off down the slope, and, in a moment, was lost among the generous growth of shrubs.
This was the scene to which his mind always reverted. But there were others, many of them, and in each this beautiful girl’s presence was always the center of his focus. He had seen and spoken to her many times since then, for his duty frequently took him into the neighborhood of that aged pine. But in spite of her frankness at their first meeting she quickly proved far more elusive than he would have believed possible, and consequently his intimacy with her had progressed very little.
The result was a natural one. The man’s interest in her was still further whetted, till, in time, he finally realized that the long anticipated move upwards, which he was preparing for, could no longer be made – alone.
These were the thoughts occupying him now as he stared out through the dusty window at the scattered houses which lined Amberley’s main street. These were the thoughts which conjured on his bronzed, strong features, that pleasant half-smile of satisfaction. He wanted her very much. He wanted her so much that all impulse to rush headlong and make her his was thrust aside. He must wait – wait with the same patience which he applied to all that which was important in his life, and, when opportunity offered, when the moment was ripe, he would make the great effort upon which he knew so much of his future happiness depended.
Thus he was dreaming on pleasantly, hopefully, and yet not without doubts, when a sharp knock at his door banished the last vestige of romance from his mind. In an instant he was on his feet, alert and waiting.
“Come!”
His summons was promptly answered, and the tall figure of the corporal stood framed in the doorway.
“Well?”
The question came with the sharp ring of authority.
“It’s Huntly, sir,” the man explained briefly. “He’s got a message. There’s been a ‘hold-up’ of the freight, just beyond White Point. The ‘jumpers’ have dropped off the two hindermost cars and held the crew prisoners. Seems the train was flagged on the bend out of the hills and then allowed to pass. While it was standing the cars were cut loose. Then the train came on without them. She’s in sight now. Huntly’s outside.”
The Inspector gave no sign while his subordinate talked. His eyes were lowered at a point of interest on the floor. At the conclusion of the man’s brief outline he glanced up.
“Has Huntly got the message with him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fyles made a move, and the other stepped back to let him pass out.
The agent was waiting in the outer office. His eyes were wide with excitement.
“Well? Where’s the message?” the officer demanded.
Huntly thrust a paper into his hand.
“It just came through.”
Fyles took it, and his strong brows drew together as he read the long story of the “hold-up” which the man had taken down from his instrument.
A deep silence prevailed while the officer read the news which so completely frustrated all his plans.
At last he looked up. Favoring the man Huntly with one inquiring glance, he turned to the corporal.
“It says here the brakeman heard the leader tell his men to make for the south trail. That was either bluff – or a mistake. They sometimes make mistakes, and that’s how we get our chances. The south trail is the road into Rocky Springs. Rocky Springs is twenty-two miles from White Point. They’ve probably had an hour’s start with a heavily loaded wagon. Rocky Springs is twenty-six from here by trail. Good. Say, tell the boys to get on the move quick. They’ll strike the south trail about seven miles northeast of Rocky Springs. If they ride hard they should cut them off, or, any way, hit their trail close behind them.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Fyles turned back to the inner room and picked up the telephone, ignoring the still waiting agent, the corporal hurried away.
In a moment the telephone bell rang out and the officer was speaking.
“Yes, sir, Fyles. Yes, at the Town Station. I’m coming up to barracks right away. It’s most important. I must see you. The whisky-runners have – doubled on us.”
CHAPTER V
BOUND FOR THE SOUTHERN TRAIL
Three uniformed men rode hard across the tawny plains. They rode abreast. Their horses were a-lather; their lean sides tuckered, but their gait remained unslackening. It was a gait they would keep as long as daylight lasted.
Sergeant McBain’s horse kept its nose just ahead of the others. It was as though the big, rawboned animal appreciated its rider’s rank.
Quite abruptly the non-commissioned officer raised an arm and pointed.
“Yon’s the Cypress Hills, boys,” he cried. “See, they’re getting up out of the heat haze on the skyline. We’re heading too far south.”
He spoke without for a moment withdrawing the steady gaze of his hard blue eyes.
One of the troopers answered him.
“Sure, sergeant,” he agreed. “We need to head away to the left.”
The horses swung off the line, beating the sun-scorched grass with their iron-shod hoofs with a vigor that felt good to the riders.
The bronzed faces of the men were eager. Their widely gazing eyes were alert and watchful. They were trailing a hot scent, a pastime as well as a work that was their life. They needed no greater incentive to put forth the best efforts of bodily and mental energies.
The uniform of these riders of the western plains was unassuming. Their brown canvas tunics, their prairie hats, their black, hard serge breeches, with broad, yellow stripes down the thighs, possessed a businesslike appearance not to be found in a modern soldier’s uniform. These things were for sheer hard service.
The life of these men was made up of hard service. It was demanded of them by the Government; it was also demanded of them by the conditions of the country. Lawlessness prevailed on these fair, sunlit plains; lawlessness of man, lawlessness of Nature. Between the two they were left with scarce a breathing space for those comforts which only found existence in dreams that were all too brief and transitory.
Nominally, these men were military police, yet their methods were far enough removed from all matters martial. Theirs it was to obey orders, but all similarity ended there. Each man was left free to think and act for himself. Brief orders, with little detail, were hurled at him. For the rest his superiors demanded one result – achievement. A crime was committed; a criminal was at large; information of a contemplated breach of the peace was to hand. Then go – and see to it. Investigate and arrest. The individual must plan and carry out, whatever the odds. Success would meet with cool approval; failure would be promptly rewarded with the utmost rigor of the penal code governing the force. The work might take days, weeks, months. It mattered not. Nor did it matter the expense, provided success crowned the effort. But with failure resulting – ah, there must be no failure. The prestige of the force could not stand failure, for its seven hundred men were required to dominate and cleanse a territory in which half a dozen European countries could be comfortably lost.
Presently
