business. Their property had been destroyed and confiscated. Fines
had been imposed on them. The current whisper was that the
whiskey-smugglers would retaliate against the constables in person
whenever there was a chance to do so with impunity. Some day a
debonair wearer of the scarlet coat would ride out gayly from one
of the forts and a riderless horse would return at dusk. There were
outlaws who would ask nothing better than a chance to dry-gulch one of
these inquisitive riders of the plains.

But Beresford rode into the stockade and swung from the saddle with
smiling confidence. He nodded here and there casually to dark, sullen
men who watched his movements with implacably hostile eyes.

His words were addressed to Reddy Madden. "Can you let me have a horse
for a few days and charge it to the Force? I've lost mine."

Some one sniggered offensively. Barney had evidently reached Whoop-Up
and was in hiding.

"Your horse came in a while ago, constable," Madden said civilly.
"It's in the corral back of the store."

"Did it come in without a rider?" Beresford asked.

The question was unnecessary. The horse would have gone to Fort
Macleod and not have come to Whoop-Up unless a rider had guided it
here. But sometimes one found out things from unwilling witnesses if
one asked questions.

"Didn't notice. I was in the store myself."