MacLeod knew what the orders of Pulaski D. Britt meant. Britt had not hesitated to rely upon the loyalty of "Ladder" Lane, for Britt, when State senator, had caused Lane to be appointed to the post on Jerusalem. MacLeod reflected, with fury rising like flame from the steady glow of his contemptuous resentment at this old recalcitrant, that Pulaski Britt would never make allowance for failure under these circumstances. To be sure, that fire yonder didn't look like a carefully conducted incineration of the dwellings of Misery Gore, and it was a little ahead of time--that time being set for the calm of early evening. But orders from Britt were--to his men--orders from the supreme tribunal. "Britt put you here!" stuttered MacLeod. "I'm working for the State, not Pulaski D. Britt," replied the old man. "And I'm working for Britt, and, by ---- he runs the State in these parts! Him and you and the State can settle it between you later, but just now"--he swung to one side, leaned back, and drove his foot with all the venom of his repressed rage against the apparatus--"that fire report don't go!" "Ladder" Lane, serene in his proud conjuration, "The State," had expected no such enormity. The heliograph skated on its spider legs, went over the edge of the roof, and, after a hushed moment of drop, crashed upon the ledge with shiver and tinkle of flying glass. The boss of "Britt's Busters" turned and darted through the scuttle and down the stairs, excusing this flight to himself on the ground of his out-of-commission arm. He leaped out into the sunshine and clattered away over the ledges, the spikes in his shoes striking sparks. He had made half a dozen rods when he heard the old man scream "Halt!" MacLeod kept on, with a taunting wave of his well hand above his head. The next moment a rifle barked, and the bullet chipped the ledge in front of him. "The next one bores you in the back, MacLeod!" He stopped then, and whirled in his tracks. Lane stood at the edge of his roof, his rifle-butt at his cheek. "Come back here!" "You ain't got the right to hold me up, Lane. I'll have the law on ye!" "Come back here!" There was a grate in the tone, a menace not to be braved. The young man shuffled slowly towards the cabin, roaring oaths and insults to which Lane deigned no reply. MacLeod did not try to run when the warden disappeared for his trip to the door. He waited sullenly. Near the door was a good-sized, empty cage of strong saplings, built in "Ladder" Lane's abundant leisure, for the reception of any new candidate for the menagerie. The old man jerked his head sideways at it. There was a gap of three saplings in the side, and the poles stood there ready to be set in. "I won't be penned that way!" yelled MacLeod. "I ain't no raccoon!"