey, arrived in Sabbano about sundown. Tired and dusty, they eventually drew up at the detachment.Sergeant Churchill surveyed the party with astonishment.“Hello! Where you klatch-um?” he inquired jocosely.“Klatch-um allee same Chellee Kleek,” responded Ellis. “Give us a hand, Churchill, an’ let’s get ’em inside. Cloakey an’ Wardle—them two J.P.’s of yours—are they both in town?”“Billy Cloakey is,” answered the other. “But Old John Wardle went away to th’ coast a couple o’ days ago, for a holiday. Don’t knowwhenhe’ll be back. What’s up? Want ’em to hold a prelim’?”“Yes,” said Benton thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll go an’ wire the O.C. just now, to send one o’ the inspectors down by the mornin’ train.”As the nine-thirty west-bound train drew up at the little station next morning Benton, who was on the platform awaiting it expectantly, stepped forward and saluted a tallish, blond man, dressed in the dark-blue serge uniform of an inspector.“Well, Sergeant,” greeted the latter, “you’ve been doing great business, I hear? But I can’t forget you’re the disturber of my rest, all the same,” he added, with a wry smile. “Aren’t there any local J.P.’s around here who could have handled these cases?”Ellis grinned back apologetically. “Sorry to have had to drag you out of bed so early, sir,” he said. “Yes, there are a couple of resident J.P.’s here. Wardle, who runs a general store and the post-office, and Cloakey, a real estate man. Wardle’s away at the coast just now, so I was forced to wire for you. Cloakey’s here, though, to sit with you on these cases. Two of the men I’ve arrested are particularly tough, and I was anxious to get them into the Post by tonight’s train, if possible.”They turned away from the station, and commenced to walk slowly up the main street.“Have they engaged counsel?” pursued Inspector Darby. “I didn’t see any one on the train I knew, coming up.”“No, sir,” answered the Sergeant. “I asked them all, individually, last night, before I wired to the O.C., but none of them seemed inclined to want a lawyer when I explained that this was merely the preliminary trial. It was the same about witnesses before we left Cherry Creek. Fisk, the ringleader, starting in to bluff that: ‘They’d have all the “mouthpieces”andwitnesses they wanted, when therealtrial came off’; so I didn’t bother with them any further. But, as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t see how they possibly could have any witnesses at all. They’ve taken pretty good care ofthatin the crooked work they’ve been carrying on. This is Mr. Cloakey coming down the street now. I don’t think you’ve ever met him, have you, sir?”The Inspector replied in the negative, as he gazed with well-bred curiosity at his prospective associate on the magisterial bench, who was just then drawing abreast of them. He beheld a big, cheery-faced, somewhat corpulent, man nearing middle age, who grasped his hand with genial warmth, as the Sergeant, with easy deference, introduced him. A few civilities were exchanged, and Ellis led the way to the detachment which, on entering, he perceived to have suddenly assumed an unwontedly tidy appearance. After hurriedly gathering his witnesses, he formally opened the court, and the preliminary inquiry began.Shorty’s case was taken first, the local sergeant guarding the other two in an inner room, so as to be out of hearing. A sullen plea of “Not guilty” was entered to the first and second charges. “Guilty” to the third—that of “Having a weapon on his person when arrested.” Dealt with summarily on this minor offense, he was given the option of paying a fine or the alternative of a short term of imprisonment with hard labor. He chose the latter.The two principal charges—“Cattle stealing,” and “Conspiring to commit an indictable offense”—were next proceeded with. Ellis, after being sworn, gave his evidence, the strange nature of which—in the former charge—relaxed even the imperturbable Inspector’s judicial calm, as he and his colleague listened with unconcealed interest to the coyote episode, and viewed the half-chewed brand which the Sergeant fitted into the cut-out in the hide. Benton’s testimony in both cases being largely corroborated by Gallagher, Shorty was duly committed to stand his trial at the next sitting of the Supreme Court.The case against Fisk and Robbins was much more protracted and tedious. Charged jointly, they entered a similar plea to their confederate on each indictment. From time to time, during the proceedings, the Inspector’s casual glance flickered curiously from Big George’s battered physiognomy to the bruised face and scratched throat of the Sergeant. But he was a wily, old, experienced officer and, as neither side appeared anxious to enlighten him, he drew his own conclusions and wisely refrained from comment. Adjourning for lunch, and also to view the alleged stolen team and wagon, the hearing was resumed again in the afternoon, and eventually the two rustlers were committed.Ellis then drew the attention of the Court to the case of old Hiram Bryan, who had shakily given his evidence during the trial. All huddled up, the aged, decrepit man sat there in silence, his wistful gaze wandering from face to face.“Your Worships,” he said, “in the absence of all proof of complicity, I have detained this man merely under a ‘vagrancy’ charge, so as to insure his appearance in this court as an all-important witness.”The two justices of the peace nodded understandingly. A whispered colloquy ensued between them, then they turned and gazed thoughtfully at the bowed figure of the broken man who was awaiting their will with the apathetic resignation peculiar to the aged. Inspector Darby, leaning forward, chin resting in hand, presently broke the silence.“Sergeant Benton,” he said, with a slight note of irresolution in his voice, “taking into consideration the somewhat cruel position that circumstances have placed this man in, it is not, of course, our intention to press that charge against him. But you no doubt realize that it is of vital importance to this last case that his evidence be forthcoming at the Supreme Court.”Ellis bowed his head in assent. He was prepared for this emergency that he had foreseen from the beginning.“Your Worships,” he said, in quiet, convincing tones, “if you see fit to discharge the accused I will hold myself personally responsible for his appearance when this case comes up at the next Sessions.”His superior turned again to his fellow justice, and they conferred awhile in low tones. This consultation ending, the Inspector faced round once more.“All right, Sergeant,” he said.Ellis motioned to the old man to stand up. Dully and awkwardly though the order was obeyed, the venerable face was not devoid of a certain dignity as its owner raised a pair of honest eyes and gazed back unflinchingly at his judges. The Inspector cleared his throat.“There has been no evidence adduced in this case to prove that you had any knowledge of these men’s alleged criminal actions and intent,” he said, in his even, passionless tones. “Rather, it seems that you have been their unfortunate victim, for which you have this Court’s sympathy. This charge of ‘vagrancy’ against you will be dismissed ... but you understand that your evidence will be required again when the Supreme Court sits.”The old man gazed at him vacantly, and the Sergeant opened the door.“All right, Bryan,” he said; “you can go. I want to see you later, though.”And, clutching his hat in his trembling old hands, the other tottered slowly out.Pryce arose. “Your Worships,” he began imploringly, “how ’bout me team an’ wagon? Is there any chance of me bein’ able to take ’em back with me? I’ve got a tur’ble pile o’ work to do, an’ I need ’em bad.”The Inspector contemplated the rancher’s anxious face thoughtfully a moment or two before replying.“Why, yes, Mr. Pryce,” he answered slowly, eyeing his confrère, who nodded his concurrence to this request. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But you will have to sign a document undertaking to produce them, if required, when this case comes up at the next Sessions, you understand.”All business being now at an end, the Sergeant formally closed the court, Inspector Darby and the congenial Mr. Cloakey departing to the hotel, and Ellis to the depot freight office with Pryce to make inquiries respecting the arrival of some police stores that were overdue. Finding that the latter had come, he arranged with the rancher to haul them out to the Cherry Creek detachment on his return trip.With this and various other small duties the time passed rapidly, and twilight was descending when the Sergeant retraced his steps up the main street on his way back to the detachment. He felt jaded and weary from lack of sleep and the strain on his physical and mental powers during the past forty-eight hours, but a certain exultation at the thought of all that had been accomplished in that space of time buoyed him up.In the midst of his somewhat tiredly complacent reflections he became aware of a figure approaching him unsteadily along the uneven board sidewalk whom he recognized as Hiram Bryan.A sharp gust of wind suddenly deposited the latter’s ancient battered hat in the gutter and made merry sport with his venerable wisps of hair and gray beard. Stooping to recover his headgear, he lost his balance and pitched heavily forward. He struggled to his feet again with difficulty and leaned for a space, all covered with dust, up against the wall of the Chinese restaurant, his breath coming and going with wheezy asthmatical sobs.Ellis presently drew up alongside and contemplated the unlovely but pitiable spectacle with a slightly compassionate grin.“Hello, Dad,” he remarked. “Where d’yu’ get it? Been celebratin’ along with Bob Tucker, I guess. Well, old gentleman, yu’ got outa that mix-up all hunkadory, an’ I was glad of it.”But the old man only rocked perilously on his heels, regarded his interlocutor somberly awhile with liquor-blurred eyes, and resolutely held his peace.Momentarily nonplussed at the other’s silence, the Sergeant continued in tones half playful, half serious:“Come, old Kafoozleum; yu’ ain’t very grateful, it seems. Life an’ liberty’s somethin’, anyhow, an’ it’s more than teams an’ wagons—or booze. For now, see here; look! This is th’ straight goods—if yu’d ever gone up in th’ Ghost River bush, along with them two fellers, either yu’ or th’ nitchie, they’d a-seen to it as neither o’ yu’ come out of it alive again to, perhaps, get a-talkin’ afterwards. Yu’ can take yore oath o’that.”“An’ I hadn’t bin diddled out o’ me outfit,” piped old Bryan doggedly, with the hopeless, unreasoning obstinacy of the aged. “I’d a-bin away from yu’ all—a-livin’ quiet on some little ol’ homestead. But—yu’ corralled me team an’ wagon, lad. I’m little better’n a hobo now.”Surprise, not unmixed with amusement at this somewhat illogical outburst, rendered Ellis speech- less for the moment.“But theywasn’tyore team an’ wagon, Dad,” he said. “Th’ Law—” And then he stopped, recognizing the absurdity of ever attempting to argue under such conditions. A great pity, though, for the old, broken man, welled up in his heart.“Here, here,” he began, not unkindly. “Don’t get a-talkin’ foolish, now, Hiram.”And his hand sought the other’s shoulder. But Bryan avoided his touch.“Nay,” he said thickly. “Let be, lad. I’m an old man, an’—an’ draw fast to homeward. I’ll soon be in a good place, God grant—an’ out o’ reach o’ all yore laws an’ contraptions. Let be, lad. Yu’ve played h—l wi’ me, amongst yu’.”The words of rough condolence died in the Sergeant’s throat. He saw, through misty eyes, the poor old derelict, fuddled with whiskey and sorrow, go shambling on his way with bowed gray head. And the sight was more than he could stand. With a few strides he overtook the aged Hiram and, in spite of his feeble resistance, gently, but firmly, turned him around.“I’ve been a-figurin’ this business out—right since we come in from Cherry Creek,” he said huskily. “Yu’re comin’ along with us on th’ train to-night, Dad, when we take them prisoners down. An’ I’m a-goin’ to get yu’ into a certain place that I know of, where yu’ll be looked after good for th’ rest o’ yore days—Father Rouleau’s Home for the aged an’ infirm. Besides—I want yu’ somewheres handy when that case comes off.”

