“There is not the slightest doubt,” he burst out, “this has been done to force a test case!  Well, they’ll get it.”

“Wayland, is there no way of letting the public know what is going on?  A bet the people of this State don’t know!”

“It’s against the rule to give out information any more,” answered Wayland.

“Man alive—­is this Russia?  Y’ mind me of Indians in the conjurors’ tent:  they tie the medicine man hand and foot and throw him into a tent; and he’s t’ make the tent shake.  Only the devil-Indians can do it.  They tie y’ hand an’ foot, then they expect y’ to serve the Nation.”

“No,” corrected Wayland, “they tie us hand and foot to keep us from serving the Nation.”

And the Swede’s tent was not the only one they saw, as the reader well knows.  Coming along the Gully on the Ridge crest, Wayland looked for the pile of illegally-taken saw logs.  They were gone.  There was nothing left but a timber skid, and the dry slash and a pile of saw dust emitting the odor of imprisoned fragrance in the afternoon heat; but a few yards back from the pile of saw dust stood a tepee tent with the flap hooked up; and in the opening, a wide-eyed diminutive child with a very old face and a very small frame, that looked for all the world to Wayland like a clothes rack in a pawn shop covered with colored rags.

“Waz ye wantin’ me faather?”

As the reader is aware this little person never lacked speech.

“H’s away!  H’s gone t’ th’ citie for th’ throuble that’s comin’ on about th’ mine, y’ onderstand?  He’s wan o’ th’ men t’ be on hand if there’s throuble.”

“Are you one of the new settlers’?”

“Yes, sor!  M’ name’s Meestress Leezie O’Finnigan!  We’re come upp t’ live three years, mebba four, m’ faather says we may fool ’em on less than five; an’ we’re goin’ to be wal-thy, an’ we won’t hev’ a thing t’ do but sit toight an’ whuttle an’ sput an’,” it was the same story, she had told Eleanor.

“What trouble in the mines?” asked Wayland.

“In the coal mines, sor!  There’s a gen’leman come from Waashington, an’ soon as the Ranger’s been found, there’s been goin’s on, sor, bad goin’s ons, soon as th’ Ranger’s back, their expectin’ throuble; un’ m’ faather’s gone down for to be there, he saz.”

“Well?” said Wayland, as they rode on towards the Cabin.

“They’ve been busy, Wayland!  They’ve been busy, man!  You’re in the thick of it!  More power t’ y’r elbow!  We’ve got the first licks in on th’ sheriff’s carcass.”

“And six dead men to the good,” added Wayland dryly, “only I guess they don’t go into the reports, they are missing!”

As they approached the Cabin, a young man in gray flannels and sailor hat sat up in the hammock, looked twice at Wayland, got up and came forward.

“Are you Wayland?” he asked, with a contemptuous glance at the Ranger’s disguised suit.