“Say——” cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on. “Say, them—wagons—are loaded some.”
Fyles nodded.
“I was bringing ’em along to have them laid out here—in the Meeting House, before—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.”