It had been an interesting moment for the leaders of the camp. For Kars it had been something in the nature of a triumph. It had yielded him his reward for a superlative effort of reckless daring, in which the loyalty of his companions had helped him.

The old man had talked. He had babbled on through his interpreter at great length. His talk had been a rambling declaration of friendship for the white man. He had assured Kars that he, Kars, was held in great personal esteem by the Indians. The last thing in any Indian mind was a desire to shed his blood, or the blood of any of his "braves," who fought so magnificently. He assured him that he had come to say that all the Indians, even those who had been so very fierce, and were now so no longer, would gladly smoke the pipe of peace with their white brothers, and bury the hatchet now and forever.

Nor did he inform his audience of the events which had led up to this desire, and of which he believed they must be ignorant. He failed to mention that their own white leaders had vanished, literally in smoke, that all supplies necessary to carry on the war had been completely cut off by the destruction by fire of the magazine in which these things were stored. On these matters he was discreetly reticent, and Kars was satisfied that it should be so. On his part he had no desire to enlighten him to the fact that, at that moment, Murray McTavish was lying in the extemporized hospital in the camp with a shattered arm, and that the half-breed, Louis Creal, was slowly dying with a bullet through his lungs, under the same primitive shelter.

Kars had listened. And his whole attitude was one of clear-eyed wisdom. He assured the crafty old man that he was certain of the Bell River Indians' good faith. He was furthermore convinced that the men of Bell River were the finest Indian race in the world, with whom it was the whole object of a white man's life to live in peace. He was certain that the recent events had been inspired by powers of evil which had now been destroyed, and that he saw no obstacle to cementing a lasting friendship with the Indians, which he was sure would lead to happy days of plenty for the noble red man.

And so the farce had gone on to its end with truly Indian ceremonial. But it did not come to a close until Kars had elicited from the old rascal a complete story of the murder of Allan Mowbray. To him this was of far more importance than all the rest of the old sinner's talk. The story was extracted piecemeal, and was given in rambling, evasive fashion. But it was given completely in the end, and with a veracity which Kars had no reason to doubt.

It was a long enough story, which became a record of perfidy and crime laid entirely at the doors of Murray McTavish and Louis Creal.

The Indians had known Allan Mowbray for many years. They were good friends. Allan Mowbray clothed and fed them in return for furs. Then came a time when the white man found yellow dust on the river bank. He liked it. He told the Indians so, and showed them how to find it, and promised them, if they would collect all they could, and trade it with him, they would never want for anything. He sent the half-breed, Louis Creal, to see they did the work right, and fitted him out a store. Louis Creal was a servant of Allan Mowbray. He was not a partner.

A great prosperity set in for the Indians, and they were very pleased and very contented. Then came a time when the other white man appeared, Murray McTavish. He made great changes. The Indians had to work harder, but they got more trade. They got whisky. They grew more and more prosperous. The new white man was always smiling and pleasant, and the young men liked him very much, because he made the squaws and old men do most of the work, while they were given rifles, and allowed to practice the arts of war which had died out in their tribe for so long.

The new white man then told them that they must not let any other Indians come near Bell River. These traveling Indians were a great danger. Finding the Bell River folk prosperous and happy they would become envious. They would come in the night and burn and massacre. The young men realized the danger, and they went on the war-path. All who came near were killed. Then the young men scoured the country around, and burned the homes of all Indians they found, and killed their fighting men. The new white man was very pleased.

After a very long time Murray McTavish and Louis Creal held a big council with the young men. The white man told them they were in very great danger. He said that Allan Mowbray was no longer to be trusted. He was a traitor. He assured them that Allan Mowbray was going through the country telling the Indians and white folk of the yellow dust on the river. This was betraying the Indians. For now all people would come along in such numbers they would sweep the Bell River Indians away, they would kill them all, and burn their homes, and they would kill the white men, too, so that they could get all the dust that belonged to the people of Bell River. The only way to save themselves was by killing Allan Mowbray.

