“How, sir?”
“Why, man alive,” replied Fyles sharply. “Do you think we’re going to fool a crook like him by just watching? Besides——”
“Yes, sir?”
Fyles had broken off. A woman was moving down the trail ahead of them. She was a good distance away, but he had recognized the easy gait and trim figure of Kate Seton. After a moment’s pause he withdrew his gaze and went on.
“I’ve got all I need out of that place—for the present. You’ve seen the wagon and—recognized it. It’s the wagon they ran that last cargo in. The man who drove it was Pete Clancy. Clancy is one of Charlie Bryant’s gang. I don’t think we need any more—yet. We’ve centralized the running of that last cargo. The rest of the work is for the future. My plans are all ready. The patrol comes in from Amberley to-night. It will be ample reinforcement. We’re just one move ahead of these boys, here, and we’ve got to keep that way. You can get right back to quarters, and wait for my return. I’m going in to the mail office to run my eye over local mail. The envelopes of a local mail make good reading—when a man’s used to it.”
McBain grinned in a manner that seemed to give his hard face pain.
“You get more out of the ad-dress on an envelope than any one I ever see, sir,” he observed shrewdly.
Fyles shrugged, not ill pleased at the compliment.
“It’s practice, and—imagination. Those things, and—a good memory for handwriting, also postmarks. Say, who’s that coming down the southern trail? Looks like——”
He broke off, shading his eyes from the burning sunlight of the valley.