valuable volunteer help. What with you and friend
Morse here--" He broke off, touched at her distress. "Never mind about
that, Miss McRae. He had it coming to him. I'll go out and size up the
damage to him, if his friends have had enough--and chances are they
have."

They had. Gosse advanced waving a red bandanna handkerchief as a flag
of truce.

"We got a plenty," he said frankly. "West's down, an' another of the
boys got winged. No use us goin' on with this darned foolishness.
We're ready to call it off if you'll turn Morse loose."

Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered, curtly. "No."

The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bristles awkwardly. "We
'lowed maybe--"

"I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney."

"Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised.

"Yes, we've got him and two others. I don't want them. I'll turn 'em
over to you. But not Morse and Barney. They're going to the post with
me for whiskey-running."

Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-Up men had carried
their wounded leader. Except West, they were all glad to drop the
battle. The big smuggler, lying on the ground with a bullet in his
thigh, cursed them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters. His anger
could not shake their decision. They knew when they had had enough.

The armistice concluded, Beresford and Morse walked over to the
camp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.

"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know," the
constable told him grimly.

The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap. "You didn't
hit me, you liar. It was that li'l' hell-cat of McRae. You tell her
for me I'll get her right for this, sure as my name's Bully West."

There was something horribly menacing in his rage. In the jumping
light of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenance
twisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.

Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way. "I'm servin'
notice, West, that you're to let that girl alone."

There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner's throat like that of
an infuriated wild animal. He glared at Morse, a torrent of abuse
struggling for utterance. All that he could say was, "You damned
traitor."

The eyes of the younger man did not waver. "It goes. I'll see you're
shot like a wolf if you harm her."

The wounded smuggler's fury outleaped prudence. In a surge of
momentary insanity he saw red. The barrel of his revolver rose
swift