The young men were very angry, and very fierce. And the white man offered them council and advice. He showed them how they could trap Allan Mowbray and kill him. And Louis Creal would help them.

This the young men did on the banks of the river, led by Louis Creal.

But the old villain was careful to explain that now, now, at last—of course since the ruin of their prospects through the destruction of their sources of supply—all the Bell River tribe was sorry that Allan Mowbray had been killed. They understood that he was not a traitor. It was the others who were traitors. Allan Mowbray was killed because they wanted all the yellow dust themselves, and he, Thunder-Cloud, personally, as well as the young men, was very glad that they had both been found out by the Indians. They were very, very bad men who had wanted Kars and his people killed, too, but fortunately the Indians had found out that Kars was a good man, and a friend of the Indian, and so it was the desire of all to live in peace. In fact the Indian would be very pleased to trade yellow dust with him.

As the old chief vanished in the region of the Indian workings Kars turned back to his camp. For some moments he surveyed the scene with serious eyes. It was all over. Already the persistent energy of Abe Dodds was making itself apparent. The pumps had been restarted. The sluices were awash, and gangs were starting to demolish the embankments of auriferous pay dirt. The armed camp was vanishing before the breath of peace, and the change brought him a measure of relief he remained wholly unaware of.

It had been a desperate time while it had lasted. A desperateness quite unrealized until it was over, and complete victory had been achieved. And, curiously enough, by far his most anxious time had been the safe return from his raid on Louis Creal's store, with his prisoners. Peigan Charley had been unfailing. The Indian had reached the camp and found it secure. There had been no attack in his absence. He had explained the situation in his own lurid but limited language to Abe Dodds, and the assistance needed had been promptly forthcoming.

The whole enterprise, the capture of the prisoners, the burning of Louis Creal's store, had been carried out without the Indian's obtaining an inkling of that which was going forward. And unquestionably it was due largely to this absolute secrecy in the operation that the present peace offer had been so promptly forthcoming.

But in the midst of his triumph Kars had little enough rejoicing. He had been shocked—shocked beyond words. And the shock left a haunting memory which dominated every other feeling. It was Murray McTavish's share in the villainies of the sombre river.

It was incredible—almost. But the worst feature of the whole thing lay in the man's callous display. This murderer, this murderer of her father, this man who was her father's friend, had dared to contemplate marriage with Jessie. He had asked her to marry him while the memory of his crime must still have been haunting, almost before the red blood of his victim had dried upon his ruthless hands. It was unspeakable.

The smiling, genial Murray. The man of bristling energy and apparent good-will. The man who had assumed the protection of the women-folk left defenceless by his own crime—a murderer. The horror of it all left Kars consumed by a cold fury more terrible than any passion he had ever known. With his whole soul he demanded justice. With his whole soul he was resolved that justice should be done.

He remembered so many things now. He remembered the shipment of arms with which, he had assured Bill, he believed Murray intended to wipe out the Bell River scourge. And he remembered Bill's doubtful acceptance of it. Now he knew from bitter experience the meaning of that shipment. It was the murder of himself. The massacre of his "outfit." An added crime to leave Murray free to wallow in his gold lust. Free to possess himself of Jessie Mowbray. He wondered how long Louis Creal would have survived had Murray achieved his purpose.

His discovery had been incredible—almost. But not quite. Subconscious doubts of Murray had always been his. Bill Brudenell's doubts of the man had been more than subconscious. The growth of his own subtle antagonism towards the trader had always disturbed him. But its growth had gone on while he remained powerless to check it. He had set it down to rivalry for a woman's love. He had accepted it as such. But now it possessed a deeper significance. He believed it to have been instinctive distrust. But a murderer. No. The reality was beyond his wildest imaginings.

He left the embankment and passed back to the shanty where the council of peace had been held.

Bill was within. He was seated on his bunk contemplating the automatic pistol which Kars had taken from Murray McTavish. It was lying across his knee, and one hand was gripping its butt. The Indian reek still permeated the atmosphere, and Kars exhaled in noisy disgust as he entered.

