Morse made heroic efforts to untangle himself from the clutter. Once or twice he extricated himself almost, only to lose his balance on the slippery bushes and come skating down again on the officer just as he was trying to rise. It was a scene for a moving-picture comedy, if the screen had been a feature of that day. When at last the two men emerged from the gulch, Barney was nowhere to be seen. With him had vanished the mount of Beresford. The constable laughed nonchalantly. He had just lost a prisoner, which was against the unwritten law of the Force, but he had gained another in his place. It would not be long till he had Barney too. "Pretty work," he said appreciatively. "You couldn't have done it better if you'd done it on purpose, could you?" "Done what?" asked Morse, with bland naïveté. "Made a pillow and a bed of me, skated on me, bowled me over like a tenpin." "I ce'tainly was awkward. Couldn't get my footin' at all, seemed like. Why, where's Barney?" Apparently the trader had just made a discovery. "Ask of the winds, 'Oh, where?'" Beresford dusted off his coat, his trousers, and his cap. When he had removed the evidence of the battle of the gulch, he set his cap at the proper angle and cocked an inquiring eye at the other. "I suppose you know you're under arrest." "Why, no! Am I? What for? Which of the statues, laws, and ordinances of Queen Vic have I been bustin' without knowin' of them?" "For aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner." "Did I do all that? And when did I do it?" "While you were doing that war-dance on what was left of my manhandled geography." "Can you arrest a fellow for slippin'?" "Depends on how badly he slips. I'm going to take a chance on arresting you, anyhow." "Gonna take away my six-shooter and handcuff me?" "I'll take your revolver. If necessary, I'll put on the cuffs." Morse looked at him, not without admiration. The man in the scarlet jacket wasted nothing. There was about him no superfluity of build, of gesture, of voice. Beneath the close-fitting uniform the muscles rippled and played when he moved. His shoulders and arms were those of a college oarsman. Lean-flanked and clean-limbed, he was in the hey-day of a splendid youth. It showed in the steady eyes set wide in the tanned face, in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, in the spring of the step. The Montanan recognized in him a kinship of dynamic force. "Just what would I be doing?" the whiskey-runner asked, smiling. Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I'll find that out pretty soon. Your revolver, please." He held out his hand, palm up. "Let's get this straight. We're man to man. What'll you do if I find I've got no time to go to Fort Macleod with you?" "Take you with me." "Dead or alive?" "No, alive." "And if I won't go?" asked Morse. "Oh, you'll go." The officer's bearing radiated a quiet, imperturbable confidence. His hand was still extended, "_If_ you please."