frustrated all his plans.

At last he looked up. Favoring the man Huntly with one inquiring
glance, he turned to the corporal.

"It says here the brakeman heard the leader tell his men to make for
the south trail. That was either bluff--or a mistake. They sometimes
make mistakes, and that's how we get our chances. The south trail is
the road into Rocky Springs. Rocky Springs is twenty-two miles from
White Point. They've probably had an hour's start with a heavily
loaded wagon. Rocky Springs is twenty-six from here by trail. Good.
Say, tell the boys to get on the move quick. They'll strike the south
trail about seven miles northeast of Rocky Springs. If they ride hard
they should cut them off, or, any way, hit their trail close behind
them."

"Yes, sir."

As Fyles turned back to the inner room and picked up the telephone,
ignoring the still waiting agent, the corporal hurried away.

In a moment the telephone bell rang out and the officer was speaking.

"Yes, sir, Fyles. Yes, at the Town Station. I'm coming up to barracks
right away. It's most important. I must see you. The whisky-runners
have--doubled on us."

CHAPTER V

BOUND FOR THE SOUTHERN TRAIL

Three uniformed men rode hard across the tawny plains. They rode
abreast. Their horses were a-lather; their lean sides tuckered, but
their gait remained unslackening. It was a gait they would keep as
long as daylight lasted.

Sergeant McBain's horse kept its nose just ahead of the others. It was
as though the big, rawboned animal appreciated its rider's rank.

Quite abruptly the non-commissioned officer raised an arm and pointed.

"Yon's the Cypress Hills, boys," he cried. "See, they're getting up
out of the heat haze on the skyline. We're heading too far south."

He spoke without for a moment withdrawing the steady gaze of his hard
blue eyes.

One of the troopers answered him.

"Sure, sergeant," he agreed. "We need to head away to the left."

The horses swung off the line, beating the sun-scorched grass with
their iron-shod hoofs with a vigor that felt good to the riders.

The bronzed faces of the men were eager. Their widely gazing eyes were
alert and watchful. They were trailing a hot scent, a pastime as well
as a work that was their life. They needed no greater incentive to put
forth the best efforts of bodily and mental energies.

The uniform of these riders of the western plains was unassuming.
Their brown canvas tunics, their prairie ha