Making a wide detour they circled the ranch and wormed their way cautiously through the dense scrub on its eastern side.  Suddenly, with a warning gesture to his companions, the sergeant halted.  They had reached the verge of the scrub and the front of the ranch-house faced them—­barely twenty yards distant.  They could discern a faint light glimmering around the lower edge of one of the windows.

“He is in!” whispered Slavin exultantly.  “Blinds down though.  ’Tis a quare custom av his.  Come on thin, Yorkey, me bould second-in-command!  In a mighty few short minuts we shall know”—­his jaw dropped—­“fwhat we shall know! . . .  Arrah thin, Docthor!”—­he silenced a violent protest from that adventurous gentleman, who made as though to accompany them—­“if ye wud help us in best fashion—­shtay right here, an’ mark fwhat comes off.  If we shud happen tu get ut in th’ neck . . . just yu’ beat ut back tu Lanky!  Ye know fwhat tu du—­thin.  I’ll lave me carbine here awhile.”

He stepped clear of the brush and, revolver in hand, advanced softly upon the low, one-story, log-built dwelling.  Yorke followed a few steps in his rear, with his carbine held in readiness at the “port-arms.”

Reaching the door, the sergeant rapped upon it sharply.  There was no response from within, but—­the light vanished on the instant.  Yorke stepped warily to the side and covered the door with his weapon.  A few tense moments passed, and then Slavin rapped again.  Heavy footfalls now sounded, approaching the door from the inside, halted, and then, through the panels came Gully’s hollow, booming bass:  “Who’s there?”

“Shlavin of th’ Mounted Police, Gully.  Opin up! we wud shpake wid ye.”

“What do you want?  What’s your business at this hour of the night?”

“Fwhat do we want?”—­the sergeant uttered mirthless chuckle—­“fwhy ’tis yu’ we want, Gully—­for murdher!  Come off th’ perch, man, th’ jig’s up!  There’s a bunch av us here—­we’ve got yu’re shack covered properly—­wid carbines—­north, east, south, an’ west—­ye can pull nothin’ off.  Come now! will ye pitch up an’ act reasonable?  ’Tis no manner av use ye shtartin’ in tu buck th’ Force.  Juty’s juty—­ye know that.”

“Have you got a warrant, Sergeant?”

“Eyah!” came Slavin’s sinister growl.  “We’ve bin fishin’, Gully, up in th’ big pool beyant. Well ye must know that pool.  Fwhat we caught there is our warrant.  Opin up now, will ye? else we bust yu’re dhure in!”

“Slavin—­Sergeant!  You and Yorke whom I’ve known all this time—­good fellows”—­the deep, imploring tones faltered slightly—­“do not push me to it, man!  You and your men go away and leave me in peace this night.  Christ knows!  I don’t want to do it but—­if you persist in forcing an entrance in here without a warrant—­why!  I’ll pull on your crowd till there’s not a man left.”

“Gully!” the sergeant’s voice shook with passion at the other’s threat, “ye bloody murdherin’ dog!  Ye dhirty back-av-th’-head gun-artist!  Thryin’ for tu come th’ ‘good-feller’ over us av th’ Mounted!  There’s on’y wan answer tu that, an’ ye know ut.  Now, will ye opin up this dhure, or I’ll bust her down!”