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Updated: June 4, 2025
His eyes were wide with excitement. "Well? Where's the message?" the officer demanded. Huntly thrust a paper into his hand. "It just came through." Fyles took it, and his strong brows drew together as he read the long story of the "hold-up" which the man had taken down from his instrument. A deep silence prevailed while the officer read the news which so completely frustrated all his plans.
Nor had she time to call them back, for, at that moment, Fyles's horse drew up at the front door, and she heard the officer leap out of the saddle. "Have you made your peace with headquarters?" Kate and Stanley Fyles were standing out in the warm shade of the house. The woman's hand was gently caressing the velvety muzzle of Peter's long, fiddle face.
The bit hung lightly in the horse's mouth, but lightly as the reins were held in the man's hand there was a firmness and decision in the feeling of them that communicated the necessary confidence between horse and rider. Stanley Fyles was as nearly a perfect horseman as the prairie could produce. Just now the man beneath the officer's habit was revealed.
Get me? The police are always glad when crooks do that. It pays them better when the time comes." Bill had no reply. He suddenly experienced the chill of the cold steel of police methods. A series of painful pictures rose up before his mind's eye, which held his tongue silent. Helen quickly came to his rescue. "But who's to say who did it?" she demanded. Fyles smiled down into her pretty face.
Guess there'll be jest one feller with that boat, an' he'll be the feller that's that's had you red coats skinned a mile all these months an' years." Fyles gathered up his reins. "Just one word," he said coldly. "I hate a traitor worse than poison, but I'm paid to get these people. So my word goes, if your story's true. If it isn't well, take my advice and get out quick, or you won't have time."
Then with a sudden burst of anger: "Damn it all, if my men don't stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I'd better get out." "Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I've served three traders here, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles.
It's liable to be more effective than your's would have been way back there." The man seemed to resign himself. "Guess it don't pay shootin' up red coats," he said, with a rough laugh. "No." Then in a moment Fyles put a sharp question. "You are waiting for me? Why?" Pete laughed, but his laugh was uneasy. "Because I'm sick to death being agin the law." "Ah.
P'r'aps it's for the best, you're so so strong, and so ready to help. You can't see ahead. Neither can I. Maybe no one can, but Fyles. Suppose you and I were standing at the foot of a cliff a big, high cliff, very dangerous, very dreadful, and some one we both loved was climbing its face, and we saw them reach a point where it looked impossible to go on, or turn back. What could we do?
Gee, but I'd hate spilling it." The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coarse police blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying something of the ominous figures hidden under them. "Say " cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on. "Say, them wagons are loaded some." Fyles nodded.
Her eyes, too, were shining, and full of those subtle depths of fire which held the man enthralled. "Monday?" she said. Then in a curiously reflective way she repeated the word, "Monday." Fyles waited, and, in a moment, Kate's thought seemed to pass. She looked fearlessly up into the man's eyes, but there was no smile in response to his. "I'm going away until after Monday," she said.
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