The Law-Breakers. Cullum Ridgwell

nodded, and the smile died out of his eyes.

      “I saw him. You certainly were traveling in good company.”

      Bill nodded, towering like some good-natured St. Bernard over a mild-eyed water spaniel.

      “Good company’s a specialty with me. But I didn’t come alongside any of it, since I set out to make here ’cross country from Moosemin on the advice of the only bigger fool than myself I’ve ever met, until I ran into him. Say, Charlie, I s’pose its necessary to have a deal of grass around to run a ranch on?”

      Charlie’s eyes lit with the warmest amusement. This great brother of his was the brightest landmark in his memory of the world he had said good-bye to years ago.

      “You can’t graze cattle on bare ground,” he replied watchfully. “Why?”

      Bill’s shoulders went up to the accompaniment of a chuckle.

      “Nothing—only I hate grass. I seem to have gone over as much grass in the last week as a boarding-house spring lamb. But for that feller, I surely guess I’d still be chasing over it, like those ‘strays’ he spends his life rounding-up.”

      A quick look of inquiry flashed in the rancher’s eyes.

      “Strays?” he inquired.

      Bill nodded gravely. “Yes, he’s something in the ranching line. Rounds up ‘strays,’ and herds ’em to their right homes. His name’s Fyles—Stanley Fyles.”

      Just for an instant Charlie’s face struggled with the more bitter feelings Fyles’s name inspired. Then he gave way to the appeal of a sort of desperate humor, and broke into an uncontrolled fit of laughter.

      Bill looked on wondering, his great blue eyes widely open. Then he caught the infection, and began to laugh, too, but without knowing why.

      After some moments, however, Charlie sobered and choked back a final gurgle.

      “Oh, dear!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done me a heap of good, Bill. That’s the best laugh I’ve had in weeks. That fellow a rancher? Fyles—Stanley Fyles a—rancher? Well, p’raps you’re right. That’s his job all right—rounding up ‘strays,’ and herding ’em to their right homes. But the ‘strays’ are ‘crooks,’ and their homes the penitentiary. That’s Inspector Stanley Fyles, of the Mounted Police, and just about the smartest man in the force. He’s come out here to start his ranching operations on Rocky Springs, which has the reputation of being the busiest hive of crooks in Western Canada. You’re going to see things hum, Bill—you’ve just got around in time.”