CHAPTER XNow, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.—ScottSeven o’clock came, and the Sergeant, with a few parting instructions to old Hiram Bryan, saddled up and departed for Gallagher’s.The latter who, pipe in mouth, was seated on the steps of his shack busily splicing a hondu in a rawhide lariat, or riata, looked up at the other’s approach, and glanced curiously at the Sergeant’s unfamiliar dress and mount.“Hello,” he said waggishly. “Fancy-dress ball, eh? What’s th’ idea?”For Benton was riding the prisoner’s white horse and also wearing that gentleman’s chaps, coat, hat, and white handkerchief.Ellis grinned. “They’re expaictin’ Shorty,” he said. “Mustn’t disappoint ’em.”Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along the trail leading to Fish Creek. The evening shadows began to close in, but they dawdled, keeping a wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for voices carry far over the range on still nights.“Sergeant,” said Gallagher casually, during their progress. “’Member, it ain’t that I’m grudgin’ givin’ yu’ this bit o’ help but, d’yu’ know, I’ve often thort it kinder queer-like as yu’ don’t get ’em to give yu’ another man to help yu’ out here?”Ellis did not reply immediately. “I could,” he said presently. “But what’d be th’ use? They’d most likely send me along some gentlemanly young ‘Percy,’ just fresh up from Regina, who didn’t know his mouth from a hole in th’ ground. It ain’t no child’s play—handlin’ th’ crooked stock cases in a district like this. A man’s got to be onto his job right from th’ drop o’ th’ hat. Look how they put it over Williamson—what! He should never have come here. He should have stayed with that staff job in th’ Q.M.’s store ... never did nothin’ else since he’s bin in th’ Force. They saddled me with a peach once, I mind—when I was stationed at Goddard. He was a nice, well-meanin’ kid, all right, but all th’ same he queered two o’ th’ best cases I’ve ever had,” he ended bitterly.They rode side by side in silence awhile.“Yu’ heeled?” inquired the Sergeant quietly. And, as the other nodded, and tapped his hip significantly: “Mind, though, I ain’t anxious to have any shootin’ on this business, unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want no cursed chasin’ in th’ dark, either, with th’ chances o’ th’ hawsses comin’ down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around. I ain’t just figuredhowI’m a-goin’ to get ’em yet! Can’t tell, this stage o’ th’ game. It’ll most likely have to be somethin’ almighty sudden, yu’ can take yore oath o’ that!”Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of brush that fringed the west side of Tucker’s pasture, they struck in along the old cow trail and dismounting about thirty yards from the gate, still within the shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and awaited events.A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through a thick rift of clouds and, as their eyes became accustomed to the curious gray light that flooded everything around, objects within a certain radius stood out with surprising clearness.“Lord!” said the policeman in a low undertone, “I wish we could smoke. ’Twon’t do to chance strikin’ a match, though. Reckon they’ll foller th’ fence-line from th’ sou’west angle when theydocome. Good job Tucker ain’t got no dogs to start in yappin’. Guesshe’sdrunk an’ sleepin’ by now. Good job, too, he don’t know no more’n he does. He’d be a-runnin’ around all worked up like a flea in a mitt, with that old Mauser o’ his, an’ shootin’ at th’ moon.”“We’ll have ter look out for them hawsses o’ our’n a-whinnyin’, too,” said Gallagher anxiously. “That’s what I’m scared of.”A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly, and stretched himself.“I’m gettin’ tired o’ settin’ here,” he whispered to the other. “I’m a-goin’ out to th’ edge o’ th’ brush. If either o’ them hawsses starts in, yu’ cut th’ wind off’n him quick.” And he stole away noiselessly.He was barely away ten minutes before he came gliding back.“Here comes somebody,” he whispered. “Along from th’ sou’west angle, as I figured, too. Guess it’s them, all right. If ’tis, I reckon I’ll have to jump somethin’ hot off’n th’ brain ’bout gettin’ ’em.”With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and listened intently. Soon their eager ears caught the sound of approaching horses and the faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the gloom, they presently made out the forms of two riders slowly and cautiously traversing the cleared strip that lay between the fence and the line of brush.Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt, as yet, to dismount or open it, remained lolling on their horses and talking in low tones.“Waitin’ for Shorty,” whispered Ellis to Gallagher who, smothering a chuckle, whispered back: “Some wait!”Even in that dim light they could see that one of the riders loomed up a big, bulky shape, in contrast to his slighter-appearing companion.“That’s Big George, all right,” murmured the rancher into Benton’s ear as a low, deep bass undertone rumbled to them. “Listen ter that voice o’ his!”Ready for emergencies, they quietly watched the two dark forms and patiently waited. Their vigil was short. An unmistakable, smothered oath came to their ears. The guarded, booming growl of the bigger man, became more insistent. They saw the slighter shape dismount and, presently the “tang” of a tightly stretched barbed-wire gate being released and drawn aside sounded sharply in the stillness. The big shape, still mounted, slowly disappeared into the shadows beyond, the smaller one resuming his seat in the saddle and waiting at the opening.Feverishly the Sergeant weighed the situation. “Scotty” Robbins—and, without a doubt, it must be he—possessed an extraordinarily fast horse, he reflected. Even if hewasable, under the guise of Shorty, to range near enough to close, it was not particularly easy to pull a good rider like Scotty out of the saddle. He would be sure to raise a loud outcry at the first attempt, and thus warn Fisk. If he once got away, it would be futile to follow him in the dark.The emergency caused a wild thought to flash into Benton’s fertile brain. Why notropehim? Long years of constant practise had rendered him clever with a lariat. It was worth trying. The tumble would insure Scotty’s partial silence anyway, and Gallagher could fix the rest, leaving him free to tackle Big George, whom he knew it would be suicidal to ever call on to surrender at close range.Clutching his companion, he whispered tensely: “Now they’re split! I’ll have to nail Mister Scotty quick, before he gets a chance to make a breakaway. That roan o’ his—‘Duster’—can run anythin’ around here off’n its laigs. I’m a-goin’ to tryropin’him. Let’s have that rawhide riata o’ yores—that ‘black-jack’ o’ mine kinks. Get yore handkerchief ready, an’ run out an’ cram it into his kisser an’ choke th’ —— if he starts in to holler. Here, Barney!”—he slipped the latter a pair of handcuffs—“hold these. Keep ’em open an’ give ’em to me when I say. Now look out! Gaffle him quick when I jerk him off’n th’ perch.”Leading Shorty’s horse slowly and heedfully back through the brush, the way they had come, he mounted and, after carefully shaking out a loop to his liking in the riata, which he trailed in readiness with back-flung hand, he circled around until he reached the clear space between the fence and the brush.Suddenly his borrowed mount nickered. Scotty Robbins started nervously at the sound, but a sigh of relief escaped him as the shape of the familiar white horse became revealed to his vision.“Oh, Shorty—that yu’?” he called out, in a loud, tense undertone.There was no answer from the rider, who approached near—nearer.Suddenly. “Swis-s-s-s,” came the sibilant hiss of something through the air, and the loop of a riata flopped fairly over his head and shoulders. Taken utterly by surprise, he uttered a frightened squawk and, with a quick upward thrust of his arm, endeavored to free himself of the encumbrance. The movement was too late. That single squawk was his limit. For the other, wheeling his horse on the instant, rammed in the spurs, and the next moment there came a terrible jerk that tore his clutching hands from the saddle-horn and flung him to the ground with all the breath knocked out of his body.The startled, riderless horse gave a violent jump at the unexpected occurrence and tried to run, but the trailing lines under its feet causing its head to be yanked down severely at every step, from customary experience it soon pulled up, snorting nervously.With as much compunction as a cow-puncher who drags a calf up to the branding fire, so Ellis swiftly trailed the unfortunate Scotty towards the opening in the brush. The watchful Gallagher darted noiselessly forward and, turning him on his back, slacked off the lariat.Benton leaped down. “Quick!” he whispered fiercely. “Let’s have ’em!”Snatching the handcuffs from the other, he snipped them on Scotty’s wrists. The latter was still moaning and gasping with the shock of his fall.“Yu’ ain’t croaked him, hev yu’, Sargint?” said the rancher, in a low voice.“Nah,” snarled the policeman, in a tense whisper. “That flop’s jerked th’ wind outa him, that’s all. He’ll come to in a second an’ most likely start in to bawl, so yu’ll wanta be ready with that handkerchief. Say! that’s sure some rope-horse o’ Shorty’s—c’n turn on a dollar. See here; look! I’m a-goin’ to wait at th’ gate for George. No use for to try an’ ropehim—he’s too heavy. I’ll have to fix him some other road. He’ll be some handful, too, believe me! If I shout for yu’, leave Scotty an’ come on th’ dead run. Mind, though, I don’t want no shootin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”He turned swiftly, and was about to mount again, when a sudden thought flashed into his mind. Scotty was not wearing white chaps. They would be a “dead give away,” he reflected. At close range they would show up plainly to Fisk in that light.The next instant he had unbuckled the waist-strap and kicked them off; then, leaving Shorty’s white horse, he ran to where his late victim’s mount still stood waiting. At his sudden, hasty approach, it edged away slightly, and snorted, scenting an unfamiliar being; but, impatient, he grabbed at and caught one of its trailing lines, and the next minute was in the saddle. The stirrups were about an equal length to his own, so he felt comfortable enough on the beautiful, springy beast. Taking up its owner’s previous position at the open gate, he waited quietly.Soon there came a slowly gathering, muffled thud of many hoofs, and the shadowy blurr of a bunch of horses became visible to him as they drew near. On they came, and the leader, after suddenly stopping and snorting with puffed-out nostrils at the apparition of the rider, who remained so motionless at the side of the gate, darted through, the others speedily following, well strung out by the skilful tactics of their driver to avoid jamming at the opening.As the last horse passed through the gate, Ellis planted himself squarely in the midway, facing the rider, who was bringing up the rear. The huge form gradually loomed up nearer to him in the surrounding gloom.“H—l! what yu’ waitin’ fur, d—n yu’?” rumbled the deep, harsh, low-pitched voice. “Why didn’t yu’ head ’em off, west?”Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.“Sh-sh!” he hissed warningly.Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty’s horse fooled him completely.“What’s up?” he growled.Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free, ranged up alongside as if to have speech with the other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny swiftness, he silently and viciously struck for the angle of the big man’s jaw.The blow crashed home, and the great body went lurching sideways out of the saddle. Like a flash the Sergeant swung down off his horse and jumped for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs as he did so.His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in between the frightened, jostling horses and knocked sprawling. The next instant a huge, bear-like shape that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat, fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he writhed under that terrible grip.“Barney!” he yelled. “Oh, Bar—!”But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other’s hold shifted to his throat. With desperate efforts he fought off the choking clasp and, wriggling somehow from under his enemy’s smothering weight, scrambled with reeling brain to his feet.Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding his teeth with mad, demoniacal passion, and Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling for his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in the Berserker rage that possessed him, the Sergeant sprang at the giant rustler, hitting out with great smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent Fisk staggering back and gave him no opportunity to draw. With a snarl like a wild beast, he closed again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly conscious of Gallagher’s form and voice added to the melee.Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing trio came headlong to the ground. Suddenly, with a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his grip on Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his own throat, fell backwards; his head, meanwhile, giving curious, spasmodic jerks. Uncomprehending, but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his hands, seeking the other’s neck, encountered a rope, and he instantly realized what had happened.“Steady, Barney!” he panted. “Ease up a bit. Yu’ll choke him.”Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed to throwing and hog-tying steers, they trussed up their late formidable antagonist, winding the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and raved, with a maze of knots that left him as helpless as a child. Then, utterly spent with their exertions, they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.Gradually recovering, they regained their speech somewhat.“G—d!” said Ellis, still breathing heavily, “that’s about the worst man-handling I guess I everdidget! Here! This won’t do, lyin’ on our backs all night. Where in h—l’s them bracelets? I dropped ’em somewheres around here.” And, arising unsteadily, he began to kick amongst the short grass.With the aid of some matches the missing articles were eventually found. The two men then turned to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who was still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously, loosening one great arm at a time, they clasped the steel loops around the enormous wrists.“Should have a gun,” muttered the Sergeant. “He was a-tryin’ to draw, all right. Can’t get at it, though, while he’s on his back. Here, let’s roll him over on his face, Barney, so’s I can get at his hip-pocket.”In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting a log with a cant-hook, so the big body was heaved over into the desired position, and Ellis commenced his investigations. A smothered exclamation escaped him.“Hullo!” he said, “what’s this? Sothat’swhy I didn’t get mine, eh?”He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt of a long-barreled Colt’s .45 protruding from the rustler’s right hip-pocket. Being unscabbarded the wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton) caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become firmly fixed therein.“Eyah!” ejaculated Gallagher. “D’yu’ ever see th’ likes o’ that, now? Talk about luck—what!”Ellis carelessly spilled the shells into his hand. “How’s Scotty?” he inquired.“Oh, him?