"Gee! It's a stinking outfit," he exclaimed, in tones that left no doubt of his feelings, as he flung himself on his bunk and began to fill his pipe.

Bill glanced up. His gaze was preoccupied.

"Neches do stink," he admitted.

Kars struck a match.

"I wasn't worrying about the neches. The neches don't cut any ice with me. It's Murray."

Bill shook his head while he watched Kars light his pipe.

"Then it's more than a stinking outfit. Maybe I should say 'worse.'" His eyes were twinkling. It was not with amusement. It was the nature of them.

But Kars denied him with an oath.

"It couldn't be."

Bill turned his gaze towards the doorway. He was watching the blaze of spring sunlight, and the hovering swarms of flies which haunted the river bank.

"But it could. It is," he said deliberately, and his eyes came back to the weapon in his hand. Then he added with some force:

"There'll need to be a hanging—sure."

"Allan was murdered at his instigation. He'll certainly hang for it," Kars agreed.

"I wasn't thinking that way."

"How then?"

"This." Bill held up the gun.

"That? It's Murray's gun. I——"

"Yes," Bill interrupted him, a fierce light leaping into his eyes and transfiguring them in a manner Kars had never before beheld. "It's Murray's gun, and it's the gun that handed death to young Alec Mowbray at the Elysian Fields."

"God!"

Kars' ejaculation was something in the nature of a gasp. Renewed horror was looking out of his eyes. His pipe was held poised in his fingers while it was allowed to go out. A curious feeling of helplessness robbed him of further articulation.

The two men were gazing eye to eye. At last, with an effort, Kars flung off the silence that held him.

"How—how d'you know?" he demanded in thick tones.

Bill held up a nickel bullet between his finger and thumb. Then he displayed the half empty cartridge clip he had extracted from the weapon.

"They're the same make, and—this is the bullet I dug out of poor Alec's body."

Kars breathed deeply. He regarded the various articles, held fascinated as by something evil but irresistible. He watched Bill as he replaced them on the bunk beside him. Then, for a few seconds, the sounds of activity outside, and the buzz of the swarming flies alone broke the silence.

But the moment of silence passed. It was broken by a fierce oath, and it came from Bill. A hot flush stained his tanned cheeks. His anger transformed him.

"God in Heaven!" he cried. "I've suspected right along. Guess I must have known, and couldn't believe. I'm just mad—mad at the thought of it. Say, John, he's had us beaten the whole way. And now it's too late. I could cry like a kid. I could break my fool head against the wall. The whole darn thing was telling itself to me, way back months, down in Leaping Horse, and I just wouldn't listen. And now the boy's dead."

He drew a deep breath. But he went on almost at once. And though his tones were more controlled his emotion was working deeply.

"D'you know why I brought that bullet along? No," as Kars shook his head. "I guess I don't quite know myself. And yet it seemed to me it was necessary. I sort of felt if we got behind things here on Bell River we'd find a link between them and that bullet. Now I know. Say, I've got it all now. It's acted itself all to me right here in this shack. It was acting itself to me up there in that ruined shack across the river, when you handed me your talk of Murray's purpose, only I guess I wasn't sitting in the front row, and hadn't the opera glasses to see with.

"Say, it's the same darn story over again," he went on with passionate force. "It's the same with a different setting, and different characters. It's the same motive. Just the rotten darn motive this world'll never be rid of so long as human nature lasts. We've both seen it down there in Leaping Horse, and, like the fools we were, guessed the long trail was clear of it. We're the fools and suckers. God made man, and the devil handed him temptation. I'll tell you the things I've seen floating around in the sunlight, where the flies are worrying, while I've been sitting around here looking at that gun you grabbed from Murray. It's a tough yarn that'll sicken you. But it's right. And you'll learn it's right before the police set their rope around Murray McTavish's neck. I don't think Murray's early history needs to figger. If it did, maybe it wouldn't be too wholesome. Where Allan found him I don't know, and Murray hasn't felt like talking about things himself. Maybe Allan knew his record. I can't say. Anyway, as I said, it doesn't figger. There's mighty few folks who hit north of 'sixty' got much of a Sunday-school record, and they're mostly out for a big piece of money quick. Anyway, in this thing Allan found Murray and brought him along a partner in a gold stake. He brought him because the proposition was too big, and too rich for him to handle on his own. Get that. And Murray knew what he was coming to. That was Allan's way. He handed him the whole story because he was a straight dealing feller who didn't understand the general run of crookedness lying around. It was no partnership in a bum trading outfit. It was a big gold proposition, and it had to be kept secret.

