nd then they will not shoot me mooch dead."

Old Rory gave a grunt and eyed the hulking fellow
disgustedly. "It's nary a fut ye'll be goin' back now,
an' I'm tellin' yees, so it's makin' what moind ye have
aisy, sez Oi."

He turned to the rancher and there was grim determination
in his eyes.

"An' as for you goin' back now, shure an' it's a gossoon
ye'll be takin' me for if ye think I'll be lettin' yees.
It's ten chances to wan them jokers'll have changed their
sentymints by the time ye git thar, and will hould on to
the sarjint as well as to you. It's mesilf as is goin'
back if ye juist tell me where the show is, for I knows
the whole caboodle, an' if I can't git him out o' that
before another hour, then Rory's not the name av me. You
juist--"

But he never finished the sentence, for at that very
moment two or three shots rang out on the still night.
They came from the neighbourhood of the town.

"Summat's up," exclaimed Rory. "Let's investigate."

The three men seized their rifles and ran up the ridge
that overlooked the bend of the trail They peered into
the grey moonlit night in the direction of the township.

At first they could see nothing, but a desultory shot or
two rang out, and it seemed to them that they were nearer
than before. At last, round a bend in the trail, they
caught sight of a dark figure running towards them.

"It must be one of the Police or Pasmore," said the
rancher.

At last they saw this man's pursuers. There were only
three of them, and one stopped at the turn, the other
two keeping on. Now and again one of them would stop,
kneel on the snow, and take aim at the flying figure.
But moonlight is terribly deceptive, and invariably makes
one fire high; moreover, when one's nerves are on the
jump, shooting is largely chance work.

"'Pears to me," remarked Rory, "thet this 'ere ain't what
you'd 'xactly call a square game. Thet joker in the lead
is gettin' well nigh played out, an' them two coves
a-follerin' are gettin' the bulge on 'im. Shure an' I'm
thinkin' they're friends av yourn, Lagrange, but they
wants stoppin'. What d'ye say?"

"_Oui, oui_--oh, yiss, stob 'em! If they see me ze--what
you call it--ze game is oop. Yiss, they friends--shoot
'em mooch dead."

The tender-hearted Lagrange was a very Napoleon in the
advocating of extreme measures when the inviolability of
his own skin was concerned.

"It's a bloodthirsty baste ye are wid yer own kith an'
kin," exclaimed Ro