"Get him?" the Montanan asked.

The answer he could guess. The North-West Mounted always brought
back those they were sent for. Already the Force was building up the
tradition that made them for a generation rulers of half a continent.

"Got him." Thus briefly the red-coat dismissed an experience that
had taken toll of his vitality greater than five years of civilized
existence. "Been back a week. Inspector Crouch sent me here to have a
look-see."

"At what? He ain't suspectin' any one at Faraway of stretchin',
bendin', or bustin' the laws."

Tom cocked a merry eye at his visitor. Rumor had it that Faraway was
a cesspool of iniquity. It was far from the border. When sheriffs of
Montana became too active, there was usually an influx of population
at the post, of rough, hard-eyed men who crossed the line and pushed
north to safety.

"Seems to be. You're not by any chance lookin' for trouble?"

"Duckin' it," answered Tom promptly.

The officer smiled genially. "It's knocking at your door." His
knuckles rapped on the desk.

"If I ever bumped into a Santa Claus of joy--"

"Oh, thanks!" Beresford murmured.