The morning was gloriously fine. It was aglow with the fulness of summer. Far as the eye could see the valley was bathed in a golden light which the myriad shades of green made intoxicating to senses drinking in this glory of nature’s splendor. Leaping Creek gamboled its tortuous way through the heart of a perfect garden.

A veritable Eden thought Stanley Fyles – complete to the last detail.

But his thought was without cynicism. He had no time for cynicism. Besides, the goal of his career lay yet before him.

His thought drifted further. His whole fate had suddenly become bound up in that valley. Nor was the fact without a certain irony. For him it was the valley of destiny. Within its spacious confines lay the two great factors of life – his life – love and duty. They were confronting him. They were standing there waiting for him to possess himself of his victorious hold.

Stanley Fyles felt rather like a ticket-of-leave criminal, instead of a law officer, as he gazed out from the doorway of the frame hut, which formed the temporary quarters of the police, far out on the western reaches of the valley, five miles above the village of Rocky Springs. He knew he was there to prove himself. His mistakes, or his bad luck, of the past must be remedied before he could return to his superiors with a clean sheet. His hands were free, he knew. But in that freedom he was more surely a prisoner on parole than any man on his given word. He was pitting himself like the gambler against the final throw. It was all, or – ruin. To leave the valley with the work undone, with another mistake to his credit, and his present career must terminate.

Then there was that other side. That wonderful – other side. The human nature in him made the valley more surely his destiny than any charges of his superior officer. The woman was there. The Eve in his Eden. More than all else the thought of her inspired him to the big effort of his life.

He was thinking of Kate Seton now as his gaze roamed at will over the ravishing summer tints. He was thinking wholly of her when his mind might well have been contemplating the terms of the despatches he had just written, the orders he had sent to his troopers, even the events and clues he had obtained on the previous night, pointing the work he had in hand.

A door opened and closed behind him. He was aware of it, but did not turn. A voice addressed him. It was the cold voice of Sergeant McBain.

“The men are saddled up, sir.”

Fyles glanced around without changing his position.

“The despatches are on the table,” he replied, with a sharp inclination of the head in the direction.

“Any other instructions, sir?”

Fyles thought a moment.

“Yes,” he said at last. “When they return here it must be after dark. The patrol and horses they bring with ’em are to be camped over at Winter’s Crossing, five miles higher up the valley. This before they come in to report. That’s all.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sergeant McBain departed, and presently the clatter of hoofs told the officer that the two troopers had ridden away. As they went he drew out a pipe and began to fill it.

When McBain re-entered the room Fyles bestirred himself. He turned back and flung himself into an uncomfortable, rawhide-seated, home-made chair, and lit his pipe. McBain took up a position at the small table which served the purpose of a desk.

McBain and his men had taken up their quarters here several weeks ago. It was a mere shed, possibly an implement shed on an abandoned farm. It was a frame, weather-boarded shanty with a dilapidated shingle roof. Quite a reasonable shelter till it chanced to rain. The handiness of the troopers had made it comparatively habitable with oddments of furnishing, and a partition, which left an inner room for sleeping quarters. There was a partial wooden lining covering the timbers supporting the roof, which was an open pitch, without any ceiling. There were several wooden brackets projecting from the walls, which had probably, at one time, been used to support harness. Now they served the purpose of carrying police saddles and uniform overcoats.

There was obviously no attempt at establishing a permanent station there. These men were, as was their custom, merely utilizing the chance finding as an added comfort in their strenuous lives.

Fyles lit his pipe, and, for some moments, smoked thoughtfully, while McBain’s pen scratched a series of entries in his diary.

Fyles watched him through a cloud of smoke, and when his subordinate returned his pen to the home-made rack on the table, he began to talk.

“There’s two things puzzling me about that tree, McBain,” he said, following out his train of thought. “Your reckoning has justification all right. We saw enough last night for that. Besides, you have seen the same sort of thing several times before. It surely has a big play in the affairs of these ‘runners.’ But I can’t get a focus of that play. Suppose that the tree is in some mysterious way a sort of means of communication, why is it necessary? And, why in thunder, when everybody knows who the boss of the gang is, don’t they deal direct with him?”

