There was a rustle of branches, and Tom of Okanagan rose out of the thicket the fugitive had almost gained, with a rifle in his hand.  He laughed somewhat grimly as he said, “Stop right where you are.”

Then there was for a space a somewhat impressive tableau, that had in it humorous as well as tragic possibilities.  Hallam’s men had doubtless been chosen because of qualities which are more tolerated farther south than they are in that country, but they had nothing handy to enforce their protests with beyond their camp utensils, and it did not appear advisable to make a move in search of more effective weapons.  Accordingly they stood silent, with the smoke drifting about them, all save one of them, who, with impotent fury in his face, backed step by step into the opening before their shanty, as Tom of Okanagan beckoned him.  Nobody else moved at all, for Horton’s company were commandingly posted beneath the surrounding pines, and there was a grim twinkle in the eyes of one who carried a rifle, and had risen out of the undergrowth between the shovels and axes and their legitimate owners.  How long the spectacle would have lasted Seaforth did not know, but at last the man, who had backed away before Okanagan, tripped on a tent line and went down headlong.  That broke the silence, and the big man, who had on a previous occasion spoken with Alton, stepped forward.

“Now what the ——­ is all this about?” he said.

“Stand back,” said Horton solemnly as he drew out a paper.  “It’s the hand of the law.  Here’s a warrant for Roger Damer, and it’s his body we’ve come for.  You will put the handcuffs on him, Constable Andersen, and if he tries to stop you Tom has full authority to pound the wickedness out of him.”

“Hold on,” said the big man.  “That’s your way of it.  Now has it struck you that there are things we might do?”

“Oh, yes,” said Horton with undiminished gravity.  “You’re going to stop where you are, like lawful citizens, because there are enough of us to make you if you don’t want to.”

The argument was incontrovertible, and there was only a growl of protest as the venerable Scandinavian did his duty.  Then while two men stood on guard over their prisoner Horton turned for the last time to the miners.

“I’m kind of sorry I don’t know quite enough about you to take the rest of you along,” he said.  “Still, if I can find out anything we’ll come back for you again.  Well, boys, we’ll be going.  Hitch that lariat on to the prisoner’s wrists, and keep a good hold on it, Constable Andersen.”

Nothing more was said, for Horton’s men marched out of camp as silently as they had come, and it was only when the pines had closed about them that a hoarse laugh went back in answer to the volley of vituperation that rose out of the hollow behind them.  Damer spoke no word to any man all that day or the next, but when they camped on the second night high up on the hillside he signed to Seaforth, who passed the fire where he lay a little apart from the rest.