writing from a nearby town, it inquired
if he’d heard anything of the Kid, adding
he’d left him in Ponoka. “I’ve a hunch,”
Tyrrell informed the Constable, ‘that he’ll
blow into town. There’s one place he’s
sure to make for. Stick around Mike’s
Saloon and keep your eyes skinned. It’s
a tough joint. Don’t let anyone know
you're an officer. Cops ain't welcome
there.’

With Const. Firth attired in soiled
overalls and battered slouch hat hanging
around the saloon and Hetherington keep-
ing in close touch, day followed day with-
out a sign of the wanted man. Again
Hetherington felt that the fates were
against him. Suddenly Firth burst into
the room, his dirt-stained face alight with
excitement. “He’s there!” he cried. “Pas-
sing himself as Chuck Stirling. But he’s
cagey as hell. Jumped me right away.
Wanted to know what in hell line I
followed and how long I’d been in Great
Falls. Seems to have a hunch he’s being
tailed. He’s packing a gat. I felt it when
I nudged against him at the bar. That's
what got him nasty.”

“Cover the back door and I'll take the
front,’ Hetherington looked at his re-
volver. “Keep in the dark and shadow
him till you get him alone.”

In the dark shadows overlooking the
front entrance to Mike’s Saloon, Hether-
ington crouched with pounding pulses.
At last the fruits of a year’s seemingly
hopeless toil were within his grasp—unless

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he blundered. Dark figures reeled into the
moonlight, shouting ribald songs. Twice
about to pounce upon a tall figure that,
in the deceptive light, resembled his prey
he drew back just in time to avoid expos-
ing his hand.

Another bunch of roisterers staggered
through the slatted door. This time there
was an inflection in one man’s voice which
seemed familiar. It bore the twang of the
Bullock family at Asker. As they lurched
down the street the Mountie slunk from
shadow to shadow. After a noisy parting
the man he sought reeled on alone.

Suddenly the tall form of Hetherington
stumbled into the reeling man. “Hello,
Stirling,” he kept his face in the shadow.
“Who'd have thought of meeting you
here!”

The man drew swiftly taut and stared.

“Sorry,” the Constable watched him
narrowly, “Aren't you Chuck Stirling ?”

“That’s the name I go by,” the gimlet
eyes of the tall man attempted to pierce
the gloom.

Hetherington’s hand tightened around
his revolver butt, his finger stole to the
trigger. “Wasn't Bud Bullock good
enough?’ His voice was brittle.

“Not after that wife of mine tried to
hook me for alimony . . . Say! What tha

. what tha...” He lurched belliger-
ently forward, “What tha hell’s all this
to you?” ;

“Nothing,” remarked Hetherington
with deceptive softness. “What I’m in-

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terested in is a friend of yours named
Stainton.”

“You mean Kid Stainton?” His hand
dropped towards his hip pocket. “I left
him up in Canada.”

Next moment Hetherington’s Colt
flashed in his face. “You mean you left
him in his grave!’ The constable’s fingers
caught Bullock's arm in a vice-like grip.
“T’m Const. Hetherington of the police.
You're under arrest for murder.”

Before Justice Scott of the Edmonton
Assize Court, Bud Bullock prepared to
fight for his life. Assailed by the Defence
Attorney, Hetherington’s report was torn
to shreds. “You stated,” he thundered,
“that the dead man measured five-feet-
ten inches yet Leon Stainton was only
five-foot-seven. And,” the Attorney went
on blisteringly, ‘you listed the corpse as
being that of a man of around 25, yet
Leon Stainton was just a boy of 18.”
Bud Bullock smiled exultantly from the
dock. |

Leaving the courtroom Hetherington
returned a few minutes later and ushered
in Mr. Tair, owner of the Bullock home,
who had visited them the evening Bud
was there.

“They told me they were astonished
at Bud’s visit,” the surprise witness testi-
fied. “Said they'd gone to bed when they
were awakened by two loud shots behind
the house. Jimmy ran out and a moment
later Bud appeared at the door. The Bul-

THE SHOULDER STRAP