their purchases being made with lien notes
which the holders discovered were as useless
as the paper they were written on. There
was a reason, too, to believe the gang were
responsible for far more serious crimes. Not
only was their leader the burly, swash-
buckling rascal, William Oscar Koenig, an
ex-gaol-bird, but his confederates—August
Tierman and Gus Borden—had also seen
the inside walls of a penitentiary.

Horse Tuieves’ Hipeour

Guiding his roan through the willows he
slipped from the heavy stock-saddle, tethered
his horse to a tree and, with casual uncon-
cern, prepared to tackle the three des-
peradoes.- Loosening his heavy .45 he edged
around the barn, sprinted for the back door
and, with the tattoo of drumming hoofs
ringing in his ears, sent it reeling open and
leapt within in time to see a burly, bow-
legged ruffian in a ten-gallon hat making
for the front door with a saddle over his arm.

“Hands up!” Nick’s revolver leapt from
its holster as the man fired from his hip,
sending the Sergeant’s Stetson spinning
through the air. Next moment Nicholson
had closed in. When they rose from the
dust clouds in an atmosphere of sulphurous
language and angry curses, William Oscar
Koenig’s wrists were manacled behind him—
but the other birds had flown.

A few minutes later the stocky horse
thief was riding north beside the Sergeant,
his hands manacled before him, and his
feet tied beneath the belly of his horse. One
glance at the scowling eyes and heavy-

muscled body decided Nicholson to take
no chances. But that ride over the August
prairies was not conducted in silence. Smoul-
dering with rage at the desertion of his
companions, Koenig continued to rail
against them. Designedly the Sergeant fed
the fires of his wrath till it dominated the
captive. “I’m not going to let them rats

These members of the Royal North West

Mounted Police took part in the search. Seated

at right is Sergt. J. D. Nicholson, who has

just retired from the Force after joining up again

after war broke out. At left (standing) is Sergt.
Moose Munroe.

off scot free,” he growled as the ba bd
loomed ahead. “Ill get even with th.
double-crossing rat Gus Borden yet.”

Exactly two weeks after Koenig had heat
lodged behind the bars at Fort Saskatchewan
Nicholson received a visit from Jack Cun-
ningham of the Immigration office. “Just
dropped in,” he told the Sergeant, “about
a Fritz Hotz who’s disappeared. He was
working on bridge construction at Clover
Bar, and left last March to take a job in
British Columbia. Nobody’s heard from
him since, and his wife's just written from|
Germany saying she’s anxious about him,”

“Perhaps,” suggested Nicholson, “he may
have found it convenient to disappear.”

“On the contrary,” retorted Cunningham,
“Fritz Hotz is O.K. Just before he dis
appeared he was about to bring his family
out from Germany, and mentioned he'd
saved quite a bit of money for that purpose.”

The Sergeant fingered his moustache,

“Whereabouts in British Columbia was he
going?”

“That we don’t know,” the tmmigeate
officer admitted. “All we know is he used
to live at the mines and, later, at the con
struction camp with a friend named King.
King quit a month before Hotz. And it
was King who told Hotz’s friends he’d gone
to British Columbia. Queer thing is—
Hotz quit without bidding a solitary soul
good-bye, and King has disappeared. Wasty
you'd look into the matter, Nick.”

Alighting before the ugly, tar-paper’
covered buildings of the Clover Bar Con
struction camp a couple of hours later the

78 East Second Ave.

Page Forty-two

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Vancouver, B.C.

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