vehicle, the entire convoy. It would not be Bryant's wagon; that he
knew would be elsewhere. It would probably be some hired conveyance
which did not belong to the village.

Nearer drew the little convoy, nearer and nearer. It was less than
one hundred yards away. In the uncertain moonlight its pace seemed
leisurely, and he could hear the voices of the men escorting it. He
wanted it nearer. He wanted it under the very muzzles of his men's
carbines. The rattle of wheels, the plod of horses' hoofs were almost
abreast. A few seconds more, then----

Half-a-dozen shots rang out, the bullets whistling across in front of
the wagon, and above the horses' heads. The teamster reined up,
throwing his horses upon their haunches. Then, like a log, he fell
headlong from his driving seat.

Fyles turned with a bitter curse upon his lips for the criminal
carelessness of his men. But he was given no time to vent it. A cry
went up from the wagon's escort, and a hail of bullets rained upon the
ambush.

In a second the troopers charged the wagon, while two of their horses,
with empty saddles, raced from the cover, and vanished down the trail.

Then the fight waged furiously.

It lasted but a few moments. These savage men about the wagon had been
goaded beyond the power of their restraint, at no time great, by the
fall of their comrade. A wild fury at the wanton killing by the
troopers had fired the train of their passions. Retaliation had been
certain--certain as death itself.

But, after that first furious assault, these untamed prairie souls
realized the inevitable result of their action. They broke and fled,
scattering across country, vanishing like shadows in the night. The
next moment, acting on a sharp command, the police were in red-hot
pursuit, like hounds breaking from leash. Only Fyles and three men
stayed behind with the fallen teamster and his one other dead comrade.

But at the moment of the flight and pursuit, the sound of racing
wheels some distance away caught the officer's ears. In a moment he
was at the wagon side. His men were close upon his heels. The wagon
was empty. It was the blind he had anticipated, but--that sound of
speeding wheels.

He shouted to his men and set off across country in the direction.
Nothing must be left to chance. There was no doubt about the peculiar
rattle which sounded so plainly. It was a buckboard being driven at a
racing speed. Why?

* * * * *

A