irect
with him?"

Fyles smiled into the grim face of McBain, and sat back waiting to
hear the Scot's reply. His keen face was alight with expectancy. He
wanted this shrewd man's ideas as well as his facts obtained by
observation.

The sergeant's face was obstinately set. He had already asserted
certain convictions about the old pine, and now he detected skepticism
in his superior.

"Three times in the last two weeks I have seen the same figure in the
shadow of that tree late at night. It hasn't needed any guessing to
locate his identity. Very well, starting with the supposition that the
village folk are right, and Charlie Bryant is our man, then his
movements about that tree at that hour of the night become more than
suspicious. Especially since we know he's run a big cargo in lately.
But while I figger on that tree there's something else, as I've told
you. I've tracked him into the neighborhood of the old Meeting House
and back again to the tree. Now, I've seen this play three times, and
would have seen the whole of it again last night if that damned coyote
of a tenderfoot hadn't butted in. That's that, sir."

Fyles nodded. The older man's earnestness was not without its weight.
But to a man like Fyles, definite proof, or reasonable probabilities,
were necessary. Clearing his throat, McBain went on.

"Let's come to another argument, sir," he said, setting himself with
his arms on the table. "Every man or woman in the place reckons this
tough, Charlie Bryant, runs the gang. They can lay their tongues to
the names of the men who form the gang. Guess this is the list, and a
certain one sure, knowing the men. There's Pete Clancy, Nick Devereux,
both hired men to Miss Seton. There's Kid Blaney, hired to Bryant
himself. There's Stormy Longton, the gambler and--murderer. Then
there's another I believe to be Macaddo, the train hold-up, and the
fellow they call "Holy" Dick. That's the gang with Bryant at their
head, but there may be more of them. I've got the names indirectly
from the village folk. But this is my point. Never a soul in the
village has seen them at work. Never a soul has seen them buy, or
sell, or handle, one drop of drink, except what they buy in the saloon
to consume. The gang don't do one single thing to give itself away,
and there's not a man or woman could give them away in the village,
except from their talk when they're drunk."

The man was making his point, and Fyles remained interested.

"Now,