ff was filled with sound as a blast
that drove a haze of snow before it roared down. It was followed by a
sudden stillness that was almost bewildering, and when a blink of
moonlight came streaming down, Trooper Shannon grabbed at his carbine,
for a man stood close beside him in the trail. The lad, who had
neither seen nor heard him come, looked down on the glinting barrel of
a Marlin rifle and saw a set white face behind it.

"Hands up!" said a hoarse voice. "Throw that thing down."

Trooper Shannon recognized it, and all the fierce hate he was capable
of flamed up. It shook him with a gust of passion, and it was not fear
that caused his stiffened fingers to slip upon the carbine. It fell
with a rattle, and while he sat still, almost breathless and livid in
face, the man laughed a little.

"That's better, get down," he said.

Trooper Shannon flung himself from the saddle, and alighted heavily as
a flung-off sack would have done, for his limbs refused to bend. Still
it was not from lack of courage that he obeyed, and during one moment
he had clutched the bridle with the purpose of riding over his enemy.
He had, however, been taught to think for himself swiftly and shrewdly
from his boyhood up, and realized instinctively that if he escaped
scathless the ringing of the rifle would warn the rustlers who he
surmised were close behind. He was also a police trooper broken to the
iron bond of discipline, and if a bullet from the Marlin was to end his
career, he determined it should if possible also terminate his enemy's
liberty. The gust of rage had gone and left him with the cold
vindictive cunning the Celt who has a grievous injury to remember is
also capable of, and there was contempt but no fear in his voice as he
turned to Courthorne quietly.

"Sure it's your turn now," he said. "The last time I put my mark on
the divil's face of ye."

Courthorne laughed wickedly. "It was a bad day's work for you. I
haven't forgotten yet," he said. "I'm only sorry you're not a trifle
older, but it will teach Sergeant Stimson the folly of sending a lad to
deal with me. Well, walk straight into the bush, and remember that the
muzzle of the rifle is scarcely three feet behind you!"

Trooper Shannon did so with black rage in his heart, and his empty
hands at his sides. He was a police trooper, and a bushman born, and
knew that the rustlers' laden horses would find some difficulty in
remounting the steep trail and could no