fore--burial."

"Burial?"

O'Brien's eyes opened wide. A sort of gasp went through the silent
crowd of onlookers, hanging on the police officer's words.

"Yes, it was a brush with--the runners," Fyles said seriously. "We
got them red-handed last night. It was a case of shooting, too. Two
of our boys were shot up. They're in the wagons. There's three of the
gang--dead, and the boss of it, Charlie Bryant. They're all in the
wagons. The rest are across the border by now. Guess there'll be no
more whisky run in this valley."

The hush which followed his announcement was far more eloquent than
words.

It was O'Brien whose temerity was strong enough to break it.

"That's so," he remarked thoughtfully. Then he sighed a world of
genuine regret, and his eyes glanced along the vast timber of the old
pine. "Guess the old cuss has worked out," he went on. "No, there'll
be no more whisky-running." Then he climbed slowly down from the wall.
"I'll have to get--moving on."

CHAPTER XXXIX

FROM THE ASHES

The nine days' wonder had come and passed. Never again could the
valley of Leaping Creek return to the conditions which had for so long
prevailed there. And strangely enough the victory won was far more a
moral than a physical one. True, one or two lives had paid for the
victory, but this was less than nothing compared with the effect
achieved.

Within three weeks a process of emigration had set in which left the
police with scarcely an excuse for their presence in the valley at
all. All those who, for long years, had sought sanctuary within the
shelter of the vast, forest-clad slopes of the valley, began to
realize that the immunity which they had enjoyed for so long was
rapidly becoming doubtful. The forces of the police suddenly seemed to
have become possessed of a too-intimate knowledge of the shortcomings
which had driven them to shelter. In fact, the limelight of government
authority was shining altogether too brightly, searching out the
shadowed corners in the lives of the citizens, and yielding up secrets
so long and so carefully hidden.

The first definite result of the police raid apparent was the "moving
on" of Dirty O'Brien. It came quite suddenly, and unexpectedly. Rocky
Springs one morning awoke to find that the old saloon was closed.
Inquiry soon elicited the true facts. O'Brien had vanished. The barn
was empty. His team and spring wagon had gone, and the house, and bar,
had been stripped of every