—he’s all right,” answered the rancher. “He come around while yu’ was a-waitin’ at th’ gate fur Big George, here. He started in to snivel, but I d—d soon shoved th’ handkerchief in his trap.”“Mighty good job yu’ fixed George as yu’ did,” said the Sergeant. “I didn’t wanta shoot, but I guess I’d a-had to if yu’ hadn’t come along just then. I ain’t heavy enough to rough-an’-tumble it with a bull like him. He well-nigh got me that first trip. Thank yu’, Barney. Yu’re right there with th’ goods, an’ no mistake.... I’ll never forget it.”“Aw, h—l,” said the other roughly, to hide his feeling. “’Twarn’t nothin’, Sargint. I on’y picked up th’ first thing as come handy—that riata yu’d chucked off’n Scotty. That’s all right.”A string of oaths from the recumbent Fisk aroused them.“Hey!” rumbled the growling, bass voice threateningly. “Who is yu’ fellers, anyways? What’n h—l d’yu’ think yu’re at? Yu’l....“One o’ yu’s Barney Gallagher—I know that. I’ll fix yu’ fur this, Barney!”Ellis unwound the lariat from around the big man’s legs; then, striking another match, held it to his own face.“Knowme, now?” he said. “George—I reckon I’ve got yu’! Get up, yu’ big stiff, or I’ll fixyu’!”A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request, he picked up the riata again and, dropping a loop over the rustler’s head and shoulders, drew it taut.“Yu’ go get me one o’ them hawsses, Barney,” he said quietly.Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals had halted after their first scare and were placidly feeding, and returned with Scotty’s horse. The Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata around the saddle-horn.Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in his seat with shortened leg. “Comin’?” he inquired significantly.Big George was no coward, but he was between the devil and the deep sea; for in the cold cruelty of the policeman’s tones he read aright the signs of a pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy. Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees, and awkwardly raised himself on his feet.“So,” said Ellis approvingly, “that’s better.”Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and coiled up the riata.“Get yu’ over to that openin’ in th’ brush, where yore partner is,” he continued, in an authoritative, menacing voice. “Here!—this way.” And, grasping the big man’s shoulder, he guided him over to the indicated spot.There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty. He had made no attempt to run away. Naturally a timid rogue, the rough handling that he had received had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed out of him completely. Now he whined like a frightened child, blaming Fisk for their mutual mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back, threatening him in horrid terms, so he ceased his lamentations in pure dread of the other’s dominant personality, and relapsed into shivering silence. Fisk began to raise his voice again.“What d’yu’ figure on chargin’ us with, anyways?” he snarled. “Why, yu’ ain’t got nothin’ on us! We was on’y lookin’ fur one o’ our own hawsses, as we thort might—”“George,” said the Sergeant appealingly, with up-raised, protesting hand, “don’t! Yu’ gimme a pain—honest, yu’ do. I’ll tell yu’ what I’m chargin’ yu’ both with, bein’ as yu’re from Missouri, an’ want to be shown.” And in no uncertain terms he proceeded to do so, and cautioned them.“Why didn’t yu’ call on me an’ tell me yore business, as yu’re supposed ter do?” blustered Big George in injured tones. “I’d a-come with yu’ peaceable enough. I’ll make a statement ag’in yu’ two fellers ’bout th’ way I was man-handled.”The policeman uttered a snort of ironical amusement.“‘Come peaceable’!” he echoed. “Yes, yu’d a-come peaceable enough—yu’ve shown that. I’ve got th’ marks an th’ feel o’ yore little donnies on my throat yet. I don’t bear yu’ no grudge fur that, though. Yu’ go ahead, then, with yore statement, Mister Bloomin’ Lawyer, an’ I’ll come back atyu’with a charge of ‘resisting arrest an’ assaultin’ a police-officer in th’ lawful execution of his duty,’ fur which yu’re liable to get two years extra. ‘Call on yu’ an’ tell yu’ my business’ indeed! An’ who’s to prove Ididn’t?” he queried, with an ugly laugh. “If yu’ like to call it square why, all right. But if yu’ mean actin’ dirty, I’ll act dirty, too—an’ ahead o’ yu’ at that.”The force of the other’s argument seemed to impress the big rustler considerably, and he remained silent.“I’ve got yore record from over th’ Line, George,” the Sergeant continued. “It’s sure a peach.... Five years in th’ State ‘pen’ at Huntsville, Texas. Another five in Rawlins, Wyoming. An’ three in Sante Fé, New Mexico.... ‘Call on’ a rough-neck like yu’?” he repeated. “With such a record as that? In th’ dark—at close range—with a .45 on yore hip? ‘Call on yu’! ‘—an’ bring my knittin’. What’d yu’ bin doin’ th’ whiles? Shot me dead, most likely, or made some break that’d a-forced me to shootyu’—just ’bout th’ last thing I wanted to happen. No, Mister George; for reasons yu’ll know later, yu’re worth more to me alive than dead. ‘Call on yu’!’ Not if I know it. I’d trust yu’ ’bout as much as I would a grizzly, a wolf, or a ‘diamond-back.’ Yu’ don’t get me like them two yu’ stretched down at Los Barancedes. Yep, I know all ’boutthat, too. What’s that? On’y ‘greasers’? Mebbe—but if th’ Rurales’d a-caught yu’ they’d a-surely bumped yu’ off, greasers or not. Now, see here; look,” he concluded with a harsh ring in his raised voice, “yu’ get me, once an’ for all. Yu’re a prisoner. I know my duty as a Mounted Police-Sergeant, an’ I don’t have to get arguin’ th’ point with four-flushin’, tin-horn scum like yu’. An’ mind, now, what I said about that charge goes if yu’ make one more break, talkin’ back to me.”A hasty search of the two men’s pockets, revealing nothing more dangerous than a jack-knife belonging to Scotty, he turned to Gallagher and bade him bring up the horses.“Knot th’ lines ’round th’ horns o’ George’s an’ Scotty’s,” he said, “an’ string ’em together ’bout three foot apart with yore lariat, Barney. I want yu’ to trail ’em. I’ll come on behind.”When all was in readiness he jerked out a curt order to the captives, to “Climb aboard an’ hold onta th’ jug-handle!”“’Member,” he added warningly. “I’m close behind, so don’t be so foolish as to chance anythin’. First man that does’ll get hurt—bad.”Then, and for the first time, Big George noticed the Sergeant’s mount. Speechless for the moment, he stood, pop-eyed, gaping stupidly.“Look, look!” he ejaculated to his partner in distress, “why, that’s Shorty’s—” his voice failed him.“Eyah! That’s what put th’ kibosh on me,” commiserated poor Scotty feelingly. “He must ha’ corralledhim, too, an’ th’ ——’s given us away.Musthave—who else could ha’ put this feller onta us?”Ellis, in his own saturnine fashion, chuckled grimly at this last remark. “Sure,” he said, “that’swhat. Now, yu’ fellers climb uppronto. I ain’t a-goin’ to hang around here all night.”In dismal silence they obeyed resignedly, and the grim little procession eventually reached the detachment. Wearily they dismounted, and the Sergeant drew Gallagher aside.“Yu’ go on in first Barney,” he whispered. “Light th’ lamp, an’ wake th’ old feller I told yu’ about. Tell him to go an’ camp in th’ kitchen for th’ night—I’ll bring him in some blankets, later. I don’t want them fellers to seehim.”The other, nodding silently, entered the building, and soon a light shone through the open door. Presently he came out again.“All set,” he said.The Sergeant then proceeded to usher in his prisoners and, after leg-ironing them together, with a significant gesture handed the key over to Gallagher. Seen in the light the two rustlers presented a grotesquely dissimilar appearance.Big George fully justified his soubriquet. Standing nearly six feet two, his enormous breadth of shoulder and hairy, barrel-like chest which the torn shirt revealed seemed, somehow, though, to detract from his actual height. His age might have been forty or thereabouts. On some physiognomies evil passions have imprinted their danger signals unmistakably. Fisk’s sinister countenance, with its somber, desperate eyes and bushy tangle of coal-black beard which hid, one instinctively guessed, a cruel mouth and a terrible, animal-like jaw, might to many imaginations have found its prototype in the ruthless visage of a moss-trooping cattle-reiver of the Middle Ages captured, perchance, in some Border night foray.In strange comparison tohisformidable personality, a comparison which might have been likened to that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly bear, stood alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty. He had sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and a large, loose-lipped mouth with a receding chin. It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly weak face and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the truth of old Hiram Bryan’s previous assertion: “Th’ young chap seems ter do as he tells him.”Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but keeping a wary eye on Big George, removed the handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to relieve them of all their belongings, which he placed in separate bags that were specially made for that purpose, and numbered. Then, after making out an itemized list for each, he began to—ostentatiously—count out their money. Each of the men possessed a small quantity, and this he put in a couple of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside. Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the performance with curious interest. He had an inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating himself, beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled together, they awkwardly obeyed. He chose Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills and silver belonging to that individual.“Eight dollars and sixty-five cents,” he concluded. “That correct?” Scotty nodded. “All right, then,” said Ellis, licking up the envelope and pushing over a pen. “Look over that list an’ see ’f it’s O. K. before yu’ sign for it.”Scotty glanced through the items and nervously affixed his signature. The same procedure was gone through with Fisk. As the latter finished signing, the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards him and, extracting a folded paper from a small wallet, leisurely compared the two specimens of caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them both into his pocket and looked across the table with a sinister smile at Big George.“Mister Gordon Brown,” he murmured reflectively.The two culprits started violently, and stared with dismay at the man who had thus outwitted them once more. Fisk strove to recover himself. Over his perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless expression of duplicity.“Wha’s that?” he inquired innocently.The Sergeant’s smile vanished. His face hardened, and he began to speak, drawling out his words one by one.“I’m chargin’ yu’ both,” he said sententiously, “with stealin’ a team, wagon, an harness, valued at two hundred an’ seventy-five dollars, from one, Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th’ sixth o’ June; afterwards selling the same as your own property to one, Hiram Bryan, on th’ thirteenth o’ th’ same month.” Then followed the customary warning. “That’s all,” he finished, “an I guess it’s sure enough, too.” He eyed them a moment amidst a dead silence, and then broke out irritably:“What do th’ likes o’ yu’ want to come overthisSide for—peddling yore dirty work in a decent, law-abiding country? Why in h—l couldn’t yu’ stay where yu’ both belong? Now, get yu’ away back there an’ sit on that bench.”Apathetically they obeyed, with the hopeless resignation of men for whom life could hold no more surprises, and which, in Fisk’s case, was all the more remarkable, considering his previous belligerent attitude. It had been on the tip of the policeman’s tongue to question him as to what had become of the money thus fraudulently obtained but, on second thought, he desisted. Some lie or another would be the only result of such an inquiry, he reflected; and besides, he had warned them. Gambling, he knew, was notoriously rife at the Wharnock ranch, which was probably the true cause of its disappearance. (A correct guess, as was subsequently proved at their trial.)Ellis looked at his watch. It was just going on midnight.“Seems too bad—a-commandeering yu’ for all this work, Barney,” he said apologetically, to Gallagher.“Oh, I ain’t worryin’ none, Sargint,” the other answered. “I got that meat in all right, this mornin’; but there’s my team I’d like to turn out inter th’ pasture, a cow as should be milked, an’ some chickens I wanta leave some feed out for. I guess yu’ll be wantin’ me inter Sabbano with yu’ th’ next couple o’ days, eh?”Benton nodded. “P’r’aps it’s more’n likely somebody’ll be around in th’ mornin’,” he said hopefully. “An’ then yu’ll be able to run on down an’ do yore chores. Say, will yu’ off-saddle an’ fix up th’ hawsses? Turn them two belonging to these fellers out in th’ pasture—there won’t be room for no more when yores an’ Shorty’s is in—an’ say, Barney; bring in all th’ blankets yu’ can lay yore hands on in there.”In about half an hour the rancher returned, laden with a heavy bundle of the aforesaid articles, which Ellis shook down on the floor in the corner farthest from the door, subtracting two, however, for old Bryan in the kitchen.“Yu’ll have to bunk down here for th’ night,” he remarked curtly to the prisoners. “Yu’ might as well get down to it right away, an’ get all th’ sleep yu’ can, because it’ll be a long trip tomorrow.”Wearily they rolled their coats for pillows, and curled themselves down, dormant murder gleaming in Fisk’s somber, brooding eyes as he glanced now and again at the cell door whence issued the untroubled snores of Shorty.Benton drew Gallagher on one side. “We’ll have to do a ‘night guard’ on these fellers,” he whispered. “Guess we’ll do two hours apiece. I’ll do th’ first trick an’ hand over th’ watch to yu’ when I’m through. Yu’ go on inta my room there, an’ lie on th’ bed.”Slowly the night dragged through for the tired, haggard, unkempt watchers. After waking the Sergeant up at eight o’clock, the rancher went out and did the stable chores, and when he returned Ellis cooked breakfast for all hands—taking good care to keep Shorty and old Bryan aloof from their former acquaintances.As they were finishing the meal there came a knock at the door, and on opening it the policeman was surprised to see Pryce and two other riders outside. Benton closed the door behind him and stepped forward. The rancher seemed oppressed with a certain shamefacedness, and fidgeted nervously with his quirt.“Sargint,” he began. “I guess I kinder riled yu’ yesterday—actin’ as I did—but I was fair mad, an’ I—well, it’s that cursed temper o’ mine gets th’ better o’ me. I ask yu’ to try an’ forgit it.”“Oh, that’s all right, Pryce,” said Ellis shortly. “I’m glad yu’ve come around, anyways, as I was just figurin’ how I was goin’ to get word to yu’ to come inta Sabbano.” And in a few words he acquainted the other with an account of the previous night’s adventures.“Well, yu’ do surprise me!” exclaimed Pryce wonderingly and, with rising wrath: “Why, Big George, an’ Scotty—I always give ’em th’ run o’ my place as if they belonged there, whenever they come a-ridin’ around. Why! come to think o’ it, three days before my outfit was stole, I ’member meetin’ up with Scotty in th’ Four-mile coulee; we was both lookin’ for strayed stock—an’ I mind tellin’ him as me an’ th’ woman figured on drivin’ inta Sabbano on th’ Thursday, an’ he asked me to bring him some Bull-Durham ’baccer from there. Guess I forgot it. Anyways, Big George, he was around about a week afterwards, an’ listen! He had th’ gall to tell th’ woman as how what a dirty deal it was to rustle a feller’s outfit, an’ what th’ parties deserved as did it. Where was them hawsses all th’ time, d’yu’ think, Sargint, before they sold ’em to th’ old man, I mean?”