The Law-Breakers Part 36

"Most folks do," replied Fyles, "--until they fall over it."

Charlie had reached his horse's side. He unhooked the reins from the fence, and flung them over its head. Then, with an agility quite remarkable, he vaulted into the saddle.

"Well, I hope that broom won't come my way," he laughed. "I'd hate falling around."

"I hope it won't," said Fyles, in the same light manner, as he followed out of the corral. "That's a dandy plug of yours," he said with admiration, as his appreciative eyes noted the chestnut's points.

"He surely is," returned Charlie. "He can go some, too. I'll give you a run one day--if you fancy yours."

Fyles was hooking his reins over the post Charlie had vacated.

"Mine?" he said. "Peter's the quickest thing west of Winnipeg. He'll sure give you a run when--the time comes."

Charlie laughed. The drift of the talk, its hidden meaning, amused him.

"We'll have to make a time, eh?"

"Sure," said Fyles, looking him squarely in the eyes.

Charlie moved his horse away.

"Well, so long, for the present. Guess I'll remember that challenge.

Thanks for helping me with the rack. You're stopping?"

Fyles nodded.

"Yes--for awhile."

Charlie rode away with the air of a man with not a care in the world.

But he was thinking swiftly, and his thoughts were of that hidden cupboard, and what it contained. Hope and fear struggled for paramount place in his heart. Was the secret of that hiding place sufficiently simple to defy Stanley Fyles, or was it not? Was he the man he was reputed to be, or was he merely a clever man backed by a big authority? In the end he abandoned the troublesome point. Time alone would give him his answer.

CHAPTER XXI

WORD FROM HEADQUARTERS

Two horses ambled complacently, side by side, down the village trail.

Each was ridden by the man it knew best, and was most willing to serve. Peter's affection for Stanley Fyles was probably little less than his master's affection for him. The same thing applied to Sergeant McBain, whose hard face suggested little enough of the tenderer emotions. But both men belonged to the prairie, and the long prairie trail inspires a wonderful sympathy between man and beast.

The men were talking earnestly in low voices, but their outward seeming had no suggestion of anything beyond ordinary interest.

"He's surely leaving a trail all over the valley," said Sergeant McBain, after listening to his superior's talk for some moments. "It's a clear trail, too--but it don't ever seem to lead anywhere--definite.

You've made nothing of that corral place, sir?"

Fyles's eyes roamed over the scene about him in the quick, uneasy fashion of a groping mind.

"I don't know yet," he said slowly, "I've got to windward of that haying business. The fellow's haying all right. He's got a permit for cutting, and he generally puts up fifty tons. Maybe he keeps that wagon out there all the time for convenience. I can't say. But even if he doesn't I can't see where it points."

"We can watch the place," said McBain quickly.

"That's better than speculation, but--it's clumsy."

"How, sir?"

"Why, man alive," replied Fyles sharply. "Do you think we're going to fool a crook like him by just watching? Besides----"

"Yes, sir?"

Fyles had broken off. A woman was moving down the trail ahead of them.

She was a good distance away, but he had recognized the easy gait and trim figure of Kate Seton. After a moment's pause he withdrew his gaze and went on.

"I've got all I need out of that place--for the present. You've seen the wagon and--recognized it. It's the wagon they ran that last cargo in. The man who drove it was Pete Clancy. Clancy is one of Charlie Bryant's gang. I don't think we need any more--yet. We've centralized the running of that last cargo. The rest of the work is for the future. My plans are all ready. The patrol comes in from Amberley to-night. It will be ample reinforcement. We're just one move ahead of these boys, here, and we've got to keep that way. You can get right back to quarters, and wait for my return. I'm going in to the mail office to run my eye over local mail. The envelopes of a local mail make good reading--when a man's used to it."

McBain grinned in a manner that seemed to give his hard face pain.

"You get more out of the ad-dress on an envelope than any one I ever see, sir," he observed shrewdly.

Fyles shrugged, not ill pleased at the compliment.

"It's practice, and--imagination. Those things, and--a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who's that coming down the southern trail? Looks like----"

He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley.

McBain needed no such protection. His mahogany face screwed itself up until his eyes were mere slits.

"It ain't part of the patrol?" he said questioningly. "Yet it's one of our fellers. Maybe it's a--despatch."

Fyles's brows drew sharply together in a frown of annoyance.

"If the chief's sent me the word I'm waiting for that way he's--a d.a.m.n fool. I asked him for cipher mail."

"Mr. Jason don't ever reckon on what those who do the work want. If that feller's riding despatch, the whole valley will know it."

McBain's disgust was no less than that of Fyles. His hard face was coldly set, and the despatch rider, if he were one, seemed likely to get a rough reception.

"He'll make for the mail office," said Fyles shortly. "We'll go and meet him."

He lifted Peter's reins, and the horse responded at a jump. In a moment the two men were galloping down to Dy's office. Fyles was the first out of the saddle, and the two stood waiting in silence for the arrival of the horseman.

There was not much doubt as to the publicity of the man's arrival.

As if by magic a number of men, and as many women, appeared in the vicinity of the saloon, farther down the trail. They, too, had seen the newcomer, and they, too, were consumed with interest, though it was based on quite a different point of view from that of Stanley Fyles and Sergeant McBain.

To them a despatch rider meant important news, and probable action on the part of the authorities. Important action meant, to their minds, something detrimental to the shady side of their village life. Every man was searching his brain for an explanation, a reason for the man's coming, and every woman, sparing herself mental effort, was asking pointed questions of those who should think for her.

The man rode into the village at full gallop, and, seeing the two police horses outside the mail office, came straight on toward them.