"Murray came along up. Maybe he had no thought then of what he was going to do later. Maybe he had an eye wide open anyway. He got a grip on things right away. He found a feller who didn't know how to distrust a louse. He found two white women, as simple as the snow on the hilltops, and a boy who hadn't a heap of sense. He found an old priest who just lived for the love of helping along the life of those around him. And he found gold, such as maybe he'd dreamed of but never thought to see. Do you get it? Do I need to tell you? Murray, hard as a flint, and with a pile set out in front of him for the taking. Can you hear him telling himself in that old Fort that he's there on a share only, while he runs the things for a simple feller, and his folks, who haven't a real notion beyond the long trail? I can hear him. I can hear the whole rotten story as he thinks it out. It's the same, always the same. The mania for gold gets men mad. It drives them like a slave under the lash. But Murray is cleverer than most. A heap cleverer. This thing is too big for any fool chance. It wants to go so no tracks are left. So no one, not even those simple women, or that honest priest, can make a guess. So there isn't a half-breed or Indian around the Fort can get wise. There's just one way to work it, and for nigh ten years he schemes so the Bell River terror under Louis Creal gets busy. We've seen the result here. We heard his yarn from old Thunder-Cloud, and to fix things the way he needed he only had to buy over a dirty half-breed, which is the best production of hell walking the earth.

"With the murder of Allan, by the Indians, his whole play begins. He goes up with an outfit. There's no fooling. His outfit sees the result. There's nothing to be done. So he gets right back with the mutilated body, and mourns with the folk he's injured. Yes, it's clever. That's the start. What next? Murray keeps to the play of the loyal friend and protector. It's all smooth to him, and only needs the playing. The store and its trade, and his fortune are left by Allan to his widow. He's completed his first step without a snag cropping up. Meanwhile you come along.

"Murray's quick to see things. Louis Creal tells him you've been around Bell River. He tells him you've found the Indian workings. He tells him he nearly got you cold. Besides that Murray figgers around you and Jessie. It's the first snag he's hit, and it's one to be cleared. But it's just incidental to his scheme, which has to be put through. And his scheme? It's so easy—now. He's got to marry Jessie and so make himself one of the family. The widow'll be glad to hand over her fortune to be administered by Jessie's husband. And, in the end, the whole outfit'll come into Jessie's hands, and so into his. But there's a further snag. Alec is to get the business at his mother's death. And Alec hasn't any use for Murray, and, if foolish, is hot-headed. Alec has to be got rid of. How? The father's murder can't be safely repeated. How then? Alec is yearning for life. He's yearning to wallow in the sink of Leaping Horse. Murray encourages him. Murray persuades his mother. Murray takes him down there, and flings him into the sink. But Murray hasn't forgotten you. Not by a lot. He's going to match your outfit. He's going to measure his wits against yours. He's going to get you done up on Bell River the same as Allan Mowbray, and the play will be logical for all who hear of it. So he ships in the supplies and makes ready. Meanwhile the boy plays into his hands. He gets all tied up with the woman belonging to Shaunbaum. And Shaunbaum figgers to kill him. Murray needs that. It'll save him acting that way himself. But he's taking no chances. He watches all the while. He locates everything, every move Shaunbaum makes. How I can't guess, but it's easy to a feller like Murray. Well, the gunmen get around. Maybe you'll say this is just a guess. It don't seem that way to me. I sort of see it all doing. The day Alec's to be shot up by Shaunbaum's gunmen gets around. That morning Murray pulls out north. Then comes night. He sneaks back. I seem to see Murray sitting around in one of the boxes opposite us. Maybe he came in quietly amongst the crowd. He keeps close in that box, hidden. He watches. His eye is on the gun-men. If they do their work right, why, he'll clear out free of the blood of the boy. If they don't——?

