he man of business. He nodded as he flung off his
horse and handed it over to a waiting trooper.

"Where's the despatch?" he demanded sharply.

McBain produced a long, official envelope. The other tore it open
hastily. He ran his eyes over its contents, and passed it back to the
sergeant.

"Good," he exclaimed. "There's a cargo left Fort Allerton, on the
American side, bound for Rocky Springs by trail. It's a big cargo of
rye whisky. We'll have to get busy."

CHAPTER XXII

MOVES IN THE GAME OF LOVE

Stanley Fyles's extreme satisfaction was less enduring than might have
been expected. Success, and the prospect of success, were matters
calculated to affect him more nearly than anything else in his life.
That was the man, as he always had been; that was the man, who, in so
brief a time, had raised himself to the commissioned ranks of his
profession. But, somehow, just now a slight undercurrent of thought
and feeling had set in. It was scarcely perceptible at first, but
growing rapidly, it quickly robbed the tide of his satisfaction of
quite half its strength, and came near to reducing it to the condition
of slack water.

McBain was in the quarters attending to the detail which fell to his
lot. A messenger from Winter's Crossing had come in announcing the
arrival, at that camp, of the reinforcing patrol. This was the
culminating point of Fyles's satisfaction. From that moment the
undercurrent set in.

The inspector had moved out of the bluff, which screened the temporary
quarters from chance observation, and had taken up a position on the
shoulder of the valley, where he sat himself upon a fallen fence post
to consider the many details of the work he had in mind.

The sun was setting in a ruddy cauldron of summer cloud, and, already,
the evening mists were rising from the heart of the superheated
valley. The wonderful peace of the scene might well have been a
sedative to the stream of rapid thought pouring through his busy
brain.

But its soothing powers seemed to have lost virtue, and, as his almost
unconscious gaze took in the beauties spread out before it, a curious
look of unrest replaced the satisfaction in his keen eyes. His brows
drew together in a peevish frown. A discontent set the corners of
his tightly compressed lips drooping, and once or twice he stirred
impatiently, as though his irritation of mind had communicated itself
to his physical nerves.

Once more the image of Kate Seton had ri