the spring round-up. He was dressed in plain leather chapps over his
black cloth riding breeches, and, from his waist up, his clothing was
a gray flannel shirt, over which he wore an open waistcoat of ordinary
civilian make. About his neck was tied a silk handkerchief of modest
hue, and about his waist was strapped a revolver belt. The only
visible detail that could have marked him as a police officer was the
glimpse of military spurs beneath his chapps.

His thoughts and feelings as he covered the dreary miles of grass were
of a conflicting nature, and, roaming at will, they centered, as
thoughts so roaming will center, chiefly upon those things which
concerned his most cherished ambitions.

At first a feeling of something bordering on anxious resentment pretty
fully occupied him. There was still in his mind the memory of an
interview he had had with his immediate superior, Superintendent
Jason, just before the time of his setting out. It had been an
uncomfortable half-hour spent listening to the sharp criticisms of his
chief, whose mind was saturated with the spirit of his official
capacity, almost to the exclusion of common sense.

Superintendent Jason was still angry at the manner in which the great
whisky-running coup had been effected, and of the manner in which the
perpetrators of it had slipped through the official fingers. He blamed
everybody, and particularly Inspector Fyles, in whose hands the case
had been placed.

Nor had he been wholly appeased by the inspector's final offer. Goaded
by the merciless pin-prick of his superior's tongue, Fyles had finally
offered to set out for Rocky Springs, the place, both were fully
agreed, whence the trouble emanated, and bring all those concerned in
the smuggling to book.

At first Jason had been inclined to sneer, nor was it until Fyles
unfolded something of his scheme that he began to take it seriously.
Finally, however, the younger man had had his way, and the necessary
permission was granted. Then the superintendent dealt with the matter
as the cold discipline of police methods demanded.

Fyles remembered his words well. They meant far more to him than they
expressed. They were full of a cold threat, which, to a man of his
experience, could not be mistaken.

The picture remained in his mind for many a long day. It was doubtful
if he would ever forget it. It was a moment of crisis in his official
life, a crisis when it became necessary to back himself against