"But the boy had a dash of his father in him. He knew trouble was hitting his trail. When it caught him up he was ready. He was quicker than the gun-men. And Murray was watching and saw. His gun was ready behind the curtains of that box, and it spoke, and spoke quick. The gunman was dead. Alec was dead. There was no trail left. Only the bullet I dug out of the poor kid's body. Murray cleared on the instant, and didn't have to pass through the hall. The rest——" Bill finished up with a comprehensive gesture indicating the camp about them.

The work going on outside sounded doubly loud in the silence that followed the rapidly told story. Kars' brooding eyes were turned on the sunlit doorway. His pipe had remained cold.

It was almost a visible effort with which he finally bestirred himself.

"You guess he quit his outfit and returned to Leaping Horse," he said. "You can't prove it."

Bill shrugged.

"It'll be easy. His outfit can prove it. He either quit it or didn't join it in the morning. The p'lice'll get it out of them. When they learn what's doing they won't be yearning to screen Murray. Specially Keewin."

"No. Keewin was Allan's best boy. Keewin would have given his life for Allan."

Kars drew a deep breath. He sat up and struck a match. His pipe began to glow under his deep inhalations. He stood up and moved towards the door.

"It's the foulest thing I've ever heard. And—I guess you've got it right, Bill," he admitted. "I allow we've done all we can. It's right up to the p'lice." He abruptly turned, and his steady eyes stonily regarded his friend. "He's got to hang for this. Get me? If the law don't fix things that way, I swear before God I'll hunt his trail till I get him cold—with my own hands."

Bill's reply was a silent nod. He had nothing to add. He knew all that was stirring beyond that stony regard, and his sympathies were in full harmony. The bigness of these two men was unlimited by any of the conventions of human civilization. They were too deeply steeped in the teachings of the long trail to bow meekly to the laws set up by men. Their doctrines were primitive, but they saw with wide eyes the justice of the wild.

Kars stood for a few moments lost in profound thought. Then he stirred again and moved to depart.

"Where you going?" Bill demanded, recalling himself from his own contemplation. Kars turned again.

"I'm going to hand over to Abe and the boys," he said. "They're needing this thing. Guess I'm quit of Bell River. There's a wealth of gold here'll set them crazy. And they can help 'emselves all they choose. You and I, Bill, are going to see this thing through, and our work don't quit till Murray's hanging by the neck. Then—then—why then," a smile dawned in his eyes, and robbed them of that frigidity which had so desperately held them, "then I'll ask you to help me fix things with Father Jose so Jessie and I can break a new trail that don't head out north of 'sixty.'"



CHAPTER XXXI

THE CLOSE OF THE LONG TRAIL

Bell River lay far behind. Leagues beyond the shadowy hills serrating the purple horizon, it was lost like a bad dream yielding to the light of day.

For Kars the lure of it all was broken, broken beyond repair. The wide expanses of the northland had become a desert in which life was no longer endurable. The wind-swept crests, the undulating, barren plains no longer spoke of a boundless freedom and the elemental battle. These things had become something to forget in the absorbing claim of a life to come, wherein the harshness of battle had no place. The darkling woods, scarce trodden by the foot of man, no longer possessed the mystic charm of childhood's fancy. The trackless wastes held only threat, upon which watchful eyes would now gladly close. The stirring glacial fields of summer, monsters of the ages, boomed out their maledictions upon ears deaf to all their pristine wrath. The westward streams and trail were alone desirable, for, at the end of these things, the voice was calling. The voice of Life which every man must ultimately hear and obey.

Such was the mood of the man who for years had dreamed the dream of the Northland; the bitter, free, remorseless Northland. To him she had given of her best and fiercest. Battle and peace within her bosom had been his. He was of the strong whom the Northland loves. She had yielded him her all, a mistress who knows no middle course. And now he was satiated.

