oment Sard was dying, horribly, among
two trapped otters as big and fierce as the dogs that had driven them
into the drain.

But Lannis knew nothing of that as he moved on, mounted, along the
spotted trail, now all a yellow glory of birch and poplar which made the
woodland brilliant as though lighted by yellow lanterns.

Somewhere among the birches, between him and Star Pond, was Harrod
Place. And the idea occurred to him that Quintana might have ventured
to ask food and shelter there. Yet, that was not likely because Trooper
Stormont had called him that morning on the telephone from the Hatchery
Lodge.

No; the only logical retreat for Quintana was northward to the
mountains, where patrols were plenty and fire-wardens on duty in every
watch-tower. Or, the fugitive could make for Drowned Valley by a blind
trail which, Stormont informed him, existed but which Lannis never had
heard of.

However, to reassure himself, Lannis rode as far as Harrod Place, and
found game wardens on duty along the line.

Then he turned west and trotted his mount down to the hatchery, where he
saw Ralph Wier, the Superintendent, standing outside the lodge talking
to his assistant, George Fry.

When Lannis rode up on the opposite side of the brook, he called across
to Wier:

"You haven't seen anything of any crooked outfit around here, have you,
Ralph? I'm looking for that kind."

"See here," said the Superintendent, "I don't know but George Fry may
have seen one of your guys. Come over and he'll tell you what happened
an hour ago."

Trooper Lannis pivotted his horse and put him to the brook with scarcely
any take-off; and the splendid animal cleared the water like a deer and
came cantering up to the door of the lodge.

Fry's boyish face seemed agitated; he looked up at the State Trooper
with the flush of tears in his gaze and pointed at the rifle Lannis
carried:

"If I'd had _that,_" he said excitedly, "I'd have brought in a crook,
you bet!"

"Where did you see him?" inquired Lannis.

"Jest west of the Scaur, about an hour and a half ago. Wier and me was
stockin' the head of Scaur Brook with fingerlings. There's more good
water -- two miles of it -- to the east, and all it needed was a
fish-ladder around Scaur Falls.

"So I toted in cement and sand and grub last week, and I built me a
shanty on the Scaur, and I been laying up a fish-way around the falls.
So that's how I come there----" He clicked his teeth and darted