is head,
eyah! but he's inclined tu be over rash at toimes."

"Oh, he's all right," hissed Yorke reassuringly, "don't you get worrying
over him making any bad breaks, Burke. He's as fly as they make 'em."

Presently the sergeant faced round with a dreary sigh. "Come on thin,
Docthor," he murmured heavily, "wid me an' Yorke."

Making a wide detour they circled the ranch and wormed their way
cautiously through the dense scrub on its eastern side. Suddenly, with a
warning gesture to his companions, the sergeant halted. They had reached
the verge of the scrub and the front of the ranch-house faced
them--barely twenty yards distant. They could discern a faint light
glimmering around the lower edge of one of the windows.

"He is in!" whispered Slavin exultantly. "Blinds down though. 'Tis a
quare custom av his. Come on thin, Yorkey, me bould second-in-command!
In a mighty few short minuts we shall know"--his jaw dropped--"fwhat we
shall know! . . . Arrah thin, Docthor!"--he silenced a violent protest
from that adventurous gentleman, who made as though to accompany
them--"if ye wud help us in best fashion--shtay right here, an' mark
fwhat comes off. If we shud happen tu get ut in th' neck . . . just yu'
beat ut back tu Lanky! Ye know fwhat tu du--thin. I'll lave me carbine
here awhile."

He stepped clear of the brush and, revolver in hand, advanced softly upon
the low, one-story, log-built dwelling. Yorke followed a few steps in
his rear, with his carbine held in readiness at the "port-arms."

Reaching the door, the sergeant rapped upon it sharply. There was no
response from within, but--the light vanished on the instant. Yorke
stepped warily to the side and covered the door with his weapon. A few
tense moments passed, and then Slavin rapped again. Heavy footfalls now
sounded, approaching the door from the inside, halted, and then, through
the panels came Gully's hollow, booming bass: "Who's there?"

"Shlavin of th' Mounted Police, Gully. Opin up! we wud shpake wid ye."

"What do you want? What's your business at this hour of the night?"

"Fwhat do we want?"--the sergeant uttered mirthless chuckle--"fwhy 'tis
yu' we want, Gully--for murdher! Come off th' perch, man, th' jig's up!
There's a bunch av us here--we've got yu're shack covered properly--wid
carbines--north, east, south, an' west--ye can pull nothin' off. Come
now! will ye pitch up an' act reasonable? 'Tis no manner av use ye
shtartin' in