But the attitude of Lightning brought back to his mind that other matter, when the old man had been at such pains to seek him out, and impress upon him the opportunity held out to him. It looked to McFardell like a foolish bluff in the light of Lightning’s unvarying antagonism. Yes, he felt sure it was a bluff—in a way. The man was anxious to be rid of him. He was anxious and worried to death about——
He laughed softly to himself. Then of a sudden his mood became deadly serious. He dismissed Lightning’s purposes from his mind. It did not matter a thing to him what the cattleman’s object might be. Molly and he understood each other, and—— But he knew that every word Lightning had said about Dan Quinlan was right. He had heard all the talk in Hartspool. And Hartspool was very much given to plain speaking on matters concerning cattle and grain.
He had told Lightning he would look into the matter after the dance in Hartspool. But long before he reached his home his mind was definitely made up. Quinlan’s was thirty-five miles or so away up in the hills from his place. Well, it would help to fill in the week before the dance if he outfitted himself for a few days on the trail. He would pay his promised visit to the queer Irishman and spy out the land—before the dance. In fact—right away.
So it came that two days later McFardell found himself on the trail, or—as he preferred to think of it—on patrol. It was useless to make pretence that he was anything but the police officer he had always been. He was on patrol, that work he had always loved in the days before his disaster. And as he rode the tangled country of the foothills his spirits rose, and he found himself almost thankful to the old man who had prompted him out of his own secret purposes.
It did not matter a thing. Lightning was old and well-nigh decrepit, and his antagonism need make no difference. He, McFardell, would do the thing he contemplated just as it suited him. And meanwhile the hills around Quinlan, and Quinlan’s place itself, would be investigated very thoroughly before he returned on the day of Hartspool’s dance.
The watcher moved stealthily through the forest. Eyes and ears were alert. They were tuned, by long years of training, to the hush of the woods. He was afoot. And his movements gave out no sound as he passed amongst the myriad of bare tree-trunks, supporting their well-nigh impenetrable roofing of sombre foliage. His feet were moccasined, and they padded softly on the rotting carpet beneath them.
Far down the aisles of the forest he could see a sunlit clearing beyond. And the voices of the cattle came back to him something muffled by the intense forest hush. The sharp barking of dogs left no other doubt in his mind than that of the chances of his own discovery through canine scent and inquisitiveness. That, however, was in the lap of the gods. He was not unduly concerned. He was moving up against the wind, which in the shelter of the forest was almost indistinguishable, and his position he felt to be more than favourable.
As he neared the forest limits the wide expanse of the clearing opened out to his astonished eyes. And so his progress slowed down and finally ceased altogether. There was no need to go farther. He had no desire to court disaster. Besides from where he had halted he could see all that he needed and study it at his leisure.
It was an amazing sight. He had looked for the squalid hiding-place of a secret cattle camp, where the thief could secret and re-brand the beasts he had stolen. He had looked for the ordinary thing which Police work had taught him to expect. But that which he discovered was altogether different, and left him impressed and—disappointed.