door and flung it open. Then he stood for awhile gazing out at the
wonderful morning daylight, and drinking in the pure prairie air.
While he stood thus his thoughts were busy, and a half smile was in
his eyes. He was thinking of the irony of the fact that Kate Seton's
superstition had completely taken possession of him.

* * * * *

Two hours after sunrise McBain and his superior were at work again.
They had snatched their brief sleep, but it was sufficient for these
hardy riders of the plains. The camp was full of activity. Each man of
the patrol had to be interviewed, and given minute instructions, also
instructions for the arising of unforeseen circumstances, where
individual initiative would require to be displayed. Then there were
rations to be served out, and, finally, messengers must be sent to the
supernumerary camp higher up the valley. But there was no undue bustle
or haste. It was simply activity.

At ten o'clock Stanley Fyles left the camp. McBain would continue the
work, which, by this time, had returned to conditions of ordinary
routine.

Peter ambled gently down the valley. His rider seemed in no hurry.
There was no need for hurry. The village was five miles away, and he
had no desire to reach it until just before eleven. So he could take
his leisure, sparing both himself and his horse for the great effort
of the morrow.

Just for one brief moment he contemplated a divergence from his
course. It was at the moment when he left the cattle track which led
to his camp and joined the old Indian trail to the village. He reached
the branching cattle track on the other side of it which would have
led him to the mysterious corral, which was possessed of so much
interest and suspicion. But he remembered that a visit thither would
violate the conditions of his wager with Kate. The place belonged to
Charlie Bryant. So he pushed on.

As he rode he thought of Kate Seton's determination to absent herself
during the critical events about to happen in the village. On the
whole he was pleased with her decision. Somehow he felt he understood
her feelings. The grip of her superstition had left him more
understanding of her desire to get away.

Then, too, he would rather she were away when his own big effort came.
Should he fail again, which now he believed impossible, he would
rather she were not there to witness that failure. He knew, only too
well, from bitter experience, how easy it