Fyles smiled into the grim face of McBain, and sat back waiting to hear the Scot’s reply. His keen face was alight with expectancy. He wanted this shrewd man’s ideas as well as his facts obtained by observation.

The sergeant’s face was obstinately set. He had already asserted certain convictions about the old pine, and now he detected skepticism in his superior.

“Three times in the last two weeks I have seen the same figure in the shadow of that tree late at night. It hasn’t needed any guessing to locate his identity. Very well, starting with the supposition that the village folk are right, and Charlie Bryant is our man, then his movements about that tree at that hour of the night become more than suspicious. Especially since we know he’s run a big cargo in lately. But while I figger on that tree there’s something else, as I’ve told you. I’ve tracked him into the neighborhood of the old Meeting House and back again to the tree. Now, I’ve seen this play three times, and would have seen the whole of it again last night if that damned coyote of a tenderfoot hadn’t butted in. That’s that, sir.”

Fyles nodded. The older man’s earnestness was not without its weight. But to a man like Fyles, definite proof, or reasonable probabilities, were necessary. Clearing his throat, McBain went on.

“Let’s come to another argument, sir,” he said, setting himself with his arms on the table. “Every man or woman in the place reckons this tough, Charlie Bryant, runs the gang. They can lay their tongues to the names of the men who form the gang. Guess this is the list, and a certain one sure, knowing the men. There’s Pete Clancy, Nick Devereux, both hired men to Miss Seton. There’s Kid Blaney, hired to Bryant himself. There’s Stormy Longton, the gambler and – murderer. Then there’s another I believe to be Macaddo, the train hold-up, and the fellow they call “Holy” Dick. That’s the gang with Bryant at their head, but there may be more of them. I’ve got the names indirectly from the village folk. But this is my point. Never a soul in the village has seen them at work. Never a soul has seen them buy, or sell, or handle, one drop of drink, except what they buy in the saloon to consume. The gang don’t do one single thing to give itself away, and there’s not a man or woman could give them away in the village, except from their talk when they’re drunk.”

The man was making his point, and Fyles remained interested.

“Now, this is the argument, an’ you’ll admit, sir, experience carries a lot of it out. Crooks are scared to death of each other, you know that, sir, better than I do. It’s the basis of their methods. They’ve got to make safe. To do this they have to resort to schemes which hide their identity. They’ll trust each other engaged in the crime because all are involved. But they daren’t trust those who’re under no penalty. What do they do? They’ve got to blind the outside world, the police, and they do it by making a mystery. Now, in this case, the pine is the heart of their mystery. It must give the key to the cache. It must lead us to getting the lot red-handed – running a cargo. That’s what I know and feel, and it’s up to you, sir, to show us the way. I’ve worked on the lines you gave me, sir, and I’ve done all a man can do. I’ve had the whole village watched, and worked inquiry by a farmer outlying the valley. But now we’re plumb at a deadlock till they run another cargo, which I’m calculating, at the rate liquor’s consumed, they’ll soon have to do. Maybe that’ll give us a week or so for fixing our plans. I’ve watched each member of the gang, and we’ve got their movements written down here, from the time we missed that cargo on the trail. Maybe you’ll read my notes on them.”

Fyles took the diary the man held out.

“It’s a tough proposition, McBain,” he said with a sigh, which had no weakening in it. “But I think we’ll make good this time, if only we can get the news of the shipment when it comes along well ahead. Superintendent Jason is in communication with every local police force east, and should get it all right. If we get that, the rest should be easy. Rocky Springs only has three roads, and it’s a small place. I’ve got a pretty wide scheme ready for them when we get word. In the meantime our present work must be to endeavor to locate their cache. That discovered, and left alone, our work will be simple pie. I’ll read these notes now. Then I’m going into the village. Later on I’ve a notion to see just how busy Master Bryant is on his – ranch.”

