at it was anyone else
he had as a prisoner than Val Galbraith, who was a favourite with the
Riders of the Plains.

Sergeant Tom had been standing in the doorway regarding this scene, and
working out in his mind the complications that had led to it. At this
point he came forward, and Inspector Jules said to him, after a curt
salutation:

"You were in a hurry last night, Sergeant Gellatly. You don't seem so
pushed for time now. Usual thing. When a man seems over-zealous--drink,
cards, or women behind it. But your taste is good, even if, under
present circumstances"--He stopped, for he saw a threatening look in the
eyes of the other, and that other said: "We won't discuss that matter,
Inspector, if you please. I'm going on to Fort Desire now. I couldn't
have seen you if I'd wanted to last night."

"That's nonsense. If you had waited one minute longer at the barracks
you could have done so. I called to you as you were leaving, but you
didn't turn back."

"No. I didn't hear you."

All were listening to this conversation, and none more curiously than
Private Waugh. Many a time in days to come he pictured the scene for
the benefit of his comrades. Pretty Pierre, leaning against the
hitching-post near the bar-room, said languidly:

"But, Inspector, he speaks the truth--quite: that is a virtue of the
Riders of the Plains." Val had his eyes on the half-breed, and a look of
understanding passed between them. While Val and his father and
sister were saying their farewells in few words, but with homely
demonstrations, Sergeant Tom brought his horse round and mounted it.
Inspector Jules gave the word to move on. As they started, Gellatly, who
fell behind the others slightly, leaned down and whispered: "Forgive me,
Jen. You did a noble act for me, and the life of me would prove to you
that I'm grateful. It's sorry, sorry I am. But I'll do what I can for
Val, as sure as the heart's in me. Good-bye, Jen."

She looked up with a faint hope in her eyes. "Goodbye!" she said. "I
believe you... Good-bye!"

In a few minutes there was only a cloud of dust on the prairie to tell
where the Law and its quarry were. And of those left behind, one was a
broken-spirited old man with sorrow melting away the sinister look in
his face; one, a girl hovering between the tempest of bitterness and a
storm of self-reproach; and one a half-breed gambler, who again sat
on the bar-counter smoking a cigarette and singing to himself, as
indolently as if