Fyles moved clear of his men and strode up to the horseman. He halted within a yard of him, while the rest of the party looked on in amazement. McBain was the only one to make any move. He followed hard on his chief’s heels.
Fyles looked up into the horseman’s face. The sky had cleared and the moon was shining once more. A sudden fury leaped to the officer’s brain, and, for a moment, all discretion was very nearly flung to the winds. By a great effort, however, he checked his mad impulse.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Bryant?” he demanded sharply.
Charlie Bryant leaned forward upon the horn of his saddle. His dark eyes were smiling, but it was not a pleasant smile.
“Why, wondering what you fellows are doing here,” he said calmly.
Fyles stared, and again his fury nearly got the better of him.
“That’s no answer to my question,” he snapped.
“Isn’t it?” A subtle change was in Charlie Bryant’s manner. His smile remained, but it was full of a burning dislike, and even insolence. “Guess it’s all you’ll get from a free citizen. I’ve as much right here looking on at the escapades of the police, as they have to—indulge in ’em. Guess I’ve had a mighty long day and need to get home. Say, I’m tired. So long.”
He urged his horse forward and passed on down the trail. And as he went a trooper followed him, with orders to track him till daylight.