Kate gave a final glance round at the walls of green logs, and noted with appreciation the picturesque dovetailing of every angle.

“Well,” she declared, after a moment’s thought, “all I can say is that the design’s working out in truly elegant fashion. Charlie’s done his work well – and so have the boys.” She beamed pleasantly upon her audience, two men balancing themselves upon the open floor joists of the new church. “It’s a real work of art. It’s going to be swell, and the folks should be just proud of it.”

Billy Unguin smiled confidently.

“Oh, the folks’ll be proud of it all right, all right,” he said. “They’ll yap about this place, and how they built it, till you’ll wish it was swallowed up by that kingdom they guess they’re going to get boosted into by means of it. They’ll have one hell of a burst at the saloon when the work’s done, and every feller’ll be guessin’ he could have done the other feller’s job better than he could have done it himself, and the women folk’ll just say what elegant critturs their men are, till they get home sossled. Then they’ll beat hell out of ’em. They’ll sure be proud of it, but I don’t guess the church’ll be proud of them. It’ll have hard work helpin’ most of ’em into the kingdom. Ain’t that so, Allan?”

Billy asked for confirmation of his opinions merely as a matter of form. But Allan Dy displayed little interest in them. He had some of his own.

“Guess so,” he murmured indifferently.

“Course it’s so,” said Billy sharply.

“Dessay you’re right,” replied Dy, with still less interest. “But I ain’t got time thinking conundrums. I get too many, running the mail. Still, I’d like to say right here this doggone church ain’t architecture. Maybe it’s art, as Miss Kate says. But it ain’t architecture. That’s what it ain’t,” he finished up, with decided emphasis.

Kate smiled upon him. She was interested in what lay behind the remark.

“How – how do you make that out, Allan?” she inquired.

The postmaster felt sorry for her and showed it.

“It’s easy,” he declared. Then he gathered his opinions in a bunch, and metaphorically hurled them at her. “Where’s the steel girders an’ stone masonry?” he demanded. “It’s just wood – pine. Wher’s the figures an’ measurements? Who knows the breakin’ strain o’ them green logs? Maybe it’s art, but it ain’t architecture. I ain’t so sure about the art, neither. It’s to be lined with red pine. Ther’ ain’t no art to red pine. Now maple – bird’s-eye maple, an’ we got forests of it. Ther’s art in bird’s-eye maple. It’s mighty pleasing to the eye. It ’ud make the folks feel good. Red pine? Red?” He shook his head ominously. “Not in this city. You see, red’s a shoutin’ color. Sets folk gropin’ fer trouble. But white’s different. It – it sort o’ sets folks thinking o’ them days when their little souls was white enough, even if their bodies wasn’t rid of a month’s dirt. I tell you, Rocky Springs ’ud get pious right away under the influence of bird’s-eye maple. Maybe they’d be fighting drunk later, but that don’t cut no ice. You see, it’s sort o’ natural to ’em. Still, the church would have done ’em some good if only it kept ’em a few seconds from doing somebody or something a personal injury.”

Billy was chafing at his friend’s monopoly of the talk and promptly seized the opportunity of belittling his opinions.

“What’s the use,” he cried. “I’m with Miss Kate. Charlie’s done right in fixing on red pine lining. Art’s art, an’ if you’re goin’ to be artistic, why, you just got to match things same as you’d match a team of horses, same as a woman does her fixings. ’Tain’t good to mix anything. Not even drinks. Red pine goes with raw logs. Say, there’s art in everything. Beans goes with pork; cabbage with corned beef. But you don’t never eat ice cream with sowbelly. Everybody hates winter. Why for do folks fix ’emselves like funeral mutes in winter? It’s just the artistic mind in ’em. They’d hate flying in the face of Providence by cheerin’ themselves up with a bit of color. Art is art, Dy, my boy; maybe art ain’t in your line, seein’ you’re a Government servant. Ther’ ain’t nothin’ but red pine for the inside of that church, or all art’s bust to hell. Start the folks in this city off on notions inspired by anemic woodwork, an’ the sight o’ so much purity would set ’em off sniveling on their women-folk’s bosoms, and give ’emselves internal chills shoutin’ fer ice water at O’Brien’s bar. You’d set the boys so all-fired good-natured they’d give ’emselves up fer the crimes they never committed, or they’d be startin’ up a weekly funeral club so as to be sure of a Christian burial anyway. You’d upset the harmony o’ Rocky Springs something terrible. Bird’s-eye maple – nothin’. Ain’t that so, Miss Kate?”