“Staked out in th’ bush somewheres, I guess,” said Benton. “They’ve both o’ ’em got touches o’ rope-burn around th’ fetlocks. Say, who’s yore friends, Pryce?”“Two fellers as kin swear to my outfit,” replied the rancher. “I brought ’em around to see it.” And, turning, he introduced the men to the Sergeant.“Well, put yore hawsses up an’ come on in,” said Ellis. “Don’t yu’ get a-talkin’ to th’ prisoners mind, though,” he added. “Least said, soonest mended. We figure on pullin’ out in ’bout an hour’s time.”A clatter of wheels disturbed them and, turning, they beheld a wagon and team approaching, driven by none other than old Bob Tucker. There was something irresistibly funny in the excited motions of the dissipated, elderly Jehu, as he urged his team forward with an unending string of Afrikander expletives, which made them all burst out laughing.“Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ké!” he bawled.The policeman stepped forward and held up his hand as the sweating horses drew near.“Wana!” he shouted. “Wacht-een-bietje!What’s bitin’ yu’ now, Dad?”Tucker was tremulous and incoherent, but by degrees he managed to impart the somewhat belated news that “’is ’orses ’ad bin let aht of ’is field” during the night, and that “’e ’ad fahnd ’em abaht free mile sou’west from ’is plice.”“Yu better let ’em stay out now, too,” said the Sergeant. And he told the old man everything. “Yu needn’t be scared of yore bunch no more now. What! Yu’ didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night? Why, I reckon we made ’bout as much racket amongst us as yu’ do a-shovin’ yore old team along. I guess ‘Johnny Burke’ putyu’to sleep, all right. Yu’d betteroutspan, now yu’ve got here, an’ turn yore team out in my pasture. We’ll want yu’ along with us in Sabbano as a witness. Yu’ can come back with Barney Gallagher on Shorty’s hawss. Yu’ can ridehim, all right—he’s quiet.”Fisk looked up brazenly at the new-comers as they entered, but Scotty remained with downcast eyes, in nervous trepidation as Ellis and his visitors, withdrawing into a corner, commenced to converse in low tones. Seeing the re-enforcements, Gallagher slipped away and departed to his ranch. When he returned, he found Pryce’s wagon and team standing outside the detachment, with old Hiram Bryan occupying the driver’s seat and Tucker alongside him.Putting the stable-blankets and some hay in the bottom of the box, the Sergeant led forth the handcuffed and shackled Fisk and Robbins, and assisted them into the wagon. Shorty, for obvious reasons, he placed on the former’s own horse, which was led by Gallagher. A wise precaution, considering the glances of deadly hatred which, from time to time, were exchanged between the former and Big George, each still firmly believing the other to have turned traitor. Ellis brought up the rear on the buckskin, with Shorty’s rifle in a carbine sling at the saddle-horn.It was a long, monotonous trip, but nothing untoward happened. To avoid stopping anywhere for dinner, the Sergeant had previously put in the wagon a big pack of cooked food and a jar of water; so, halting mid-day, they ate a meal and then, resuming their journey, arrived in Sabbano about sundown. Tired and dusty, they eventually drew up at the detachment.Sergeant Churchill surveyed the party with astonishment.“Hello! Where you klatch-um?” he inquired jocosely.“Klatch-um allee same Chellee Kleek,” responded Ellis. “Give us a hand, Churchill, an’ let’s get ’em inside. Cloakey an’ Wardle—them two J.P.’s of yours—are they both in town?”“Billy Cloakey is,” answered the other. “But Old John Wardle went away to th’ coast a couple o’ days ago, for a holiday. Don’t knowwhenhe’ll be back. What’s up? Want ’em to hold a prelim’?”“Yes,” said Benton thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll go an’ wire the O.C. just now, to send one o’ the inspectors down by the mornin’ train.”As the nine-thirty west-bound train drew up at the little station next morning Benton, who was on the platform awaiting it expectantly, stepped forward and saluted a tallish, blond man, dressed in the dark-blue serge uniform of an inspector.“Well, Sergeant,” greeted the latter, “you’ve been doing great business, I hear? But I can’t forget you’re the disturber of my rest, all the same,” he added, with a wry smile. “Aren’t there any local J.P.’s around here who could have handled these cases?”Ellis grinned back apologetically. “Sorry to have had to drag you out of bed so early, sir,” he said. “Yes, there are a couple of resident J.P.’s here. Wardle, who runs a general store and the post-office, and Cloakey, a real estate man. Wardle’s away at the coast just now, so I was forced to wire for you. Cloakey’s here, though, to sit with you on these cases. Two of the men I’ve arrested are particularly tough, and I was anxious to get them into the Post by tonight’s train, if possible.”They turned away from the station, and commenced to walk slowly up the main street.“Have they engaged counsel?” pursued Inspector Darby. “I didn’t see any one on the train I knew, coming up.”“No, sir,” answered the Sergeant. “I asked them all, individually, last night, before I wired to the O.C., but none of them seemed inclined to want a lawyer when I explained that this was merely the preliminary trial. It was the same about witnesses before we left Cherry Creek. Fisk, the ringleader, starting in to bluff that: ‘They’d have all the “mouthpieces”andwitnesses they wanted, when therealtrial came off’; so I didn’t bother with them any further. But, as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t see how they possibly could have any witnesses at all. They’ve taken pretty good care ofthatin the crooked work they’ve been carrying on. This is Mr. Cloakey coming down the street now. I don’t think you’ve ever met him, have you, sir?”The Inspector replied in the negative, as he gazed with well-bred curiosity at his prospective associate on the magisterial bench, who was just then drawing abreast of them. He beheld a big, cheery-faced, somewhat corpulent, man nearing middle age, who grasped his hand with genial warmth, as the Sergeant, with easy deference, introduced him. A few civilities were exchanged, and Ellis led the way to the detachment which, on entering, he perceived to have suddenly assumed an unwontedly tidy appearance. After hurriedly gathering his witnesses, he formally opened the court, and the preliminary inquiry began.Shorty’s case was taken first, the local sergeant guarding the other two in an inner room, so as to be out of hearing. A sullen plea of “Not guilty” was entered to the first and second charges. “Guilty” to the third—that of “Having a weapon on his person when arrested.” Dealt with summarily on this minor offense, he was given the option of paying a fine or the alternative of a short term of imprisonment with hard labor. He chose the latter.The two principal charges—“Cattle stealing,” and “Conspiring to commit an indictable offense”—were next proceeded with. Ellis, after being sworn, gave his evidence, the strange nature of which—in the former charge—relaxed even the imperturbable Inspector’s judicial calm, as he and his colleague listened with unconcealed interest to the coyote episode, and viewed the half-chewed brand which the Sergeant fitted into the cut-out in the hide. Benton’s testimony in both cases being largely corroborated by Gallagher, Shorty was duly committed to stand his trial at the next sitting of the Supreme Court.The case against Fisk and Robbins was much more protracted and tedious. Charged jointly, they entered a similar plea to their confederate on each indictment. From time to time, during the proceedings, the Inspector’s casual glance flickered curiously from Big George’s battered physiognomy to the bruised face and scratched throat of the Sergeant. But he was a wily, old, experienced officer and, as neither side appeared anxious to enlighten him, he drew his own conclusions and wisely refrained from comment. Adjourning for lunch, and also to view the alleged stolen team and wagon, the hearing was resumed again in the afternoon, and eventually the two rustlers were committed.Ellis then drew the attention of the Court to the case of old Hiram Bryan, who had shakily given his evidence during the trial. All huddled up, the aged, decrepit man sat there in silence, his wistful gaze wandering from face to face.“Your Worships,” he said, “in the absence of all proof of complicity, I have detained this man merely under a ‘vagrancy’ charge, so as to insure his appearance in this court as an all-important witness.”The two justices of the peace nodded understandingly. A whispered colloquy ensued between them, then they turned and gazed thoughtfully at the bowed figure of the broken man who was awaiting their will with the apathetic resignation peculiar to the aged. Inspector Darby, leaning forward, chin resting in hand, presently broke the silence.“Sergeant Benton,” he said, with a slight note of irresolution in his voice, “taking into consideration the somewhat cruel position that circumstances have placed this man in, it is not, of course, our intention to press that charge against him. But you no doubt realize that it is of vital importance to this last case that his evidence be forthcoming at the Supreme Court.”Ellis bowed his head in assent. He was prepared for this emergency that he had foreseen from the beginning.“Your Worships,” he said, in quiet, convincing tones, “if you see fit to discharge the accused I will hold myself personally responsible for his appearance when this case comes up at the next Sessions.”His superior turned again to his fellow justice, and they conferred awhile in low tones. This consultation ending, the Inspector faced round once more.“All right, Sergeant,” he said.Ellis motioned to the old man to stand up. Dully and awkwardly though the order was obeyed, the venerable face was not devoid of a certain dignity as its owner raised a pair of honest eyes and gazed back unflinchingly at his judges. The Inspector cleared his throat.“There has been no evidence adduced in this case to prove that you had any knowledge of these men’s alleged criminal actions and intent,” he said, in his even, passionless tones. “Rather, it seems that you have been their unfortunate victim, for which you have this Court’s sympathy. This charge of ‘vagrancy’ against you will be dismissed ... but you understand that your evidence will be required again when the Supreme Court sits.”The old man gazed at him vacantly, and the Sergeant opened the door.“All right, Bryan,” he said; “you can go. I want to see you later, though.”And, clutching his hat in his trembling old hands, the other tottered slowly out.Pryce arose. “Your Worships,” he began imploringly, “how ’bout me team an’ wagon? Is there any chance of me bein’ able to take ’em back with me? I’ve got a tur’ble pile o’ work to do, an’ I need ’em bad.”The Inspector contemplated the rancher’s anxious face thoughtfully a moment or two before replying.“Why, yes, Mr. Pryce,” he answered slowly, eyeing his confrère, who nodded his concurrence to this request. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But you will have to sign a document undertaking to produce them, if required, when this case comes up at the next Sessions, you understand.”All business being now at an end, the Sergeant formally closed the court, Inspector Darby and the congenial Mr. Cloakey departing to the hotel, and Ellis to the depot freight office with Pryce to make inquiries respecting the arrival of some police stores that were overdue. Finding that the latter had come, he arranged with the rancher to haul them out to the Cherry Creek detachment on his return trip.With this and various other small duties the time passed rapidly, and twilight was descending when the Sergeant retraced his steps up the main street on his way back to the detachment. He felt jaded and weary from lack of sleep and the strain on his physical and mental powers during the past forty-eight hours, but a certain exultation at the thought of all that had been accomplished in that space of time buoyed him up.In the midst of his somewhat tiredly complacent reflections he became aware of a figure approaching him unsteadily along the uneven board sidewalk whom he recognized as Hiram Bryan.A sharp gust of wind suddenly deposited the latter’s ancient battered hat in the gutter and made merry sport with his venerable wisps of hair and gray beard. Stooping to recover his headgear, he lost his balance and pitched heavily forward. He struggled to his feet again with difficulty and leaned for a space, all covered with dust, up against the wall of the Chinese restaurant, his breath coming and going with wheezy asthmatical sobs.Ellis presently drew up alongside and contemplated the unlovely but pitiable spectacle with a slightly compassionate grin.“Hello, Dad,” he remarked. “Where d’yu’ get it? Been celebratin’ along with Bob Tucker, I guess. Well, old gentleman, yu’ got outa that mix-up all hunkadory, an’ I was glad of it.”But the old man only rocked perilously on his heels, regarded his interlocutor somberly awhile with liquor-blurred eyes, and resolutely held his peace.Momentarily nonplussed at the other’s silence, the Sergeant continued in tones half playful, half serious:“Come, old Kafoozleum; yu’ ain’t very grateful, it seems. Life an’ liberty’s somethin’, anyhow, an’ it’s more than teams an’ wagons—or booze. For now, see here; look! This is th’ straight goods—if yu’d ever gone up in th’ Ghost River bush, along with them two fellers, either yu’ or th’ nitchie, they’d a-seen to it as neither o’ yu’ come out of it alive again to, perhaps, get a-talkin’ afterwards. Yu’ can take yore oath o’that.”“An’ I hadn’t bin diddled out o’ me outfit,” piped old Bryan doggedly, with the hopeless, unreasoning obstinacy of the aged. “I’d a-bin away from yu’ all—a-livin’ quiet on some little ol’ homestead. But—yu’ corralled me team an’ wagon, lad. I’m little better’n a hobo now.”Surprise, not unmixed with amusement at this somewhat illogical outburst, rendered Ellis speech- less for the moment.“But theywasn’tyore team an’ wagon, Dad,” he said. “Th’ Law—” And then he stopped, recognizing the absurdity of ever attempting to argue under such conditions. A great pity, though, for the old, broken man, welled up in his heart.“Here, here,” he began, not unkindly. “Don’t get a-talkin’ foolish, now, Hiram.”And his hand sought the other’s shoulder. But Bryan avoided his touch.“Nay,” he said thickly. “Let be, lad. I’m an old man, an’—an’ draw fast to homeward. I’ll soon be in a good place, God grant—an’ out o’ reach o’ all yore laws an’ contraptions. Let be, lad. Yu’ve played h—l wi’ me, amongst yu’.”The words of rough condolence died in the Sergeant’s throat. He saw, through misty eyes, the poor old derelict, fuddled with whiskey and sorrow, go shambling on his way with bowed gray head. And the sight was more than he could stand. With a few strides he overtook the aged Hiram and, in spite of his feeble resistance, gently, but firmly, turned him around.“I’ve been a-figurin’ this business out—right since we come in from Cherry Creek,” he said huskily. “Yu’re comin’ along with us on th’ train to-night, Dad, when we take them prisoners down. An’ I’m a-goin’ to get yu’ into a certain place that I know of, where yu’ll be looked after good for th’ rest o’ yore days—Father Rouleau’s Home for the aged an’ infirm. Besides—I want yu’ somewheres handy when that case comes off.”

