placed on the crossing. Sexton was watching him uneasily, and flushed
as Ogilvy pointed him out to the marshal.

"There's your meat, Marshal," he announced. The marshal approached
and extended toward Sexton a copy of the restraining order. The
latter struck it aside and refused to accept it--whereupon the deputy
marshal tapped him on the shoulder with it. "Tag! You're out of the
game, my friend," he said pleasantly.

As the document fluttered to Sexton's feet, the latter turned to
Jules Rondeau. "I can no longer take charge here, Rondeau," he
explained. "I am forbidden to interfere."

"Jules Rondeau can do ze job," the woods-boss replied easily. "Ze
law, she have not restrain' me. I guess mebbeso you don' take dose
theengs away, eh, M'sieur Cardigan. Myself, I lak see."

The deputy marshal handed Rondeau a paper, at the same time showing
his badge. "You're out, too, my friend," he laughed. "Don't be
foolish and try to buck the law. If you do, I shall have to place a
nice little pair of handcuffs on you and throw you in jail--and if
you resist arrest, I shall have to shoot you. I have one of these
little restraining orders for every able-bodied man in the Laguna
Grande Lumber Company's employ--thanks to Mr. Ogilvy's foresight; so
it is useless to try to beat this game on a technicality."

Sexton, who still lingered, made a gesture of surrender. "Dismiss
your crew, Rondeau," he ordered. "We're whipped to a frazzle."

A gleam of pleasure, not unmixed with triumph, lighted the dark eyes