Kate laughed outright.

“I can’t quite follow all the arguments,” she said, cautiously. “But – but – it sounds all right.”

“Sure,” agreed Billy, complacently.

But Dy was not yet defeated.

“I’m arguin’ architecture,” he said doggedly. “Here,” he indicated the length of the main building, “I don’t care a cuss about your art. What about this? Where’s the tree grown hereabouts tall enough to give us a ridge pole for this roof? It means a join in the ridge pole. That’s what it means. And that ain’t architecture, Master Billy – smarty – Unguin.”

Kate ran her eye over the offending length. The man’s point seemed obvious.

“It certainly looks like a join,” she admitted unwillingly.

For a moment Billy was disconcerted. But his inventive faculties quickly supplied him with a way out. Anyway, he could break up the other’s argument.

“Isn’t nothin’!” he cried, with fine scorn. “That don’t need to worry you. Ain’t we got the tallest pine in creation right here on the spot?”

The postmaster’s eyes widened. Even Kate was startled at the suggestion.

“You’d cut down the old tree?” she inquired.

“Wher’s your sense?” demanded Dy roughly. “Cut down the old pine? Who’s goin to do it? Who’s got the grit?”

“It don’t need grit to saw that tree – only a saw,” smiled Billy, provokingly.

But Dy had no sense of humor at the moment.

“Pshaw! What about the Indian cuss on it?” he demanded. “Ther’ ain’t a boy in this valley ’ud drive a saw into that tree. You’re talking foolish.”

Billy grew very red.

“Am I?” he cried, angrily. “Well, I ain’t no sawyer, but I’ll say right here if the church needs that pine I’ll fetch it down if it’s only to show you that Charlie Bryant’s notions are better than yours. I’ll do it if the work kills me.”

“Which it surely will,” said Dy significantly.

But Kate had no liking for the turn the conversation had taken, and attempted to divert it.

“No, no,” she cried, with a laugh that was a trifle forced. “That’s the worst of you men when you begin to argue. You generally get spiteful. Just like women. Art or architecture, it doesn’t matter a bit. We’re all proud of this lovely little church. But I must be off. I’ve a committee meeting to attend. Then there’s a church sewing bee. See you again.”

She turned away and began to pick her way from joist to joist toward the doorway in the wall. Her progress occupied all her attention and careful balance. Thus she was left wholly unaware of the man who was standing framed in the opening watching her. Her first realization came with the sound of his voice. And so startling was its effect that she lost her balance, and must have taken an undignified fall between the joists, had not a pair of strong hands been thrust out to save her.

“I’m sorry, Miss Kate,” cried Fyles earnestly, as, aided by his supporting arms, she regained her balance. “I thought you knew I was here – had seen me.”

Kate freed herself as quickly as she could. Her action was almost a rebuff, and suggested small enough thanks. Probably none of the villagers would have met with similar treatment.

She felt angry. She did not know why, and her words of thanks had no thanks in their tone.

“Thank you,” she said coldly. Then she looked up into the keen face before her and beheld its easy confident smile. “It was real stupid of me. But – you see, I didn’t guess anybody was there.”

“No.”

Kate stepped down through the doorway, and stood beside the officer, whose horse was grazing a few yards away upon a trifling patch of weedy grass. Her annoyance was passing.

“I’d heard you’d come into Rocky Springs,” she said. “Everybody is – is excited about it.”

