The mounted police—a thoroughly efficient and well-organised body—had been scouring the country in all directions, in hopes of striking the trail of this band of marauders, but hitherto to little effect. Nat Langham’s Store, in the neighbourhood of the Pleasant Hills, was a well-known place of resort for the miners and lumber-men for miles round. He was said to have been a prize-fighter in his time, and thither all the loafers and idlers and the ne’er-do-wells, which ever hang on to the skirts of a community, were in the habit of gathering. Drinking, betting, and gambling were the order of the day—and night too. And many were the scenes of riot and bloodshed which had been witnessed at his store. Being the only store where liquor could be obtained, and play of a certain kind indulged in, it was freely resorted to by most of that class whose tastes led them in the direction of what was known as conviviality and sport. The police, when in search of information, or for doubtful or dangerous characters, were frequent visitors at his shanty. The recent raid in the vicinity of the Beaver Hills had woke up the slumbering zeal of the authorities to increased activity and watchfulness, and their attention of late to this particular locality had been of a very marked character. One of the most successful of the small but energetic little band of the police stationed at Wolseley was a man named "Puffey," from a habit he had acquired of inflating his cheeks, until they stood up in hillocks on each side of a little red snub nose, looking for all the world like a well-rounded Burgundy bottle with its red sealed cork flanked by the dark ruby of the glass. Although the butt of his companions, he was a good-tempered little fellow, ever ready to render effective aid when called upon, but whose kindness of heart often threatened to override his judgment, or to play havoc with the discretion which at times it was needful to exercise. He was a man in the prime of life, not more than thirty-four or thirty-five years of age; strong, wiry, and active, with a pair of small, keen grey eyes, whose steady gaze were capable of reading character, to the confusion of many an ill-conditioned ruffian and the upsetting of his well-considered plans. Formerly a member of the detective force in England, on migrating to the States, after a short but not very successful career in New York, he had crossed the border, and soon found ready employment in the ranks of the mounted police, where his reputation had been steadily growing for some years past.