She had gambled for his soul. She had won and held it. And, in the end, she had been forced to yield her treasure. Such is the fate of the Northland wanton, bending to the will of Nature supreme. Her hold is only upon superb youth, which must find outlet for its abounding life. She has no power beyond. The ripening purpose of the Great Creator thrusts her back upon herself, beaten, desolate.

The elemental in Kars was still a great living force. That could never change. Just now it was submerging in an ocean of new emotion he was powerless to deny. The strength of his manhood was undiminished. It was even greater for the revolution sweeping his estate. Just as the passionate fire of his elemental nature had swept him all his years, so now the claims of human love coursed through the strong life channels which knew no half measure. Now he yearned for the gentler dream, even as he had yearned for all that which can be claimed by strength alone.

His whole being was centred upon the goal towards which he was speeding. His light outfit was being driven by the speed of his desire.

So Bell River was far behind. All the wide wastes of forest and hill, of canyon and tundra, of glacier and torrent, had passed under his feet. Now the swift waters of Snake River were speeding under driven paddles. Another day and he would gaze once more into the sweet eyes which meant for him the haven his soul so ardently craved.

Bill Brudenell, too, had shaken himself free. The nauseating breath of Bell River had driven him before it. He, too, had loved the North. Perhaps he still loved his mistress, but he cursed her, too, and cursed her beyond forgiveness or recall. His eyes were turned to the west, like the eyes of his friend. But the only voice summoning him was the voice of a spirit wearied with the contemplation of men's evil. This was the final journey for him, and the long nights of the trail were spent in a pleasant dreaming of sunlit groves, of warming climes.

The faithful Charley was untouched by any gentler emotion. His crude mind was beyond such. He was satisfied that his boss had given the order to "mush." It mattered nothing to him if the journey ended at the Pole. Perhaps he regretted the Indians left behind him alive. But even so, there were compensations. Had he not a prisoner, a white man under his charge? And had his boss not assured him that that prisoner would hang by the neck at his journey's end? Yes, that was so. It seemed almost a matter for regret to his unsophisticated understanding that the hanging could not be done on the trail. That the joy of performing the operation might not be his own reward for faithful service. Still, his boss had spoken. It was sufficient.

Night closed down within thirty miles of Fort Mowbray. An early camp was made for food and rest. The journey was to go through the night that it might be completed before dawn broke.

In a few minutes the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire rose on the still air, and helped dispel the attacks of the mosquitoes. Then came the welcome smell of cooking. The Indian crew lolled about the dew-laden bank with the unconcern and luxury of men whose iron muscles are welcomely relaxed. One of their number was at the fire preparing food, and Charley hectored whilst he superintended. Kars and Bill were seated apart under the shelter of a bush. For the time they had charge of their prisoner.

Murray McTavish was unchanged in appearance, except that his smile had died from his round face and his curious eyes shone with a look that was daily growing more hunted. Nearly six weeks had passed since Kars' bullet had crashed through his arm, and left a shattered limb behind it. His final journey had had to be delayed while Bill had exercised his skill in healing that the prisoner might face his ultimate ordeal whole. Now the healing was nearing completion, but the irony of it all lay in the fact that the prisoner's well-being was of necessity the first thought of those who controlled the itinerary.

From the moment of Murray's capture his attitude had become definite and unchanging. His sufferings from his shattered arm were his own. He gave vent to no complaint. He displayed no sign. A moody preoccupation held him aloof from all that passed about him. He obeyed orders, but his obedience was sullen and voiceless.

But that which he refused to his captors by word of mouth, by action, was there for the reading. His big eyes could not remain silent. The mask-like smile was no longer part of him. The knowledge of his defeat, and all its consequences, looked out of glowing depths which shone with so mysterious a light. And daily the pages were turned for the reading of the tragedy, the scenes of which were passing behind them. Resolute in will he was powerless to deny emotion. And the eyes which saw and watched, day and night, on the long journey, read with perfect understanding. His mental sufferings were far beyond any that his wounded body could have inspired.

