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in control of the situation.

      "I swear not!" exclaimed the agent earnestly. "Do you know what would happen to me if...Well, I'd wear stripes."

      "Entirely unbecoming to one of your tastes," murmured Grist. "Well, let's get to our muttons—or our beeves."

      "I do it under duress," said the agent. "If the commissioner ever got wind of it I'd be crucified and hung up as a specimen."

      "Protest registered. Ever read what Shakespeare said about protests? Never mind. Go on with the details."

      The agent leaned across the desk. "When Gillette filed he brought the location marks, and they were inserted in the application. One of those location marks ended in a figure three. The three has been changed to an eight. I won't say when or where or how or by whom. But it's been changed. Do you understand?"

      "Therefore," mused Grist, "Gillette is squatting beside water he has no right to. And that particular strip of land along the river is open to filing. Just so. But how about the responsibility of the land office? Weren't you supposed to know when he filed the location—I mean the location the application now shows—whether or not it was the place he had in mind?"

      "We're not supposed to meet a man's mind," said the agent. "He gave me the figures. I registered them. As a matter of course I looked on the record to see if that location had or had not been previously filed. That's all of my responsibility."

      Grist got up. "Very fine. You make out a new set of papers. I'll bring in one of my riders to sign 'em. He'll be the legal petitioner. Next in order is a writ of eviction. Squatters right doesn't apply on entry land, does it? Just so."

      "Gillette will contest that," muttered the agent. "There'll be a stink. But they can't prove malfeasance on me. It's his error, that's all. Not my error. I'll swear those were the figures he gave me. And what influence has he in the East, anyhow?"

      "That's the essential point. You stick to your story with a steadfast heart. Virtue is not alone in receiving rewards."

      He went out, immeasurably encouraged by the turn of events. It put him in a fighting humour. There was substantial support back of him. Gillette couldn't fight Federal authority.

      In the course of forty-eight hours he brought a P.R.N. puncher in to file, also got a writ of eviction, and also by use of sundry witnesses, had a warrant issued for Gillette on the charge of murdering his foreman. On the appointed hour and day he met the United States Marshal, one W. G. Hannery, and rode out of Nelson, bound toward the Circle G to see the writ executed and the warrant served.

      "You tried to obtain possession of these premises?" demanded the marshal, not in love with his mission.

      "No, certainly not."

      "Then what the hell about all this hocus-pocus?"

      "Listen, how near that ranch do you suppose Gillette would let me approach? How long do you figure he'd listen to me?"

      "Not much longer'n I'd listen to you, if it was me in the same skiff," said the marshal. "I'm telling you, frankly, I don't like to see a white man's country tied up by a bunch of Eastern highbinders, Grist."

      Grist smiled. "How Eastern? That strip is being filed on by one of my punchers. A son of the range, a product of the glorious West who never was east of the Dakota line and never owned more than a silver-mounted saddle in his life."

      "Gush," snorted the marshal. "I'm dry behind the ears. That's the old dodge. Well, if I got to do it, then I got to do it. But you want to figure a high-power rifle kicks back blamed near as hard as it shoots forward. Which applies to Gillette. And don't come running to me if you get hurt. You're going to discover you can't hide behind the petticoats of Justice all the time."

      The two of them arrived at the Circle G houses and were confronted by Quagmire and Christine Ballard. The marshal, under the influence of her smile, thawed and reached for his hat.

      "I'm inquirin' for Tom Gillette."

      "Deadwood," grunted Quagmire. "I'm jef here temporary. Le's have the hard news."

      "Orders to get off," was the marshal's equally laconic answer. "You ain't on the place you filed on. Said place, apparently, is nearer the north pole. This fellow"—indicating Grist—"has got the drop on you boys."

      Quagmire squinted at Grist until the latter shifted in the saddle. But the wizened puncher showed no surprise at the news. He dwelt in pessimism, he always expected the worst to happen. He contented himself with saying, "Something smells around here."

      "I didn't ask him to come along," explained the marshal. He got down and tacked the notice to the ranchhouse wall. "Said movin' orders are meant to be promptly obeyed. But seein' as Gillette ain't here and it'd work a plain hardship to move without him on hand to superintend such I'll hold off till he get back."

      "Oh, look here," protested Grist.

      "Shut up. I obey my orders. I also got a right to interpret some of 'em. I'm doin' a little interpretin' now. If you don't like it write East to them land grabbers." He remounted and started away. Then yards off he turned in the saddle and added, as an apparent afterthought, "I also hold a warrant for Gillette. Murder. Have to execute that personally. When you see him, tell him to come and get it."

      Quagmire met the marshal's sober glance and held it for a long while. "Yeah. All right."

      "Listen," cried Grist, suddenly aroused, "are you trying to warn Gillette away?"

      "A man's got a right to know the law's after him," was the marshal's blunt answer. "Out here he has. That's another interpretation. You better be amiable, brother, or I'll let you ride across Gillette range alone. And how far do you think you'd get before a bullet slapped you down?"

      They went on. Quagmire waited only until the two were decently beyond talking distance before he turned to read the notice its full length. Then he ran for the bunkhouse and collected his possibles. He saddled a horse and he haltered another. He gave abrupt orders to one of the arriving punchers. "Yo' in charge, Red. I'm lopin' fo' Deadwood to find Tom."

      Christine crossed the yard and put a detaining hand on Quagmire's arm. "Tell him I'm still waiting."

      Quagmire ducked his solemn visage and galloped away. Presently his path was marked by a faint ball of dust to the southwest.

      XV. FLOOD TIDE—AND EBB

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      For seventy-two hours Lorena Wyatt kept her solitary vigil by the bunk, her eyes watching his face for the slightest movement, her hands now and then questing across his heart; and for seventy-two hours he lay in the self-same posture of death with only the faint rise and fall of his chest to indicate he still lived. In washing him and binding the cuts about his body she found the bruises on his temple to be only superficial, they were not bullet made, although in receiving them he must have been tremendously battered. On his flank, one long furrow cut through the outer flesh and left a path more sinister to look upon than dangerous. This she had wrapped as well as his head, knowing they would mend, but the deep hole just below and inside his arm socket was another matter. The bullet still lodged there, and whether it was seated in solid flesh or whether it touched his lungs she couldn't tell.

      Time was the only mender—time and this man's splendid power of body. There was a doctor in Deadwood, but Lorena knew the medico had gone into the hills a day before to take care of some distant prospector crushed by a slide. And he wouldn't be back until the crisis came and passed with Tom Gillette. So she watched, sitting helpless on the box beside the bunk, occasionally touching him as if wishing to send some message down into the deep pit he had descended; watching him grow grayer and grayer and hearing his breathing shorten and diminish. To Lorena it was agony. She could do nothing but wait—nothing but sit by while he slipped away from her; and through her mind marched the thousand things she wanted to tell him, wanted him to know about herself. After that first cry she set her lips together and never uttered another sound;

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