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.—Scott

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.—Scott

Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!

No maiden’s hand is round thee thrown!

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,

Through bars of brass and triple steel!—

They tug, they strain! down, down they go,

The Gael above, Fitz-James below.

—Scott

Seven o’clock came, and the Sergeant, with a few parting instructions to old Hiram Bryan, saddled up and departed for Gallagher’s.

The latter who, pipe in mouth, was seated on the steps of his shack busily splicing a hondu in a rawhide lariat, or riata, looked up at the other’s approach, and glanced curiously at the Sergeant’s unfamiliar dress and mount.

“Hello,” he said waggishly. “Fancy-dress ball, eh? What’s th’ idea?”

For Benton was riding the prisoner’s white horse and also wearing that gentleman’s chaps, coat, hat, and white handkerchief.

Ellis grinned. “They’re expaictin’ Shorty,” he said. “Mustn’t disappoint ’em.”

Half an hour later the two men rode slowly along the trail leading to Fish Creek. The evening shadows began to close in, but they dawdled, keeping a wary look-out and talking in low, guarded tones, for voices carry far over the range on still nights.

“Sergeant,” said Gallagher casually, during their progress. “’Member, it ain’t that I’m grudgin’ givin’ yu’ this bit o’ help but, d’yu’ know, I’ve often thort it kinder queer-like as yu’ don’t get ’em to give yu’ another man to help yu’ out here?”

Ellis did not reply immediately. “I could,” he said presently. “But what’d be th’ use? They’d most likely send me along some gentlemanly young ‘Percy,’ just fresh up from Regina, who didn’t know his mouth from a hole in th’ ground. It ain’t no child’s play—handlin’ th’ crooked stock cases in a district like this. A man’s got to be onto his job right from th’ drop o’ th’ hat. Look how they put it over Williamson—what! He should never have come here. He should have stayed with that staff job in th’ Q.M.’s store ... never did nothin’ else since he’s bin in th’ Force. They saddled me with a peach once, I mind—when I was stationed at Goddard. He was a nice, well-meanin’ kid, all right, but all th’ same he queered two o’ th’ best cases I’ve ever had,” he ended bitterly.

They rode side by side in silence awhile.

“Yu’ heeled?” inquired the Sergeant quietly. And, as the other nodded, and tapped his hip significantly: “Mind, though, I ain’t anxious to have any shootin’ on this business, unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want no cursed chasin’ in th’ dark, either, with th’ chances o’ th’ hawsses comin’ down wallop, in every doggoned badger-hole around. I ain’t just figuredhowI’m a-goin’ to get ’em yet! Can’t tell, this stage o’ th’ game. It’ll most likely have to be somethin’ almighty sudden, yu’ can take yore oath o’ that!”

Arriving later at the previously mentioned line of brush that fringed the west side of Tucker’s pasture, they struck in along the old cow trail and dismounting about thirty yards from the gate, still within the shelter of the dense bush, they squatted down and awaited events.

A three-quarter moon showed itself rarely through a thick rift of clouds and, as their eyes became accustomed to the curious gray light that flooded everything around, objects within a certain radius stood out with surprising clearness.

“Lord!” said the policeman in a low undertone, “I wish we could smoke. ’Twon’t do to chance strikin’ a match, though. Reckon they’ll foller th’ fence-line from th’ sou’west angle when theydocome. Good job Tucker ain’t got no dogs to start in yappin’. Guesshe’sdrunk an’ sleepin’ by now. Good job, too, he don’t know no more’n he does. He’d be a-runnin’ around all worked up like a flea in a mitt, with that old Mauser o’ his, an’ shootin’ at th’ moon.”

“We’ll have ter look out for them hawsses o’ our’n a-whinnyin’, too,” said Gallagher anxiously. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

A slow, dreary hour passed. Ellis arose stiffly, and stretched himself.

“I’m gettin’ tired o’ settin’ here,” he whispered to the other. “I’m a-goin’ out to th’ edge o’ th’ brush. If either o’ them hawsses starts in, yu’ cut th’ wind off’n him quick.” And he stole away noiselessly.

He was barely away ten minutes before he came gliding back.

“Here comes somebody,” he whispered. “Along from th’ sou’west angle, as I figured, too. Guess it’s them, all right. If ’tis, I reckon I’ll have to jump somethin’ hot off’n th’ brain ’bout gettin’ ’em.”

With all their faculties on the stretch, they held their breaths and listened intently. Soon their eager ears caught the sound of approaching horses and the faint creak of leather. Straining their eyes in the gloom, they presently made out the forms of two riders slowly and cautiously traversing the cleared strip that lay between the fence and the line of brush.

Reaching the gate they halted, but making no attempt, as yet, to dismount or open it, remained lolling on their horses and talking in low tones.

“Waitin’ for Shorty,” whispered Ellis to Gallagher who, smothering a chuckle, whispered back: “Some wait!”

Even in that dim light they could see that one of the riders loomed up a big, bulky shape, in contrast to his slighter-appearing companion.

“That’s Big George, all right,” murmured the rancher into Benton’s ear as a low, deep bass undertone rumbled to them. “Listen ter that voice o’ his!”

Ready for emergencies, they quietly watched the two dark forms and patiently waited. Their vigil was short. An unmistakable, smothered oath came to their ears. The guarded, booming growl of the bigger man, became more insistent. They saw the slighter shape dismount and, presently the “tang” of a tightly stretched barbed-wire gate being released and drawn aside sounded sharply in the stillness. The big shape, still mounted, slowly disappeared into the shadows beyond, the smaller one resuming his seat in the saddle and waiting at the opening.

Feverishly the Sergeant weighed the situation. “Scotty” Robbins—and, without a doubt, it must be he—possessed an extraordinarily fast horse, he reflected. Even if hewasable, under the guise of Shorty, to range near enough to close, it was not particularly easy to pull a good rider like Scotty out of the saddle. He would be sure to raise a loud outcry at the first attempt, and thus warn Fisk. If he once got away, it would be futile to follow him in the dark.

The emergency caused a wild thought to flash into Benton’s fertile brain. Why notropehim? Long years of constant practise had rendered him clever with a lariat. It was worth trying. The tumble would insure Scotty’s partial silence anyway, and Gallagher could fix the rest, leaving him free to tackle Big George, whom he knew it would be suicidal to ever call on to surrender at close range.

Clutching his companion, he whispered tensely: “Now they’re split! I’ll have to nail Mister Scotty quick, before he gets a chance to make a breakaway. That roan o’ his—‘Duster’—can run anythin’ around here off’n its laigs. I’m a-goin’ to tryropin’him. Let’s have that rawhide riata o’ yores—that ‘black-jack’ o’ mine kinks. Get yore handkerchief ready, an’ run out an’ cram it into his kisser an’ choke th’ —— if he starts in to holler. Here, Barney!”—he slipped the latter a pair of handcuffs—“hold these. Keep ’em open an’ give ’em to me when I say. Now look out! Gaffle him quick when I jerk him off’n th’ perch.”

Leading Shorty’s horse slowly and heedfully back through the brush, the way they had come, he mounted and, after carefully shaking out a loop to his liking in the riata, which he trailed in readiness with back-flung hand, he circled around until he reached the clear space between the fence and the brush.

Suddenly his borrowed mount nickered. Scotty Robbins started nervously at the sound, but a sigh of relief escaped him as the shape of the familiar white horse became revealed to his vision.

“Oh, Shorty—that yu’?” he called out, in a loud, tense undertone.

There was no answer from the rider, who approached near—nearer.

Suddenly. “Swis-s-s-s,” came the sibilant hiss of something through the air, and the loop of a riata flopped fairly over his head and shoulders. Taken utterly by surprise, he uttered a frightened squawk and, with a quick upward thrust of his arm, endeavored to free himself of the encumbrance. The movement was too late. That single squawk was his limit. For the other, wheeling his horse on the instant, rammed in the spurs, and the next moment there came a terrible jerk that tore his clutching hands from the saddle-horn and flung him to the ground with all the breath knocked out of his body.

The startled, riderless horse gave a violent jump at the unexpected occurrence and tried to run, but the trailing lines under its feet causing its head to be yanked down severely at every step, from customary experience it soon pulled up, snorting nervously.