The westward goal for which his captors were making had a far different meaning for him. He only saw in it the harvest of defeat, and all it meant of human punishment. But far, far worse was the loss of all that which he had labored to achieve through his crimes. Nor was the sting of defeat lessened by the knowledge that it had been accomplished by the one man he had instinctively feared from his first meeting with him.

Now, as they waited while the Indian prepared a steaming supper of rough but welcome food, the three men sat with the smoke of their pipes doing battle with the mosquito hordes which cursed the country.

For long it remained a silent gathering. Such is the way of the long trail. Silence is the rule after the first routine has settled down. A week of close companionship, where Nature's silences are deep and unbroken, and all exchange of thought becomes exhausted. Only the exigences of labor can excuse verbal intercourse. Otherwise it would be intolerable. These three had labored long upon the trail in their different spheres. They accepted every condition.

The camp-fire threw its cheerful glow, and set the shadows dancing. The moon had risen, a golden globe just hovering above the horizon. Its yellow light searched out the three figures dimly, and the dancing flames of the camp-fire supported its effort.

Kars' eyes were directed upon the tongues of flame licking about the camp-kettle. But they held in their focus the round, undiminished figure over whom he sat ward. Bill sat facing the captive in full view of the slung arm in its rough splints. Murray seemed to have no concern for those about him. His haunted eyes were on the rising moon disc, and his thoughts were on all those terrible problems confronting him.

He smoked from habit, but without appreciation. He could have no appreciation now for bodily comfort when all mental peace was destroyed.

His pipe went out and Bill held matches towards him. Silently, almost automatically, he relit it, using his sound arm with the skill of weeks of practice.

He passed the matches back. He offered no thanks. Then, with a sudden stirring of his unshapely body, he glanced swiftly in the direction of Kars. A moment later he was gazing across at Bill and addressing him.

"We'll make the Fort before sun-up?" he said.

"Before daylight," came the prompt correction.

Kars had abandoned his pleasant train of silent thought. His keen eyes were alight with the reflection of the fire. They were searching the prisoner's face for the meaning of his inquiry.

"How long do we stop around?"

Murray's voice was sharp.

"We don't stop around." Again Bill's reply came on the instant, and in tones that were coldly discouraging.

"But I guess I need to collect things. My papers. Kit. I've a right that way. You can't deny it," Murray protested swiftly.

"You got no rights in this layout." It was Kars who replied. "You'll pass right on down the river for Leaping Horse. And you aren't stopping on the way to pay calls. Guess the p'lice in Leaping Horse will allow you your rights. But there's nothing doing that way till you're quit of this outfit."

His decision was coldly final, but it was a blow in the face which the murderer refused to accept.

"You can't act that way," he protested fiercely. "You got a charge against me you haven't proved, and I don't guess you ever will prove. I'm a prisoner by force, not by law. I demand the right to decent treatment. I need to get papers from the Fort. There's things there to help my case. Maybe you figger to beat me through holding me from my rights. It would rank well with the way you've already acted. I need to see Father Jose and Mrs. Mowbray and Jessie——"

"Cut that right out!" Kars' words came with a vicious snap. "You'll see no one till you're in the hands of the Mounted P'lice at Leaping Horse. That goes. I don't care a cuss for the law of this thing. We'll fix that all later."

Murray's burning eyes were furious as they searched the unyielding features of his captor. His absolute impotence drove him to an insane desire for violence. But the violence was not forthcoming. He was powerless, and no one knew it better than he.

"We surely will," he cried, hoarse with passion. "You can't prove a thing. Allan was murdered by the neches. I was at the Fort with the rest. You know that. Others can prove it."

The fierce anger which the mention of Jessie's name had set leaping in Kars' brain subsided as swiftly as it had risen. He sat silent for some moments regarding the storm-swept features of the man whose crimes had devastated the life of the girl he loved. His anger changed to an added loathing. And his loathing inspired a desire to hurt, to hurt mortally.

