heard until they had seen; by that time they were not
fifty yards away and Max's rifle bore unwaveringly upon Sefton's chest.

"Up with your hands, Sefton and Lemarc!" he called loudly. "In the
name of the Law!"

"Fight it out, Sefton, if you are a man!" shouted Drennen, his own
rifle at his shoulder. "I am going to kill you any way!"

Ernestine was crying out inarticulately; no one listened to the thing
she was trying to say. She had waited too long. Marshall Sothern, a
queer smile upon his lips which Drennen was never to forget, strode to
his son's side.

"Dave," he said gently. "If you are doing this for me . . . let be! I
have told Max."

"What do you mean?" muttered Drennen dully. "Told him what?"

"Who I am."

He laid his hand on the barrel of Drennen's rifle, forcing it downward.
His son stared at him with wondering eyes.

"I don't understand. . . ."

Both Sefton and Lemarc, with one accord had jerked in their horses,
their hands dropping the ropes of the animals they led and going the
swift, certain way to the gun in the coat pocket.

"It's a hold-up, Marc!" cried Sefton, driving his heels into his
horse's sides and coming on in defiance of the rifle still trained upon
him.

"Garcia!"

Garcia shrugged his shoulders and watched, having nothing else to do.

"Wait!" screamed Marc after Sefton. "Can't you see the uniform? He's
one of the Mounted."

Sefton saw. He saw too that at the door was David Drennen; that at his
side was Marshall Sothern; that big Kootanie George stood out, a little
in front. His face went white; he jerked his horse back upon its
haunches; his teeth cut, gnawing, at his lip. He saw and he
understood. He knew that for him the play was over; he knew that
within the old house was a fortune for many men and that he had had his
hands on it and that it was not to be for him. His white face went
whiter with the rage and despair upon him.

"It's you that did for me!" he yelled. "You, John Harper Drennen!
You! Damn you . . . take that!"

In the first grip of the fury upon him he fired. Fired so that the
short barrel of his revolver, spitting out the leaden pellets, grew
hot. He was too close to miss. Marshall Sothern clutched at Drennen's
arm and went down, sinking slowly, not so much as a groan bursting from
his lips. And as he dropped Kootanie George fell with him, the big
Canadian's broad chest taking the first of the flying bullets.

Drennen and Max fired