Dad Blackford was late in doing up the chores, for the snow had presented him with some unforeseen problems, hampering greatly the bedding and feeding. Not until everything was snug from the storm did he think of indulging in his evening solace. While dreaming amid the blue circles of smoke there came to him Ned's admonition about The Red Knight. It was his last word.

"See that no harm comes to The Red Knight, Dad," was Ned's laughing caution. "It is the one thing on the farm that Dad would not part with."

"Ah!" said the old man with sudden decision, "I maun take a turn hout to the barn. The snow moight 'arm the bonny corn."

Lighting his lantern he went out and was gratified to find that the grain was snugly secure. When he came in he went to the room where lay the two hundred bushels. Opening the door he flashed his lantern about. Here, too, all was weather-tight. At sight of the pile of wonderful wheat he exclaimed in admiration. Picking up a handful he held it close to the light.

"'Ee's wealthy-loike!" said the old man, caressing the plump brown grains with his fingers. "'Ee's the fat corn und 'evvy! The old un'll make a pile on un."

Shutting the door he returned to his pipe and dreamed of visions of riches in store for Ned and his father, his innocent old face glowing with pleasure at the contemplation of their good fortune. Rising at length he went to the door, took a long look out into the black night, then shut it carefully and retired to his bed.

It was nearing the hour of midnight when he was aroused from sleep by a thumping upon the door. Rising he threw up the sash and looked down.

"Hello! Is that Mr. Blackford?" called an anxious voice.

"Hit be," was the succinct response.

"I am from Jake McCarragh's. One of his mares is down and he wants you to come over and give us a hand."

"Ah! 'Ee's a 'orse sick. Ah'll coome along," was the kind response.

"I'm on the hike," said the voice below. "I'll foot it back on the double quick and help Jake. You hurry after as fast as you can."

The case was evidently urgent.

"Hal roight, go a'ead. Ah'll be along," replied the old man, hastening to dress.

In a short time he was ready and stepped out into the storm, trudging down the lane and off into the north with the blizzard in his face. He did not hear the muffled beat of galloping hoofs as he emerged into the road-allowance.

As we have mentioned before, there were pedestrians about the drifted streets of Pellawa. One of these venturesome wanderers was the little French bagger of the Valley Outfit, Jean Benoit. He had come to Pellawa in the morning and untoward obstructions had kept him from setting out on his return home. He was still "hung up" and was plunging impatiently through the drifts with determination to make a swift wind up of business when he heard a voice down the lane to his right.

"You are sure Pullar's away?" came clearly through the storm.

"Went in on the morning train with the old man," replied another voice.

Jean halted. The mention of Pullar had awakened his curiosity.

"I'd hate to run into the Valley boss. He's a bang-up hitter."

"No danger. We're squaring with Pullar to-night. He'll never know who pinched his wheat."

At this point a mutual laugh came through the darkness.

"You meet me with the others at Morrison's bluff. That's the line, eh?"

"Righto! We'll slip into Pullar's yard about twelve. So long."

There was no more. The men had passed on. Jean lingered. He had not caught the full significance of the brief dialogue, for he could not hear every word and the English troubled him in places. He pieced enough together, however, to conclude that some foul work was meditated against Ned. He held his counsel and rushed through preparations for departure. As he took the South Cut in his descent into the Valley he saw a light in the Grant home. So agitated had he become in his review of the incident in the village that he decided to lay the matter before Charles Grant.

The farmer was in bed, but at his knock a light step tripped down the stairs and Margaret opened the door. She invited him in. Grant was promptly aroused and evidenced serious perturbation at Jean's story.

"I am afraid there is some devilment afoot," was his comment. "You say there may be a big gang at work?"

"Wan, two, tree, four! Mebbe other! I do not know. I tink many."

"Can it be an attempt to steal Mr. Pullar's new wheat?" ventured Margaret. "Mary has been telling me so much about it. I saw her to-day. Ned and his father have gone into the City at the call of John T. C. Norrgrene."

"It may be that, lass," agreed her father. "Jean's tale points that way."

"They are after The Red Knight!" said Margaret with intuitive conviction. "It is a terrible night. What can poor old Dad Blackford do against a gang of daring thieves?"

"We'll take a hand in it ourselves," said Grant grimly. "Jean, you take the south trail and let Easy Murphy know. I'll dress and pick up Lawrie and——"

"I'll saddle Flash, Dad," interrupted Margaret. "I'm all ready. I can ride over and let Andy know."

Grant looked at the girl a second, considering.

"Very well, lass! Do it," said her father with a smile. "Ye're good for it and there is not any time to waste. Be careful, for the night is dark."

Before her father had reached the stable Margaret was in the saddle and away.

Andy was easily aroused and in an incredibly short time was astride Night.

"You ride back home," directed he to Margaret. "I'll push Night through. It is half-past eleven and we have four miles to run. I may be in time to scare them off. Your Dad and the others will be right on my heels."

With a farewell shout he plunged into the storm. The sound of Night's speeding hoofs smote her ears then died away. Reluctantly she turned Flash for home and trotted off. They had proceeded but a few rods when she reined him in and halted abruptly, loitering irresolute.

"Come, Flash! About!" was her sudden command. "We'll be in it, too."

Wheeling her mount she sent him at a gallop after Night and his rider.

Andy put his horse through at a stiff pace. The homestead was shrouded in blackness as he approached. Riding through the gate he cantered swiftly down the lane, and pulled up beside the house. He had but halted when he discerned the dim movement of figures on all sides of him. With the consciousness of their presence came the realization that they were men.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" he called.

But there was no reply. Instead he could hear smothered cries of chagrin and savage anger, followed by a rush of the encompassing forms. Night's bridle was seized and strong hands grappled him, dragging him from the saddle. Terrified by the rough handling and mysterious commotion the horse reared and plunged, tearing away from her captors. Leaping free she dashed off down the lane.

As Andy came to earth he clutched one of his assailants and they rolled over. In the darkness the others seizing his foeman by mistake wrenched him away, leaving Andy free. Leaping to his feet, he backed to the wall of the hou............