plant it on the major. Nobody would confess, and that made Hornaby madder than ever. He says he's going to find the bootleggers and crack down on them."
Paul laughed shortly. "You're going to be wasting a lot of energy searching my load. I pitched that hay on myself."
McCune shrugged. "That may be true, but my men need the exercise."
The freight wagon, its end-gate banging and the chains dragging on the ground, lumbered away, and the two armed men approached as Paul drove the team alongside the stack. Two. scowling troopers with pitchforks climbed the load and began methodically to fork the hay onto the stack.
Indifferent to the hay pitchers, Paul climbed to the ground and spoke to McCune.
"Hey, Sergeant, you or your men didn't see Big-head Larson riding this way right after dark last night, did you?"
McCune answered very carefully, "No, I didn't see him riding around here. Why do you ask?"
"I had some trouble with him last night, and he got away from me."
From behind Paul came Hornaby's clipped voice.
"What sort of trouble did you have with him, Mr. Scott?" the major inquired.
"He tried to kill me," Paul said bluntly.
"With a rifle?"
Hornaby had come around and was looking Paul straight in the eye now. The major's face wore a mocking expression.
"Yes, with a rifle," Paul admitted.
"And he missed you?"
"That's apparent, isn't it?" Paul couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice.
"Have you ever seen Big-head Larson shoot a rifle?"
"Yes, but I happened to move, and he missed me."
Just then there was the distinct clink of metal against glass. Hornaby smiled without humor. "All right, men. Pull the hay apart and take it out."
Paul felt a hot flush warm him. Hornaby had never liked him, and he had never cared much for the major. Now Hornaby's manner was both insulting and triumphant. Unable to believe his eyes, Paul saw the two men on the load fish four bottles of whiskey from the hay.
"What do you say to that, Mr. Scott?" Hornaby asked with pure malice in his eyes.
Paul could find no immediate answer, because the whole frame-up was so preposterous. He had the feeling of a man in a nightmare. Again he thought of Alonzo Finch and of the man who had been prowling about the barn the night before.
"What do
you
make of it, Major?" Paul countered lamely.
"It's obvious," Hornaby snapped. "Don't tell me you didn't know the whiskey was there. This isn't the first whiskey you've brought in, I'm sure of that."
"Frankly," Paul said, calming down, "I didn't know it was there."
"I overheard you say you loaded the hay yourself."
"That's right. But the bottles could have been shoved under the hay with a forked stick after it was loaded."
"1 can't quite accept that. I'm looking for a whiskey smuggler. I catch you with the goods. Why should I look further?"
"Because, confound you," Paul gritted, "I'm no smuggler. This is a frame-up, and you're in on the frame."
"That I must deny," Hornaby said shortly.
"Then how did you know the booze was there?"
"I was in receipt of certain information, and I acted upon it. The information has proved correct. I must place you under arrest, Mr. Scott."
"Major," Paul said quietly, "it's obvious why you're out here in command of this rag-tag outfit. You've got no judgment. I'm afraid you'll find there is no law against whiskey in this territory. The rules you make for your men do not apply to civilians."
"Smuggling to the Indians is against the law. Sergeant," he turned to McCune, "place this man under arrest."
McCune said, "How about confining him to my quarters, sir? The guardhouse is probably crawling with vermin from those graves we had there last night."
Hornaby's mouth was tight and pinched. "Take him to my office. We'll continue the investigation there. And don't discuss the matter with the prisoner, understand?"
McCune shrugged. "Yes, sir." Aside he said, "I got to give you credit, Major. You sure do make it hard on yourself."
As they walked through the dust to the major's
Paul laughed shortly. "You're going to be wasting a lot of energy searching my load. I pitched that hay on myself."
McCune shrugged. "That may be true, but my men need the exercise."
The freight wagon, its end-gate banging and the chains dragging on the ground, lumbered away, and the two armed men approached as Paul drove the team alongside the stack. Two. scowling troopers with pitchforks climbed the load and began methodically to fork the hay onto the stack.
Indifferent to the hay pitchers, Paul climbed to the ground and spoke to McCune.
"Hey, Sergeant, you or your men didn't see Big-head Larson riding this way right after dark last night, did you?"
McCune answered very carefully, "No, I didn't see him riding around here. Why do you ask?"
"I had some trouble with him last night, and he got away from me."
From behind Paul came Hornaby's clipped voice.
"What sort of trouble did you have with him, Mr. Scott?" the major inquired.
"He tried to kill me," Paul said bluntly.
"With a rifle?"
Hornaby had come around and was looking Paul straight in the eye now. The major's face wore a mocking expression.
"Yes, with a rifle," Paul admitted.
"And he missed you?"
"That's apparent, isn't it?" Paul couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice.
"Have you ever seen Big-head Larson shoot a rifle?"
"Yes, but I happened to move, and he missed me."
Just then there was the distinct clink of metal against glass. Hornaby smiled without humor. "All right, men. Pull the hay apart and take it out."
Paul felt a hot flush warm him. Hornaby had never liked him, and he had never cared much for the major. Now Hornaby's manner was both insulting and triumphant. Unable to believe his eyes, Paul saw the two men on the load fish four bottles of whiskey from the hay.
"What do you say to that, Mr. Scott?" Hornaby asked with pure malice in his eyes.
Paul could find no immediate answer, because the whole frame-up was so preposterous. He had the feeling of a man in a nightmare. Again he thought of Alonzo Finch and of the man who had been prowling about the barn the night before.
"What do
you
make of it, Major?" Paul countered lamely.
"It's obvious," Hornaby snapped. "Don't tell me you didn't know the whiskey was there. This isn't the first whiskey you've brought in, I'm sure of that."
"Frankly," Paul said, calming down, "I didn't know it was there."
"I overheard you say you loaded the hay yourself."
"That's right. But the bottles could have been shoved under the hay with a forked stick after it was loaded."
"1 can't quite accept that. I'm looking for a whiskey smuggler. I catch you with the goods. Why should I look further?"
"Because, confound you," Paul gritted, "I'm no smuggler. This is a frame-up, and you're in on the frame."
"That I must deny," Hornaby said shortly.
"Then how did you know the booze was there?"
"I was in receipt of certain information, and I acted upon it. The information has proved correct. I must place you under arrest, Mr. Scott."
"Major," Paul said quietly, "it's obvious why you're out here in command of this rag-tag outfit. You've got no judgment. I'm afraid you'll find there is no law against whiskey in this territory. The rules you make for your men do not apply to civilians."
"Smuggling to the Indians is against the law. Sergeant," he turned to McCune, "place this man under arrest."
McCune said, "How about confining him to my quarters, sir? The guardhouse is probably crawling with vermin from those graves we had there last night."
Hornaby's mouth was tight and pinched. "Take him to my office. We'll continue the investigation there. And don't discuss the matter with the prisoner, understand?"
McCune shrugged. "Yes, sir." Aside he said, "I got to give you credit, Major. You sure do make it hard on yourself."
As they walked through the dust to the major's
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