down the steep trail until the meadow opened before him.
There in the bright moonlight he saw Lance Falcon standing beside the big roan that he had ridden on the flight to the mountain—the roan that had once been Jock Pearson's.
There was no saddle on the roan, but he was bridled, and Falcon was about to vault upon his back. Lachlan stepped out into the open and strode towards the spot.
Falcon saw him instantly, and the hand which had held the bridle-rein leaped to the hilt of his sword. Momentarily a black frown convulsed his face; yet he was smiling as he greeted the younger man.
"Ah, Mr. McDonald," he said coolly, "you have come to bid me farewell?"
Lachlan had halted ten paces away.
"Where are you going, Captain Falcon?" he asked sternly.
For a moment Falcon seemed to hesitate. Then he nodded, as though he had reached a decision.
"A blunt question," he said briskly, "and I shall give it a blunt answer. I am grown aweary of your mountain, Mr. McDonald, and more than a little weary of the rôle of prisoner. I have been, as you are aware, a confidant of the Governor of St. Augustine and I happen to know something of the Spanish plans to help the Cherokees take Fort Prince George. If those plans were carried out, there are Spanish
