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Updated: June 18, 2025
It was an enthusiasm inspired by her lover's acceptance of her suggestion. "But we're not going to just watch and watch and do nothing. We must keep on Fyles's trail. We must keep close behind Charlie, and when we see the fall coming on we must be ready to thrust out a hand. You never know, we may beat the whole game in spite of Charlie. We may be able to save him in spite of himself.
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.
Such was his own experience that he was beset by the gravest doubts. His only hope lay in the long record of exceptional work he possessed to his credit in the books of the police. This, and the story he had to tell them of future possibilities in the valley of Leaping Creek. Would Jason listen? Would he turn up the records, and count the excellence of Inspector Fyles's past work?
"Your wagon?" the officer observed casually, while his sharp eyes took in its last details. Charlie nodded. "Yes. Folks borrow it some. You see, I don't need it a heap, except at hay time." "No, I don't guess you need it a heap. Say, this is a queer place tucked away up here. Old cattle station, I guess." Fyles's remarks had no question in them. But he intended them to elicit a response.
I'm out after 'strays' now." Bill nodded with ready understanding. "I get it," he cried. "They just break out in spring, and go chasing after fancy grass. Then they get lost, or mussed up with ether cattle, and and need sorting out. Must be a mighty lonesome job always hunting 'strays." Inspector Fyles's eyes twinkled, but his sunburned face remained serious.
"Guess she's in the Broken Hills, an' gettin' near White Point. I'd say she'd be along in an hour sure." "Damn!" For once in his life Stanley Fyles's patience gave way. The man grinned. "It ain't no use cussin'," he protested, with a suggestion of malicious delight. "Y'see, she's just a bum freight. Ain't even a 'through. I tell you, these sort have emptied a pepper box of gray around my head.
Bryant," he apologized. "I just didn't recognize you in the darkness. Guess I thought you were some tough from the saloon. That was your brother ahead?" Fyles's calm, clean-cut features were in strong contrast to his subordinate's. He was smiling slightly, too. Sergeant McBain was wholly grim. Bill glanced from one to the other.
These were some of the endless pros and cons he debated with his lieutenant, Sergeant McBain, when they sat together planning their next campaign, while awaiting Amberley's reply to both the report of failure, and plea for the future. But Fyles's anxieties were far deeper than McBain's, who was equally involved in the failure. He had far more at stake.
The change in the man that rode away from Kate Seton's home as compared with the man who had arrived there less than an hour earlier was so remarkable as to be almost absurd in a man of Stanley Fyles's reputation for stern discipline and uncompromising methods.
Charlie laughed and pointed at the hut beyond the corral. "I'd awfully like to know some of the games that went on in there. Birds and things nest in its roof now. I guess they didn't come within a mile of it one time. They say King Fisher was mad blood mad. If that's so, I daresay this place could tell a few yarns." Again came Fyles's monosyllabic agreement.
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