She was very, very beautiful. Her hair was abundant and dark. Yet it was quite devoid of that suggestion of great weight so often found in very dark hair. There was a melting luster in the velvet softness of her deeply fringed eyes. Her features were sufficiently irregular to escape the accusation of classic form, and possessed a firmness and decision quite remarkable. At that moment the solitary horseman decided in his mind that here was the most beautiful creature he had ever looked upon.
She was dressed in a light summer frock, through the delicate texture of which peeped the warm tint of beautifully rounded arms and shoulders. She was hatless, too, in spite of the summer blaze. To his fired imagination she belonged to a canvas painted by some old master whose portrayals suggested a strength and depth of character rarely seen in life. Even the beautiful olive of her complexion suggested those southern climes whence alone, he had always been led to believe, old masters hailed.
To him it was the face of a woman whose heart and mind were crowding with a yearning for something – something unattainable. Such was her look of strength and virility that he almost regretted them, fearing that her character might belie her wondrous femininity.
But in a moment he had denial forced upon him. The girl turned slowly, and gazed up into his face with smiling frankness. Her eyes took him in from his prairie hat to his well-booted feet. They passed swiftly over his dark patrol jacket, with its star upon its shoulder, and down the yellow stripe of his riding breeches. There was nothing left him but to salute, which he did as her voice broke the silence.
“You’re Inspector Stanley Fyles?” she said, with a rising inflection in her deep musical voice.
The man answered bluntly. He was taken aback at the unconventional greeting.
“Yes – ” He cleared his throat in his momentary confusion. Then he responded to her still smiling eyes. “And – that’s Rocky Springs?” he inquired, pointing down the valley. The information was quite unnecessary.
The girl nodded.
“Yes,” she said, “a prairie village that’s full of everything interesting – except, perhaps, honesty.”
The man smiled broadly.
“That’s why I’m here.”
The girl laughed a merry, rippling laugh.
“Sure,” she nodded. “We heard you were coming. You’re going to fix a police station here, aren’t you?” Then, as he nodded, her smile died out and her eyes became almost earnest. “It’s surely time,” she declared. “I’ve heard of bad places, I’ve read of them, I guess. But all I’ve heard of, or read of, are heavens of righteousness compared with this place. Look,” she cried, rising from the ground and reaching out one beautifully rounded arm in the direction of the nestling houses, amid their setting of green woods, with the silvery gleam of the river peeping up as it wound its sluggish summer way through the heart of the valley. “Was there ever such a mockery? The sweetest picture human eyes could rest on. Fair – far, far fairer than any artist’s fancy could paint it. It’s a fit resting place for everything that’s good, and true, and beautiful in life, and – and yet – I’d say that Rocky Springs, very nearly to a man, is – against the law.”
For a moment Fyles had no reply. He was thinking of the charm of the picture she made standing there silhouetted against the green slope of the far side of the valley. Then, as she suddenly dropped her arm, and began to gather up the sewing she had tumbled upon the ground when she stood up, he pulled himself together. He beamed an unusually genial smile.
“Guess there are things we police need to be thankful for, and places like Rocky Springs are among ’em,” he said, cheerfully. “I’d say if it wasn’t for your Rocky Springs, and its like, we should be chasing around as uselessly as hungry coyotes in winter. The Government wouldn’t fancy paying us for nothing.”
By the time he had finished speaking the girl’s work was gathered in her arms.
“That’s the trail,” she said abruptly, pointing at the path which Fyles had left for his inspection of the tree. “It goes right on down to the saloon. You see,” she added slyly, “the saloon’s about the most important building in the town. Good-bye.”
Without another word she walked off down the slope, and, in a moment, was lost among the generous growth of shrubs.
This was the scene to which his mind always reverted. But there were others, many of them, and in each this beautiful girl’s presence was always the center of his focus. He had seen and spoken to her many times since then, for his duty frequently took him into the neighborhood of that aged pine. But in spite of her frankness at their first meeting she quickly proved far more elusive than he would have believed possible, and consequently his intimacy with her had progressed very little.
The result was a natural one. The man’s interest in her was still further whetted, till, in time, he finally realized that the long anticipated move upwards, which he was preparing for, could no longer be made – alone.
These were the thoughts occupying him now as he stared out through the dusty window at the scattered houses which lined Amberley’s main street. These were the thoughts which conjured on his bronzed, strong features, that pleasant half-smile of satisfaction. He wanted her very much. He wanted her so much that all impulse to rush headlong and make her his was thrust aside. He must wait – wait with the same patience which he applied to all that which was important in his life, and, when opportunity offered, when the moment was ripe, he would make the great effort upon which he knew so much of his future happiness depended.
Thus he was dreaming on pleasantly, hopefully, and yet not without doubts, when a sharp knock at his door banished the last vestige of romance from his mind. In an instant he was on his feet, alert and waiting.
“Come!”
His summons was promptly answered, and the tall figure of the corporal stood framed in the doorway.
“Well?”
The question came with the sharp ring of authority.
“It’s Huntly, sir,” the man explained briefly. “He’s got a message. There’s been a ‘hold-up’ of the freight, just beyond White Point. The ‘jumpers’ have dropped off the two hindermost cars and held the crew prisoners. Seems the train was flagged on the bend out of the hills and then allowed to pass. While it was standing the cars were cut loose. Then the train came on without them. She’s in sight now. Huntly’s outside.”
The Inspector gave no sign while his subordinate talked. His eyes were lowered at a point of interest on the floor. At the conclusion of the man’s brief outline he glanced up.
“Has Huntly got the message with him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fyles made a move, and the other stepped back to let him pass out.
The agent was waiting in the outer office. His eyes were wide with excitement.
“Well? Where’s the message?” the officer demanded.
Huntly thrust a paper into his hand.
“It just came through.”
Fyles took it, and his strong brows drew together as he read the long story of the “hold-up” which the man had taken down from his instrument.
A deep silence prevailed while the officer read the news which so completely frustrated all his plans.
At last he looked up. Favoring the man Huntly with one inquiring glance, he turned to the corporal.
“It says here the brakeman heard the leader tell his men to make for the south trail. That was either bluff – or a mistake. They sometimes make mistakes, and that’s how we get our chances. The south trail is the road into Rocky Springs. Rocky Springs is twenty-two miles from White Point. They’ve