"I reckon I can consider m'self fired, can't I?" queried Bud, as he slowly rolled a cigarette. "Yes. You are no longer a member of the force, Conley." "And I never even got m'self drunk like a gentleman," wailed Bud. "One big shot of wobble-water and I went out and lost m' fly-wheel. Hell's delight, but that Magee hootch would make a moth-miller lick a hen-hawk!" "And there was that complaint from Beaudet," reminded the inspector softly and meaningly. Bud whirled quickly and came back to the desk. "That was a damn lie!" he snapped, as he leaned forward, his gray eyes boring into the startled face of the officer. "I'm no longer a policeman, Grandon--remember that. I've handed in m' resignation, you'll notice. I may only be a cowboy from Montana, as some of the red-coats have said behind my back, but I've got a mother some'ers and I used t' have a sister." The anger faded from Bud's eyes and a wistful expression crossed his seamed face, as his mind seemed to flash back through time. Then he shook his head and looked at the inspector. "Hold your temper!" ordered the inspector coldly. "I am not in the habit of being----" "Aw-w-w, hell!" interrupted Bud wearily. "I dunno how I've stood this as long as I have; danged if I do." He turned away and walked back to the door, looking at the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which were badly stained with ink. Bud had little education, and the writing of his resignation, brief as it was, had been a man-sized task. Bud was of medium height, slim-waisted, long-armed. His pugnacious jaw, tilted nose and mop of unruly hair gave no lie to his ancestry. He hated discipline, petty details, and his blood inheritance from a line of Irish ancestors rebelled and his tongue snapped in spite of punishment. Bud had been a top-hand in cow-land, which meant ability--plus. Just now Bud was both mad and muddled. The day before he had been sent out to try and locate the party or parties who had been selling whisky to a bunch of Indians. Liquor was taboo, even to the whites, but the Mounted had never been able to stop its import. The Indians had secured a large quantity--large enough to incite them to wondrous deeds--with the result that a number of them had made a pilgrimage to the Happy Hunting ground. The little town of Kingsburg was a sore spot to the Mounted. Here lived Monk Magee, a big, burly, bull-necked individual, who hated the Mounted, and was a never-ending source of irritation to them. The town's close proximity to the border of the United States made it a useful place for the outlaws of both sides of the boundary. To them it was but a mythical line, to be crossed at will; a line which gave them sort of a sanctuary and blocked the efforts of law enforcement.