"Sorry I can't return the favor, Nick! You go—but to gaol!" With an adroit movement the young man had whisked out a pair of handcuffs and was fitting them to the astonished Bully's wrists. "Best take it quietly, men. As they say in story-books, reinforcements are at hand! And till they come, get in there, all of you, and say your own prayers!" He lifted the tent flap. "Fall into line. Um, left. Left!—Left! March!"
"Who in blazes air ye?" gasped Nick, as he obeyed.
The answer came in awe-stricken tones from Mops, who, beneath the stranger's rough externals had suddenly suspected the insignia of a dreaded authority. "The hell! It's Scarlett of the Mounted!"
II
THE WOMENKIND OF LOST SHOE CREEK
Dandy Raish swaggered up to the tent where he had an appointment with old Blenksoe, relating to a little matter of holding up the stage, but finding services in progress, he scattered a few flowers of profanity, and turned on his heel.
Scarlett, pacing to and fro while awaiting aid, caught sight of him. "Now, that's a gentleman whose company I'd fancy most in his absence, I'm thinking!" To escape the other's observation while making his own, he returned to his kindlings.
Developments came soon, first in the person of a woman wrapped in a red cloak, young and comely, but at the moment repulsive from the effects of a debauch. Reeling from the shelter of a ruined cabin, "Gumboot Annie!" she cried, "Gumboot Annie, for the love of heaven, trust me with the price of a drink!"
Finding the source of refreshments temporarily inaccessible, she threw herself on a bench, cursing religion, even as Raish had done.