"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know," the
constable told him grimly.

The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap. "You didn't
hit me, you liar. It was that li'l' hell-cat of McRae. You tell her
for me I'll get her right for this, sure as my name's Bully West."

There was something horribly menacing in his rage. In the jumping
light of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenance
twisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.

Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way. "I'm servin'
notice, West, that you're to let that girl alone."

There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner's throat like that of
an infuriated wild animal. He glared at Morse, a torrent of abuse
struggling for utterance. All that he could say was, "You damned
traitor."

The eyes of the younger man did not waver. "It goes. I'll see you're
shot like a wolf if you harm her."

The wounded smuggler's fury outleaped prudence. In a surge of
momentary insanity he saw red. The barrel of his revolver rose
swiftly. A bullet sang past Morse's ear. Before he could fire again,
Harvey Gosse had flung himself on the man and wrested the weapon from
his hand.

Hard-eyed and motionless, Morse looked down at the madman without