With as much compunction as a cow-puncher who drags a calf up to the branding fire, so Ellis swiftly trailed the unfortunate Scotty towards the opening in the brush. The watchful Gallagher darted noiselessly forward and, turning him on his back, slacked off the lariat.

Benton leaped down. “Quick!” he whispered fiercely. “Let’s have ’em!”

Snatching the handcuffs from the other, he snipped them on Scotty’s wrists. The latter was still moaning and gasping with the shock of his fall.

“Yu’ ain’t croaked him, hev yu’, Sargint?” said the rancher, in a low voice.

“Nah,” snarled the policeman, in a tense whisper. “That flop’s jerked th’ wind outa him, that’s all. He’ll come to in a second an’ most likely start in to bawl, so yu’ll wanta be ready with that handkerchief. Say! that’s sure some rope-horse o’ Shorty’s—c’n turn on a dollar. See here; look! I’m a-goin’ to wait at th’ gate for George. No use for to try an’ ropehim—he’s too heavy. I’ll have to fix him some other road. He’ll be some handful, too, believe me! If I shout for yu’, leave Scotty an’ come on th’ dead run. Mind, though, I don’t want no shootin’ unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

He turned swiftly, and was about to mount again, when a sudden thought flashed into his mind. Scotty was not wearing white chaps. They would be a “dead give away,” he reflected. At close range they would show up plainly to Fisk in that light.

The next instant he had unbuckled the waist-strap and kicked them off; then, leaving Shorty’s white horse, he ran to where his late victim’s mount still stood waiting. At his sudden, hasty approach, it edged away slightly, and snorted, scenting an unfamiliar being; but, impatient, he grabbed at and caught one of its trailing lines, and the next minute was in the saddle. The stirrups were about an equal length to his own, so he felt comfortable enough on the beautiful, springy beast. Taking up its owner’s previous position at the open gate, he waited quietly.

Soon there came a slowly gathering, muffled thud of many hoofs, and the shadowy blurr of a bunch of horses became visible to him as they drew near. On they came, and the leader, after suddenly stopping and snorting with puffed-out nostrils at the apparition of the rider, who remained so motionless at the side of the gate, darted through, the others speedily following, well strung out by the skilful tactics of their driver to avoid jamming at the opening.

As the last horse passed through the gate, Ellis planted himself squarely in the midway, facing the rider, who was bringing up the rear. The huge form gradually loomed up nearer to him in the surrounding gloom.

“H—l! what yu’ waitin’ fur, d—n yu’?” rumbled the deep, harsh, low-pitched voice. “Why didn’t yu’ head ’em off, west?”

Benton moved forward slowly with raised hand.

“Sh-sh!” he hissed warningly.

Fisk halted irresolutely. Scotty’s horse fooled him completely.

“What’s up?” he growled.

Ellis, his powerful right arm swinging free, ranged up alongside as if to have speech with the other. Then suddenly, and with an uncanny swiftness, he silently and viciously struck for the angle of the big man’s jaw.

The blow crashed home, and the great body went lurching sideways out of the saddle. Like a flash the Sergeant swung down off his horse and jumped for the rustler, dragging out another pair of handcuffs as he did so.

His haste was his undoing, for he got wedged in between the frightened, jostling horses and knocked sprawling. The next instant a huge, bear-like shape that made horrible, beast-like noises in its throat, fell upon him and clutched his arms. Frenziedly he writhed under that terrible grip.

“Barney!” he yelled. “Oh, Bar—!”

But his cry changed to a gurgle as the other’s hold shifted to his throat. With desperate efforts he fought off the choking clasp and, wriggling somehow from under his enemy’s smothering weight, scrambled with reeling brain to his feet.

Big George had arisen also, snorting and grinding his teeth with mad, demoniacal passion, and Ellis instinctively guessed that he was fumbling for his gun. Entirely forgetful of his own weapon in the Berserker rage that possessed him, the Sergeant sprang at the giant rustler, hitting out with great smashing punches to the jaw and stomach, that sent Fisk staggering back and gave him no opportunity to draw. With a snarl like a wild beast, he closed again with his slighter antagonist and, as the two men swayed hither and thither, Benton became dimly conscious of Gallagher’s form and voice added to the melee.

Stumbling and tripping, the struggling, cursing trio came headlong to the ground. Suddenly, with a gurgling yell of pain, Fisk released his grip on Ellis, who was the under dog and, clutching at his own throat, fell backwards; his head, meanwhile, giving curious, spasmodic jerks. Uncomprehending, but quick to follow up his advantage, the Sergeant rolled over upon him; and as he did so, his hands, seeking the other’s neck, encountered a rope, and he instantly realized what had happened.

“Steady, Barney!” he panted. “Ease up a bit. Yu’ll choke him.”

Roughly, and with the swift celerity of men accustomed to throwing and hog-tying steers, they trussed up their late formidable antagonist, winding the forty-foot riata around him as he kicked and raved, with a maze of knots that left him as helpless as a child. Then, utterly spent with their exertions, they lay back, gasping for air and sweating.

Gradually recovering, they regained their speech somewhat.

“G—d!” said Ellis, still breathing heavily, “that’s about the worst man-handling I guess I everdidget! Here! This won’t do, lyin’ on our backs all night. Where in h—l’s them bracelets? I dropped ’em somewheres around here.” And, arising unsteadily, he began to kick amongst the short grass.

With the aid of some matches the missing articles were eventually found. The two men then turned to the huge, bound figure of the rustler, who was still cursing and twisting under his bonds. Cautiously, loosening one great arm at a time, they clasped the steel loops around the enormous wrists.

“Should have a gun,” muttered the Sergeant. “He was a-tryin’ to draw, all right. Can’t get at it, though, while he’s on his back. Here, let’s roll him over on his face, Barney, so’s I can get at his hip-pocket.”

In about as gentle a fashion as a lumber-jack twisting a log with a cant-hook, so the big body was heaved over into the desired position, and Ellis commenced his investigations. A smothered exclamation escaped him.

“Hullo!” he said, “what’s this? Sothat’swhy I didn’t get mine, eh?”

He struck a match, disclosing by its light the butt of a long-barreled Colt’s .45 protruding from the rustler’s right hip-pocket. Being unscabbarded the wing of the hammer had (providentially, for Benton) caught in the torn lining of the pocket and become firmly fixed therein.

“Eyah!” ejaculated Gallagher. “D’yu’ ever see th’ likes o’ that, now? Talk about luck—what!”

Ellis carelessly spilled the shells into his hand. “How’s Scotty?” he inquired.

“Oh, him?—he’s all right,” answered the rancher. “He come around while yu’ was a-waitin’ at th’ gate fur Big George, here. He started in to snivel, but I d—d soon shoved th’ handkerchief in his trap.”

“Mighty good job yu’ fixed George as yu’ did,” said the Sergeant. “I didn’t wanta shoot, but I guess I’d a-had to if yu’ hadn’t come along just then. I ain’t heavy enough to rough-an’-tumble it with a bull like him. He well-nigh got me that first trip. Thank yu’, Barney. Yu’re right there with th’ goods, an’ no mistake.... I’ll never forget it.”

“Aw, h—l,” said the other roughly, to hide his feeling. “’Twarn’t nothin’, Sargint. I on’y picked up th’ first thing as come handy—that riata yu’d chucked off’n Scotty. That’s all right.”

A string of oaths from the recumbent Fisk aroused them.

“Hey!” rumbled the growling, bass voice threateningly. “Who is yu’ fellers, anyways? What’n h—l d’yu’ think yu’re at? Yu’l....

“One o’ yu’s Barney Gallagher—I know that. I’ll fix yu’ fur this, Barney!”

Ellis unwound the lariat from around the big man’s legs; then, striking another match, held it to his own face.

“Knowme, now?” he said. “George—I reckon I’ve got yu’! Get up, yu’ big stiff, or I’ll fixyu’!”

A fresh burst of blasphemy greeting his request, he picked up the riata again and, dropping a loop over the rustler’s head and shoulders, drew it taut.

“Yu’ go get me one o’ them hawsses, Barney,” he said quietly.

Gallagher sauntered over to where the two animals had halted after their first scare and were placidly feeding, and returned with Scotty’s horse. The Sergeant mounted and took a turn of the riata around the saddle-horn.

Amidst an ominous silence he swung around in his seat with shortened leg. “Comin’?” he inquired significantly.

Big George was no coward, but he was between the devil and the deep sea; for in the cold cruelty of the policeman’s tones he read aright the signs of a pitiless purpose if he still persisted in further obstinacy. Sullenly he rolled over onto his knees, and awkwardly raised himself on his feet.

“So,” said Ellis approvingly, “that’s better.”

Dismounting leisurely, he drew off the loop and coiled up the riata.

“Get yu’ over to that openin’ in th’ brush, where yore partner is,” he continued, in an authoritative, menacing voice. “Here!—this way.” And, grasping the big man’s shoulder, he guided him over to the indicated spot.

There they found the handcuffed, miserable Scotty. He had made no attempt to run away. Naturally a timid rogue, the rough handling that he had received had knocked whatever little pluck he possessed out of him completely. Now he whined like a frightened child, blaming Fisk for their mutual mischance; but the latter cursed savagely back, threatening him in horrid terms, so he ceased his lamentations in pure dread of the other’s dominant personality, and relapsed into shivering silence. Fisk began to raise his voice again.

“What d’yu’ figure on chargin’ us with, anyways?” he snarled. “Why, yu’ ain’t got nothin’ on us! We was on’y lookin’ fur one o’ our own hawsses, as we thort might—”

“George,” said the Sergeant appealingly, with up-raised, protesting hand, “don’t! Yu’ gimme a pain—honest, yu’ do. I’ll tell yu’ what I’m chargin’ yu’ both with, bein’ as yu’re from Missouri, an’ want to be shown.” And in no uncertain terms he proceeded to do so, and cautioned them.

“Why didn’t yu’ call on me an’ tell me yore business, as yu’re supposed ter do?” blustered Big George in injured tones. “I’d a-come with yu’ peaceable enough. I’ll make a statement ag’in yu’ two fellers ’bout th’ way I was man-handled.”

The policeman uttered a snort of ironical amusement.

“‘Come peaceable’!” he echoed. “Yes, yu’d a-come peaceable enough—yu’ve shown that. I’ve got th’ marks an th’ feel o’ yore little donnies on my throat yet. I don’t bear yu’ no grudge fur that, though. Yu’ go ahead, then, with yore statement, Mister Bloomin’ Lawyer, an’ I’ll come back atyu’with a charge of ‘resisting arrest an’ assaultin’ a police-officer in th’ lawful execution of his duty,’ fur which yu’re liable to get two years extra. ‘Call on yu’ an’ tell yu’ my business’ indeed! An’ who’s to prove Ididn’t?” he queried, with an ugly laugh. “If yu’ like to call it square why, all right. But if yu’ mean actin’ dirty, I’ll act dirty, too—an’ ahead o’ yu’ at that.”

The force of the other’s argument seemed to impress the big rustler considerably, and he remained silent.

“I’ve got yore record from over th’ Line, George,” the Sergeant continued. “It’s sure a peach.... Five years in th’ State ‘pen’ at Huntsville, Texas. Another five in Rawlins, Wyoming. An’ three in Sante Fé, New Mexico.... ‘Call on’ a rough-neck like yu’?” he repeated. “With such a record as that? In th’ dark—at close range—with a .45 on yore hip? ‘Call on yu’! ‘—an’ bring my knittin’. What’d yu’ bin doin’ th’ whiles? Shot me dead, most likely, or made some break that’d a-forced me to shootyu’—just ’bout th’ last thing I wanted to happen. No, Mister George; for reasons yu’ll know later, yu’re worth more to me alive than dead. ‘Call on yu’!’ Not if I know it. I’d trust yu’ ’bout as much as I would a grizzly, a wolf, or a ‘diamond-back.’ Yu’ don’t get me like them two yu’ stretched down at Los Barancedes. Yep, I know all ’boutthat, too. What’s that? On’y ‘greasers’? Mebbe—but if th’ Rurales’d a-caught yu’ they’d a-surely bumped yu’ off, greasers or not. Now, see here; look,” he concluded with a harsh ring in his raised voice, “yu’ get me, once an’ for all. Yu’re a prisoner. I know my duty as a Mounted Police-Sergeant, an’ I don’t have to get arguin’ th’ point with four-flushin’, tin-horn scum like yu’. An’ mind, now, what I said about that charge goes if yu’ make one more break, talkin’ back to me.”