Inspector Fyles was still smiling as he returned her glance. He was thinking, at that moment, that the passing of time only added to Kate Seton’s attractiveness. His quick eyes took in the simplicity of her costume, while he realized its comparative costliness for a village like Rocky Springs.

“I don’t guess there’s much to be excited about – yet,” he said. “Maybe that’ll come later, for – some of them. I’m going to be around for quite a while.”

Kate was looking ahead down the trail. She was half-heartedly seeking an excuse for leaving him. Perhaps the man read something of her thought, for he abruptly nodded in the direction of the village.

“You’re going on down?” he inquired casually.

“Yes. I’ve a church committee to attend. I am rather late.”

“Then maybe I may walk with you?”

The man’s manner was perfectly deferential, and something about it pleased his companion more than she would have admitted. Somehow she resented him and liked him at the same time. She was half afraid of him, too. But her fear was wholly sub-conscious, and would certainly have been promptly denied had she been made aware of it.

“Your horse?” she protested. “You – you are riding.”

But Fyles only shook his head.

“We needn’t bother about him,” he declared easily. “You see, he’ll just walk right on.”

They moved on toward the mouth of the trail at the edge of the clearing, and Kate, watching the horse, saw it suddenly throw up its head and begin to follow in that indifferent manner so truly equine, picking at the blades of grass as it came.

“What a dear creature,” she exclaimed impulsively. “Did – did you train him that way?”

Fyles smilingly shook his head.

“Taught himself,” he said. “Poor Peter’s a first-class baby. He hates to be left alone. Guess if I went on walking miles he’d never be more than ten yards behind me.”

They walked on. Kate for the most part seemed interested only in the horse following so close behind, while Fyles made small secret of his interest in her. But for awhile talk seemed difficult.

Finally it was Kate who was forced to take the initiative with this big, loose-limbed man of the plains. She searched her brains for an appropriate subject, and, finally, blundered into the very matter she had intended to avoid.

“I suppose there’s going to be a very busy time about here, now you’ve come around?” she said. “I suppose the lawlessness of this place will receive a check that’s liable to make some folks pretty uncomfortable?”

She smiled up at her companion with just a suspicion of irony in her dark eyes, and the man who had to rely on his wits so much in his life’s work found it necessary to think hard before replying.

The result of his thought was less than he could have hoped, for he had already learned, with some misgiving, of her friendliness with Charlie Bryant. However, the opportunity seemed a suitable one, so he added a gravity of tone to his reply.

“There are people in this valley to whom my presence will make no difference. There are others – well, others whose company is worth avoiding. Say, Miss Kate, maybe you haven’t a notion of a policeman’s work – and penalties. Maybe you know nothing of the meaning of crime, as we understand it. Maybe you think us just paid machines, without feelings, without sentiment, cold, ruthless creatures who are here to run down criminals, as the old-time Indians ran down the buffalo, in a wanton love of destroying life. Believe me, it isn’t so. We’re particularly humane, and would far rather see folks well within the law and prospering, the same as we want to prosper ourselves. We don’t fancy the work of shutting up our fellow creatures from all enjoyment of the life about us, or curtailing that life for them by so much as a second. Still, if folks obstinately refuse to come within the law of their own free will, then, for the sake of all other law-abiding folk, they must be forced to do so, or be made to suffer. Yes, I am here to do certain work, and what’s more, I don’t quit till it’s done. It may cost me nothing but a deal of work, and some regret, it may cost me my life, it may cost other lives. But the work will go on till it is finished, and though I may not see that finish, there will be others to take my place. That is the work of the police in this country. It has always been so, and, finally, we always achieve our purpose. In the end a criminal hasn’t a dog’s chance of escape.”

The man’s calmly spoken words were not without their effect. The irony in Kate’s glance had merged into a gravity of expression that was not without admiration for the speaker. Furtively she took in the clean-cut profile, the square jaw, the strongly marked brows of the man under his prairie hat, then his powerful active frame. He was strikingly powerful in his suggestion of manhood.

