les thought a moment.

"Yes," he said at last. "When they return here it must be after dark.
The patrol and horses they bring with 'em are to be camped over at
Winter's Crossing, five miles higher up the valley. This before they
come in to report. That's all."

"Very good, sir."

Sergeant McBain departed, and presently the clatter of hoofs told the
officer that the two troopers had ridden away. As they went he drew
out a pipe and began to fill it.

When McBain re-entered the room Fyles bestirred himself. He turned
back and flung himself into an uncomfortable, rawhide-seated,
home-made chair, and lit his pipe. McBain took up a position at the
small table which served the purpose of a desk.

McBain and his men had taken up their quarters here several weeks ago.
It was a mere shed, possibly an implement shed on an abandoned farm.
It was a frame, weather-boarded shanty with a dilapidated shingle
roof. Quite a reasonable shelter till it chanced to rain. The
handiness of the troopers had made it comparatively habitable with
oddments of furnishing, and a partition, which left an inner room for
sleeping quarters. There was a partial wooden lining covering the
timbers supporting the roof, which was an open pitch, without any
ceiling. There were several wooden brackets projecting from the walls,
which had probably, at one time, been used to support harness. Now
they served the purpose of carrying police saddles and uniform
overcoats.

There was obviously no attempt at establishing a permanent station
there. These men were, as was their custom, merely utilizing the
chance finding as an added comfort in their strenuous lives.

Fyles lit his pipe, and, for some moments, smoked thoughtfully, while
McBain's pen scratched a series of entries in his diary.

Fyles watched him through a cloud of smoke, and when his subordinate
returned his pen to the home-made rack on the table, he began to talk.

"There's two things puzzling me about that tree, McBain," he said,
following out his train of thought. "Your reckoning has justification
all right. We saw enough last night for that. Besides, you have seen
the same sort of thing several times before. It surely has a big play
in the affairs of these 'runners.' But I can't get a focus of that
play. Suppose that the tree is in some mysterious way a sort of means
of communication, why is it necessary? And, why in thunder, when
everybody knows who the boss of the gang is, don't they deal d