A hasty search of the two men’s pockets, revealing nothing more dangerous than a jack-knife belonging to Scotty, he turned to Gallagher and bade him bring up the horses.

“Knot th’ lines ’round th’ horns o’ George’s an’ Scotty’s,” he said, “an’ string ’em together ’bout three foot apart with yore lariat, Barney. I want yu’ to trail ’em. I’ll come on behind.”

When all was in readiness he jerked out a curt order to the captives, to “Climb aboard an’ hold onta th’ jug-handle!”

“’Member,” he added warningly. “I’m close behind, so don’t be so foolish as to chance anythin’. First man that does’ll get hurt—bad.”

Then, and for the first time, Big George noticed the Sergeant’s mount. Speechless for the moment, he stood, pop-eyed, gaping stupidly.

“Look, look!” he ejaculated to his partner in distress, “why, that’s Shorty’s—” his voice failed him.

“Eyah! That’s what put th’ kibosh on me,” commiserated poor Scotty feelingly. “He must ha’ corralledhim, too, an’ th’ ——’s given us away.Musthave—who else could ha’ put this feller onta us?”

Ellis, in his own saturnine fashion, chuckled grimly at this last remark. “Sure,” he said, “that’swhat. Now, yu’ fellers climb uppronto. I ain’t a-goin’ to hang around here all night.”

In dismal silence they obeyed resignedly, and the grim little procession eventually reached the detachment. Wearily they dismounted, and the Sergeant drew Gallagher aside.

“Yu’ go on in first Barney,” he whispered. “Light th’ lamp, an’ wake th’ old feller I told yu’ about. Tell him to go an’ camp in th’ kitchen for th’ night—I’ll bring him in some blankets, later. I don’t want them fellers to seehim.”

The other, nodding silently, entered the building, and soon a light shone through the open door. Presently he came out again.

“All set,” he said.

The Sergeant then proceeded to usher in his prisoners and, after leg-ironing them together, with a significant gesture handed the key over to Gallagher. Seen in the light the two rustlers presented a grotesquely dissimilar appearance.

Big George fully justified his soubriquet. Standing nearly six feet two, his enormous breadth of shoulder and hairy, barrel-like chest which the torn shirt revealed seemed, somehow, though, to detract from his actual height. His age might have been forty or thereabouts. On some physiognomies evil passions have imprinted their danger signals unmistakably. Fisk’s sinister countenance, with its somber, desperate eyes and bushy tangle of coal-black beard which hid, one instinctively guessed, a cruel mouth and a terrible, animal-like jaw, might to many imaginations have found its prototype in the ruthless visage of a moss-trooping cattle-reiver of the Middle Ages captured, perchance, in some Border night foray.

In strange comparison tohisformidable personality, a comparison which might have been likened to that of a coyote shackled to a grizzly bear, stood alongside him his slightly-built companion, Scotty. He had sandy hair, closely set, shifty blue eyes, and a large, loose-lipped mouth with a receding chin. It was a cunning, vicious, yet decidedly weak face and, noting its defects, one could easily imagine the truth of old Hiram Bryan’s previous assertion: “Th’ young chap seems ter do as he tells him.”

Ellis, with seemingly careless indifference, but keeping a wary eye on Big George, removed the handcuffs off both men. He then proceeded to relieve them of all their belongings, which he placed in separate bags that were specially made for that purpose, and numbered. Then, after making out an itemized list for each, he began to—ostentatiously—count out their money. Each of the men possessed a small quantity, and this he put in a couple of envelopes, marking the amount on the outside. Gallagher, leaning against the door, watched the performance with curious interest. He had an inkling of what was coming. Benton, seating himself, beckoned the two forward to the table. Shackled together, they awkwardly obeyed. He chose Scotty first, and reckoned up the few bills and silver belonging to that individual.

“Eight dollars and sixty-five cents,” he concluded. “That correct?” Scotty nodded. “All right, then,” said Ellis, licking up the envelope and pushing over a pen. “Look over that list an’ see ’f it’s O. K. before yu’ sign for it.”

Scotty glanced through the items and nervously affixed his signature. The same procedure was gone through with Fisk. As the latter finished signing, the policeman drew the piece of foolscap towards him and, extracting a folded paper from a small wallet, leisurely compared the two specimens of caligraphy. With a satisfied sigh, he thrust them both into his pocket and looked across the table with a sinister smile at Big George.

“Mister Gordon Brown,” he murmured reflectively.

The two culprits started violently, and stared with dismay at the man who had thus outwitted them once more. Fisk strove to recover himself. Over his perturbed, evil face there crept the blank, lifeless expression of duplicity.

“Wha’s that?” he inquired innocently.

The Sergeant’s smile vanished. His face hardened, and he began to speak, drawling out his words one by one.

“I’m chargin’ yu’ both,” he said sententiously, “with stealin’ a team, wagon, an harness, valued at two hundred an’ seventy-five dollars, from one, Lloyd Pryce, of Beaver Dam, on th’ sixth o’ June; afterwards selling the same as your own property to one, Hiram Bryan, on th’ thirteenth o’ th’ same month.” Then followed the customary warning. “That’s all,” he finished, “an I guess it’s sure enough, too.” He eyed them a moment amidst a dead silence, and then broke out irritably:

“What do th’ likes o’ yu’ want to come overthisSide for—peddling yore dirty work in a decent, law-abiding country? Why in h—l couldn’t yu’ stay where yu’ both belong? Now, get yu’ away back there an’ sit on that bench.”

Apathetically they obeyed, with the hopeless resignation of men for whom life could hold no more surprises, and which, in Fisk’s case, was all the more remarkable, considering his previous belligerent attitude. It had been on the tip of the policeman’s tongue to question him as to what had become of the money thus fraudulently obtained but, on second thought, he desisted. Some lie or another would be the only result of such an inquiry, he reflected; and besides, he had warned them. Gambling, he knew, was notoriously rife at the Wharnock ranch, which was probably the true cause of its disappearance. (A correct guess, as was subsequently proved at their trial.)

Ellis looked at his watch. It was just going on midnight.

“Seems too bad—a-commandeering yu’ for all this work, Barney,” he said apologetically, to Gallagher.

“Oh, I ain’t worryin’ none, Sargint,” the other answered. “I got that meat in all right, this mornin’; but there’s my team I’d like to turn out inter th’ pasture, a cow as should be milked, an’ some chickens I wanta leave some feed out for. I guess yu’ll be wantin’ me inter Sabbano with yu’ th’ next couple o’ days, eh?”

Benton nodded. “P’r’aps it’s more’n likely somebody’ll be around in th’ mornin’,” he said hopefully. “An’ then yu’ll be able to run on down an’ do yore chores. Say, will yu’ off-saddle an’ fix up th’ hawsses? Turn them two belonging to these fellers out in th’ pasture—there won’t be room for no more when yores an’ Shorty’s is in—an’ say, Barney; bring in all th’ blankets yu’ can lay yore hands on in there.”

In about half an hour the rancher returned, laden with a heavy bundle of the aforesaid articles, which Ellis shook down on the floor in the corner farthest from the door, subtracting two, however, for old Bryan in the kitchen.

“Yu’ll have to bunk down here for th’ night,” he remarked curtly to the prisoners. “Yu’ might as well get down to it right away, an’ get all th’ sleep yu’ can, because it’ll be a long trip tomorrow.”

Wearily they rolled their coats for pillows, and curled themselves down, dormant murder gleaming in Fisk’s somber, brooding eyes as he glanced now and again at the cell door whence issued the untroubled snores of Shorty.

Benton drew Gallagher on one side. “We’ll have to do a ‘night guard’ on these fellers,” he whispered. “Guess we’ll do two hours apiece. I’ll do th’ first trick an’ hand over th’ watch to yu’ when I’m through. Yu’ go on inta my room there, an’ lie on th’ bed.”

Slowly the night dragged through for the tired, haggard, unkempt watchers. After waking the Sergeant up at eight o’clock, the rancher went out and did the stable chores, and when he returned Ellis cooked breakfast for all hands—taking good care to keep Shorty and old Bryan aloof from their former acquaintances.

As they were finishing the meal there came a knock at the door, and on opening it the policeman was surprised to see Pryce and two other riders outside. Benton closed the door behind him and stepped forward. The rancher seemed oppressed with a certain shamefacedness, and fidgeted nervously with his quirt.

“Sargint,” he began. “I guess I kinder riled yu’ yesterday—actin’ as I did—but I was fair mad, an’ I—well, it’s that cursed temper o’ mine gets th’ better o’ me. I ask yu’ to try an’ forgit it.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Pryce,” said Ellis shortly. “I’m glad yu’ve come around, anyways, as I was just figurin’ how I was goin’ to get word to yu’ to come inta Sabbano.” And in a few words he acquainted the other with an account of the previous night’s adventures.

“Well, yu’ do surprise me!” exclaimed Pryce wonderingly and, with rising wrath: “Why, Big George, an’ Scotty—I always give ’em th’ run o’ my place as if they belonged there, whenever they come a-ridin’ around. Why! come to think o’ it, three days before my outfit was stole, I ’member meetin’ up with Scotty in th’ Four-mile coulee; we was both lookin’ for strayed stock—an’ I mind tellin’ him as me an’ th’ woman figured on drivin’ inta Sabbano on th’ Thursday, an’ he asked me to bring him some Bull-Durham ’baccer from there. Guess I forgot it. Anyways, Big George, he was around about a week afterwards, an’ listen! He had th’ gall to tell th’ woman as how what a dirty deal it was to rustle a feller’s outfit, an’ what th’ parties deserved as did it. Where was them hawsses all th’ time, d’yu’ think, Sargint, before they sold ’em to th’ old man, I mean?”

“Staked out in th’ bush somewheres, I guess,” said Benton. “They’ve both o’ ’em got touches o’ rope-burn around th’ fetlocks. Say, who’s yore friends, Pryce?”

“Two fellers as kin swear to my outfit,” replied the rancher. “I brought ’em around to see it.” And, turning, he introduced the men to the Sergeant.

“Well, put yore hawsses up an’ come on in,” said Ellis. “Don’t yu’ get a-talkin’ to th’ prisoners mind, though,” he added. “Least said, soonest mended. We figure on pullin’ out in ’bout an hour’s time.”

A clatter of wheels disturbed them and, turning, they beheld a wagon and team approaching, driven by none other than old Bob Tucker. There was something irresistibly funny in the excited motions of the dissipated, elderly Jehu, as he urged his team forward with an unending string of Afrikander expletives, which made them all burst out laughing.

“Eyck! Eyck! Azi-wan-n! Ari-tsemah! Hamba-ké!” he bawled.

The policeman stepped forward and held up his hand as the sweating horses drew near.

“Wana!” he shouted. “Wacht-een-bietje!What’s bitin’ yu’ now, Dad?”

Tucker was tremulous and incoherent, but by degrees he managed to impart the somewhat belated news that “’is ’orses ’ad bin let aht of ’is field” during the night, and that “’e ’ad fahnd ’em abaht free mile sou’west from ’is plice.”

“Yu better let ’em stay out now, too,” said the Sergeant. And he told the old man everything. “Yu needn’t be scared of yore bunch no more now. What! Yu’ didn’t hear nothin’ in th’ night? Why, I reckon we made ’bout as much racket amongst us as yu’ do a-shovin’ yore old team along. I guess ‘Johnny Burke’ putyu’to sleep, all right. Yu’d betteroutspan, now yu’ve got here, an’ turn yore team out in my pasture. We’ll want yu’ along with us in Sabbano as a witness. Yu’ can come back with Barney Gallagher on Shorty’s hawss. Yu’ can ridehim, all right—he’s quiet.”

