ge
were more than a score of whiskey-casks.

After ten minutes with the rifle butt there was nothing to show for
the cache but broken barrels and a trough of wet sand where the liquor
had run down the bed of the dry gully.

It was time, Morse thought, to play his own small part in the
entertainment.

"After you, gentlemen," Beresford said, stepping aside to let them
take the trail up.

Morse too moved back to let Barney pass. The eyes of the two men met
for a fraction of a second. Tom's lips framed silently one word. In
that time a message was given and received.

The young man followed Barney, the constable at his heels. Morse
stumbled, slipped to all fours, and slid back. He flung out his arms
to steady himself and careened back against the constable. His flying
hands caught at the scarlet coat. His bent head and shoulders thrust
Beresford back and down.

Barney started to run.

The officer struggled to hold his footing against the awkward incubus,
to throw the man off so that he could pursue Barney. His efforts were
vain. Morse, evidently trying to regain his equilibrium, plunged
wildly at him and sent him ploughing into the willows. The Montanan
landed heavily on top, pinned him down, and smothered him.

The scarlet coat was a center of barrel hoops, bushes, staves, and
wildly jerking arms and legs.

Morse made heroic efforts to untangle himself from the clutter. Once
or twice he extricated himself almost, only to lose his balance on the
slippery bushes and come skating down again on the officer just as he
was trying to rise.

It was a scene for a moving-picture comedy, if the screen had been a
feature of that day.

When at last the two men emerged from the gulch, Barney was nowhere to
be seen. With him had vanished the mount of Beresford.

The constable laughed nonchalantly. He had just lost a prisoner, which
was against the unwritten law of the Force, but he had gained another
in his place. It would not be long till he had Barney too.

"Pretty work," he said appreciatively. "You couldn't have done it
better if you'd done it on purpose, could you?"

"Done what?" asked Morse, with bland naivete.

"Made a pillow and a bed of me, skated on me, bowled me over like a
tenpin."

"I ce'tainly was awkward. Couldn't get my footin' at all, seemed like.
Why, where's Barney?" Apparently the trader had just made a discovery.

"Ask of the winds, 'Oh, where?'" Beresford dusted off his coat, his
trousers, an