“It seems all different when you put it that way,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess you’re right, we folks sort of get other ideas of the police. Maybe it’s living among a people who are notoriously – well, human. You don’t hear nice things about the police in this valley, and I s’pose one gets in the same way of thinking. But – ”

Kate broke off, and her dark eyes gazed half wistfully out over the valley.

“But?”

Fyles urged her. Nor did his manner suggest any of his official capacity. He was interested. He simply wanted her to go on talking. It was pleasant to listen to her rich thrilling voice, it was more pleasant than he could have believed possible.

Kate laughed quietly.

“Maybe what I was going to say will – will hurt you,” she said. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Fyles shook his head.

“We police don’t consider our official feelings. They, and any damage done to them, are simply part of our work.”

They had reached the main village trail. The girl deliberately halted and stood facing him.

“I was thinking it a pity you came here in – time of peace,” she said quickly. “I was thinking how much better it would have been to wait until a cargo of liquor was being run, and then get the culprits red-handed. You see,” she went on naively, “you’ve got time to look around you now, and – and listen to the gossip of the village, and form opinions which – which may put you on a false scent. Believe me,” she cried, with sudden warmth, “I’d be glad to see you measure your wits against the real culprits. Maybe you’d be successful. Who can say? Anyway, you’d get a sound idea of whom you were after, and would not be chasing a phantom, as you are likely to be now, if you listen to the talk of this place. Believe me, I hold no brief for wrongdoers. They must take their chances. If they are discovered and captured they must pay the penalty. But I know how deceptive appearances may be in this valley, and – and it would break my heart if – a great wrong were done, however inadvertently.”

The wide reaches of the valley were spread out before them. Kate was gazing away out westward, where, high up on the hillside, Charlie Bryant’s house was perched like an eagle’s eyrie. Even at that distance two figures could be seen standing on the veranda, and neither she nor Fyles, who was following the direction of her gaze, needed a second thought as to their identity.

“You’re thinking of Charlie Bryant,” the man said after a pause. “You’re warning me – off him.”

“Maybe I am.”

Kate’s eyes challenged the officer fearlessly.

“Why?”

The man’s searching eyes were not seeking those secrets which might help his official capacity. Other feelings were stirring.

“Why? Because Charlie is a weak, sick creature, deserving all the pity and help the strong can give him. Because he is a gentle, ailing man who has only contrived to earn the contempt of most, for his weakness, and the blame of those who are strong enough to help. Because he is, for all his weaknesses, an – honest man.”

Fyles gazed up at the house on the hillside again, and Kate’s anxious eyes watched him.

“Is that all?” he inquired presently. Nor could there be any mistake as to the thought behind the question.

A dash of recklessness, that recklessness which her sister had deplored the absence of, now drove Kate headlong.

“No. It is not all,” she cried. “For five years I have been striving to help him to escape from the demon which possesses him. Oh, and I know how hopeless it has all been. I love Charlie, Mr. Fyles. I love him as though he were my brother, or even my own son. I would do anything in the world to save him, and I tell you frankly, openly, if the police seek to fix any crime this valley is accused of upon him, I will strive, by every possible means, whether right or wrong, to defeat their ends.”

The woman’s face was aglow with reckless courage. Her eyes were shining with an enthusiasm which the man before her delighted in. All her defiance of him, of the law, only made her appeal the more surely. But he was not thinking of her words. He was thinking of her beauty, her courage, while he repeated her words mechanically.

“Your brother – or even your own son?”

“Yes, yes,” Kate cried. Then she caught a sharp breath, and a deep flush suffused her cheeks and brow. The significance of the man’s thoughtful words and tone had come home to her. She knew he was not thinking of anything else she had said. Only of her regard for that other man.

She abruptly held out her hand and Stanley Fyles took it. Her good-bye came with a curtness that might well have inspired consternation. But the policeman replied to it without any such feeling, and passed on with his faithful Peter trailing leisurely behind him.