Fisk looked up brazenly at the new-comers as they entered, but Scotty remained with downcast eyes, in nervous trepidation as Ellis and his visitors, withdrawing into a corner, commenced to converse in low tones. Seeing the re-enforcements, Gallagher slipped away and departed to his ranch. When he returned, he found Pryce’s wagon and team standing outside the detachment, with old Hiram Bryan occupying the driver’s seat and Tucker alongside him.

Putting the stable-blankets and some hay in the bottom of the box, the Sergeant led forth the handcuffed and shackled Fisk and Robbins, and assisted them into the wagon. Shorty, for obvious reasons, he placed on the former’s own horse, which was led by Gallagher. A wise precaution, considering the glances of deadly hatred which, from time to time, were exchanged between the former and Big George, each still firmly believing the other to have turned traitor. Ellis brought up the rear on the buckskin, with Shorty’s rifle in a carbine sling at the saddle-horn.

It was a long, monotonous trip, but nothing untoward happened. To avoid stopping anywhere for dinner, the Sergeant had previously put in the wagon a big pack of cooked food and a jar of water; so, halting mid-day, they ate a meal and then, resuming their journey, arrived in Sabbano about sundown. Tired and dusty, they eventually drew up at the detachment.

Sergeant Churchill surveyed the party with astonishment.

“Hello! Where you klatch-um?” he inquired jocosely.

“Klatch-um allee same Chellee Kleek,” responded Ellis. “Give us a hand, Churchill, an’ let’s get ’em inside. Cloakey an’ Wardle—them two J.P.’s of yours—are they both in town?”

“Billy Cloakey is,” answered the other. “But Old John Wardle went away to th’ coast a couple o’ days ago, for a holiday. Don’t knowwhenhe’ll be back. What’s up? Want ’em to hold a prelim’?”

“Yes,” said Benton thoughtfully. “Guess I’ll go an’ wire the O.C. just now, to send one o’ the inspectors down by the mornin’ train.”

As the nine-thirty west-bound train drew up at the little station next morning Benton, who was on the platform awaiting it expectantly, stepped forward and saluted a tallish, blond man, dressed in the dark-blue serge uniform of an inspector.

“Well, Sergeant,” greeted the latter, “you’ve been doing great business, I hear? But I can’t forget you’re the disturber of my rest, all the same,” he added, with a wry smile. “Aren’t there any local J.P.’s around here who could have handled these cases?”

Ellis grinned back apologetically. “Sorry to have had to drag you out of bed so early, sir,” he said. “Yes, there are a couple of resident J.P.’s here. Wardle, who runs a general store and the post-office, and Cloakey, a real estate man. Wardle’s away at the coast just now, so I was forced to wire for you. Cloakey’s here, though, to sit with you on these cases. Two of the men I’ve arrested are particularly tough, and I was anxious to get them into the Post by tonight’s train, if possible.”

They turned away from the station, and commenced to walk slowly up the main street.

“Have they engaged counsel?” pursued Inspector Darby. “I didn’t see any one on the train I knew, coming up.”

“No, sir,” answered the Sergeant. “I asked them all, individually, last night, before I wired to the O.C., but none of them seemed inclined to want a lawyer when I explained that this was merely the preliminary trial. It was the same about witnesses before we left Cherry Creek. Fisk, the ringleader, starting in to bluff that: ‘They’d have all the “mouthpieces”andwitnesses they wanted, when therealtrial came off’; so I didn’t bother with them any further. But, as a matter of fact, sir, I don’t see how they possibly could have any witnesses at all. They’ve taken pretty good care ofthatin the crooked work they’ve been carrying on. This is Mr. Cloakey coming down the street now. I don’t think you’ve ever met him, have you, sir?”

The Inspector replied in the negative, as he gazed with well-bred curiosity at his prospective associate on the magisterial bench, who was just then drawing abreast of them. He beheld a big, cheery-faced, somewhat corpulent, man nearing middle age, who grasped his hand with genial warmth, as the Sergeant, with easy deference, introduced him. A few civilities were exchanged, and Ellis led the way to the detachment which, on entering, he perceived to have suddenly assumed an unwontedly tidy appearance. After hurriedly gathering his witnesses, he formally opened the court, and the preliminary inquiry began.

Shorty’s case was taken first, the local sergeant guarding the other two in an inner room, so as to be out of hearing. A sullen plea of “Not guilty” was entered to the first and second charges. “Guilty” to the third—that of “Having a weapon on his person when arrested.” Dealt with summarily on this minor offense, he was given the option of paying a fine or the alternative of a short term of imprisonment with hard labor. He chose the latter.

The two principal charges—“Cattle stealing,” and “Conspiring to commit an indictable offense”—were next proceeded with. Ellis, after being sworn, gave his evidence, the strange nature of which—in the former charge—relaxed even the imperturbable Inspector’s judicial calm, as he and his colleague listened with unconcealed interest to the coyote episode, and viewed the half-chewed brand which the Sergeant fitted into the cut-out in the hide. Benton’s testimony in both cases being largely corroborated by Gallagher, Shorty was duly committed to stand his trial at the next sitting of the Supreme Court.

The case against Fisk and Robbins was much more protracted and tedious. Charged jointly, they entered a similar plea to their confederate on each indictment. From time to time, during the proceedings, the Inspector’s casual glance flickered curiously from Big George’s battered physiognomy to the bruised face and scratched throat of the Sergeant. But he was a wily, old, experienced officer and, as neither side appeared anxious to enlighten him, he drew his own conclusions and wisely refrained from comment. Adjourning for lunch, and also to view the alleged stolen team and wagon, the hearing was resumed again in the afternoon, and eventually the two rustlers were committed.

Ellis then drew the attention of the Court to the case of old Hiram Bryan, who had shakily given his evidence during the trial. All huddled up, the aged, decrepit man sat there in silence, his wistful gaze wandering from face to face.

“Your Worships,” he said, “in the absence of all proof of complicity, I have detained this man merely under a ‘vagrancy’ charge, so as to insure his appearance in this court as an all-important witness.”

The two justices of the peace nodded understandingly. A whispered colloquy ensued between them, then they turned and gazed thoughtfully at the bowed figure of the broken man who was awaiting their will with the apathetic resignation peculiar to the aged. Inspector Darby, leaning forward, chin resting in hand, presently broke the silence.

“Sergeant Benton,” he said, with a slight note of irresolution in his voice, “taking into consideration the somewhat cruel position that circumstances have placed this man in, it is not, of course, our intention to press that charge against him. But you no doubt realize that it is of vital importance to this last case that his evidence be forthcoming at the Supreme Court.”

Ellis bowed his head in assent. He was prepared for this emergency that he had foreseen from the beginning.

“Your Worships,” he said, in quiet, convincing tones, “if you see fit to discharge the accused I will hold myself personally responsible for his appearance when this case comes up at the next Sessions.”

His superior turned again to his fellow justice, and they conferred awhile in low tones. This consultation ending, the Inspector faced round once more.

“All right, Sergeant,” he said.

Ellis motioned to the old man to stand up. Dully and awkwardly though the order was obeyed, the venerable face was not devoid of a certain dignity as its owner raised a pair of honest eyes and gazed back unflinchingly at his judges. The Inspector cleared his throat.

“There has been no evidence adduced in this case to prove that you had any knowledge of these men’s alleged criminal actions and intent,” he said, in his even, passionless tones. “Rather, it seems that you have been their unfortunate victim, for which you have this Court’s sympathy. This charge of ‘vagrancy’ against you will be dismissed ... but you understand that your evidence will be required again when the Supreme Court sits.”

The old man gazed at him vacantly, and the Sergeant opened the door.

“All right, Bryan,” he said; “you can go. I want to see you later, though.”

And, clutching his hat in his trembling old hands, the other tottered slowly out.

Pryce arose. “Your Worships,” he began imploringly, “how ’bout me team an’ wagon? Is there any chance of me bein’ able to take ’em back with me? I’ve got a tur’ble pile o’ work to do, an’ I need ’em bad.”

The Inspector contemplated the rancher’s anxious face thoughtfully a moment or two before replying.

“Why, yes, Mr. Pryce,” he answered slowly, eyeing his confrère, who nodded his concurrence to this request. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But you will have to sign a document undertaking to produce them, if required, when this case comes up at the next Sessions, you understand.”

All business being now at an end, the Sergeant formally closed the court, Inspector Darby and the congenial Mr. Cloakey departing to the hotel, and Ellis to the depot freight office with Pryce to make inquiries respecting the arrival of some police stores that were overdue. Finding that the latter had come, he arranged with the rancher to haul them out to the Cherry Creek detachment on his return trip.

With this and various other small duties the time passed rapidly, and twilight was descending when the Sergeant retraced his steps up the main street on his way back to the detachment. He felt jaded and weary from lack of sleep and the strain on his physical and mental powers during the past forty-eight hours, but a certain exultation at the thought of all that had been accomplished in that space of time buoyed him up.

In the midst of his somewhat tiredly complacent reflections he became aware of a figure approaching him unsteadily along the uneven board sidewalk whom he recognized as Hiram Bryan.

A sharp gust of wind suddenly deposited the latter’s ancient battered hat in the gutter and made merry sport with his venerable wisps of hair and gray beard. Stooping to recover his headgear, he lost his balance and pitched heavily forward. He struggled to his feet again with difficulty and leaned for a space, all covered with dust, up against the wall of the Chinese restaurant, his breath coming and going with wheezy asthmatical sobs.

Ellis presently drew up alongside and contemplated the unlovely but pitiable spectacle with a slightly compassionate grin.

“Hello, Dad,” he remarked. “Where d’yu’ get it? Been celebratin’ along with Bob Tucker, I guess. Well, old gentleman, yu’ got outa that mix-up all hunkadory, an’ I was glad of it.”

But the old man only rocked perilously on his heels, regarded his interlocutor somberly awhile with liquor-blurred eyes, and resolutely held his peace.

Momentarily nonplussed at the other’s silence, the Sergeant continued in tones half playful, half serious:

“Come, old Kafoozleum; yu’ ain’t very grateful, it seems. Life an’ liberty’s somethin’, anyhow, an’ it’s more than teams an’ wagons—or booze. For now, see here; look! This is th’ straight goods—if yu’d ever gone up in th’ Ghost River bush, along with them two fellers, either yu’ or th’ nitchie, they’d a-seen to it as neither o’ yu’ come out of it alive again to, perhaps, get a-talkin’ afterwards. Yu’ can take yore oath o’that.”

“An’ I hadn’t bin diddled out o’ me outfit,” piped old Bryan doggedly, with the hopeless, unreasoning obstinacy of the aged. “I’d a-bin away from yu’ all—a-livin’ quiet on some little ol’ homestead. But—yu’ corralled me team an’ wagon, lad. I’m little better’n a hobo now.”

Surprise, not unmixed with amusement at this somewhat illogical outburst, rendered Ellis speech- less for the moment.

“But theywasn’tyore team an’ wagon, Dad,” he said. “Th’ Law—” And then he stopped, recognizing the absurdity of ever attempting to argue under such conditions. A great pity, though, for the old, broken man, welled up in his heart.

“Here, here,” he began, not unkindly. “Don’t get a-talkin’ foolish, now, Hiram.”

And his hand sought the other’s shoulder. But Bryan avoided his touch.

“Nay,” he said thickly. “Let be, lad. I’m an old man, an’—an’ draw fast to homeward. I’ll soon be in a good place, God grant—an’ out o’ reach o’ all yore laws an’ contraptions. Let be, lad. Yu’ve played h—l wi’ me, amongst yu’.”

The words of rough condolence died in the Sergeant’s throat. He saw, through misty eyes, the poor old derelict, fuddled with whiskey and sorrow, go shambling on his way with bowed gray head. And the sight was more than he could stand. With a few strides he overtook the aged Hiram and, in spite of his feeble resistance, gently, but firmly, turned him around.

“I’ve been a-figurin’ this business out—right since we come in from Cherry Creek,” he said huskily. “Yu’re comin’ along with us on th’ train to-night, Dad, when we take them prisoners down. An’ I’m a-goin’ to get yu’ into a certain place that I know of, where yu’ll be looked after good for th’ rest o’ yore days—Father Rouleau’s Home for the aged an’ infirm. Besides—I want yu’ somewheres handy when that case comes off.”

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