chips from a recent axe. In a second his
brain grasped the fact that the bridge had been cut away on purpose. His
thoughts flew forward--for what purpose was it destroyed? Like a dream
seemed to come the captain's voice in his ears: "Better take a gun with
you, boy, and keep a sharp lookout for that registered stuff--mind!" And
he heard himself reply, "I'll land the mail at the mines all right."

"And I'll do it, too!" he said, aloud. Then, above the hoarse voices of
the storm, he heard a low, long, penetrating whistle. Quick as a flash
the boy realized his position. He snatched the registered mail bag from
between his knees. "Royal! Royal! Good dog!" he called, softly, and the
poor, wet, storm-beaten creature came instantly, reaching pathetically
toward his young master, his forefeet pawing the wagon wheels, his fine,
keen nose sniffing at the mail sack outheld by Maurice.

"Royal, you must watch!" said the boy. "Watch, Royal, watch!" Then,
with a strengthy fling of his arm, he hurled the precious bag of
registered mail over the rim of the precipice, far down into the canyon,
two hundred feet below. For an instant the dog stood rigid. Then, like
the needle to the north, he turned, held his sensitive head high in the
air for a moment, sniffed audibly and was gone. Then again came that
low, long whistle. The horses' ears went erect, and Maurice sat silent,
grasping the reins and peering ahead through the now lessening rain.
But, with all his young courage, his heart weakened when a voice spoke
directly behind him. It said:

"Who are you?"

He turned and faced three men, and, looking directly into the eyes of
the roughest-seeming one of the trio, he replied, quietly:

"I think you know who I am."

"Humph! Cool, I must say!" answered the first speaker. "Well, perhaps we
can warm you up a bit; but maybe you can save us some trouble by telling
us where old Delorme is."

"At home," said Maurice.

"And you've brought the mall in place of Delorme, I suppose? Well, so
much the better for us. I'll trouble you to hand me out that bag of
registered stuff."

The man ceased speaking, his hand on the rim of the front wheel.

"I have no registered stuff," the boy answered, truthfully. "Just six
common mail bags. Do you wish them? As I am only one boy against three
men, I suppose there is not much use resisting." Maurice's lip curled in
a half sneer, and his eyes never left the big bully's face.

"A lie won't work this tim