This man as yet knew nothing of the discovery of his second crime. The time had come when he must realize all that this thing meant to him. There were weeks of journey yet before him. Kars knew no mercy. The wild had taught him that mercy was only for the weak, for those who erred through that weakness. This man was not of those. He was a vicious criminal whose earthly reward would be inadequate to his crimes.

"That won't help you a thing," he said frigidly. He knocked out his pipe and thrust it into his pocket. His gaze was steadily fixed on the eyes so furiously alight as they watched his every movement. "There's more to this than the murder of Allan Mowbray, your share in which can be proved clear out. Guess you've acted pretty bright, Murray. I allow you've covered a whole heap of tracks. But you haven't covered them all. Guess there never was a murderer born who knew how to cover all his tracks. And it's just a mercy of Providence for the protection of us folk. If you'd covered your last tracks you'd have dropped your automatic in the Snake River, and lost it so deep in the mud it wouldn't have been found in years. But you didn't act that way, and that's why you're going to hang. You're going to hang for murdering the son, as well as the father, and the whole blamed world'll breathe freer for your hanging. Do you need me to tell you more? Do you need me to tell you why you're not landing at the Fort? No, I guess not. Your whole play is in our hands. You're here by force, sure, and by force you're goin' to stay. Just as I guess by force you're going to die. You've lived outside the law such a long spell I don't guess you need teaching a thing. If we're acting outside the laws of man now, I guess we're acting within the laws of justice. That's all that gets me where you figger. I guess we'll eat. Charley'll know how to hand you your food."

The prisoner made no reply. It was the final blow. Kars had withheld it till the psychological moment. He had withheld it, not with any thought of mercy, but with a crude desire to punish when the hurt would be the greatest.

He had achieved more than he knew. Buoyed with the belief that his earlier crime on Bell River had been so skilfully contrived that no court of law could ever hope to convict him of a capital offence, Murray McTavish had only endured the suspense and haunting fear of uncertainty. Now he realized to the full the disaster that had overtaken him. He was stunned by the blow that had fallen.

The cooked meat that was passed to him by the Indian was left untouched. The dark night journey passed before his wide, unsleeping eyes as the canoes sped on towards the Fort. The last hope had been torn from him. A dreadful waking nightmare pursued him. It was the complete wrecking of a strong mentality, the shattering of an iron nerve under a sledge-hammer blow that had been timed to the moment. He might walk to the scaffold with a step that was outwardly firm. But it would be merely the physical effort of a man in whom all hope is dead.

So the Fort landing was reached and passed. Kars alone disembarked, his canoe remaining ready to overhaul his companions at their next night camp. He was going to tell his story to those who must learn the truth. It was a mission from which he shrank, but he knew that his lips alone must tell it. He hoped and believed it was the final act of the drama these cruelly injured people must be forced to witness. Then the gloomy curtain would be dropped, but to rise again on scenes of sunlight and happiness.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE SUMMER OF LIFE

The passage of time for John Kars had never been so swift, so feverish in the rush of poignant events. Four months had passed since he had landed like a shadow in the night on the banks of Snake River, to tell the story of men's evil to those to whom he would gladly have imparted only happy tidings.

Now he was at the landing again, with pages of tragic history turned in his book of life. But they were turned completely, and only the memory of them was left behind. The other pages, those remaining to be perused, were different. They contained all those things without which no life could ever be counted complete. That happiness which all must seek, and the strong and wise will cling to, and only the weak and foolish will make a plaything of.

It was the crowning day of his life, and he desired to live every moment of it. So he had left his bed under the hospitable roof of Father Jose to witness the first moment of its birth.

The first gray shadow lit the distant hilltops. To him it was like the first stirring of broken slumber. Strange but familiar sounds broke the profound stillness. The cry of belated beast, and the waking cries of the feathered world. The light spread northward. It moved along stealing, broadening towards the south. It mounted the vault of night. Again, to him it was the growth of conscious life, the passing from dream to reality.

He saw the stubborn darkness yield reluctantly. He watched the silver ghosts flee from the northern sky, back, back to the frigid bergs which inspired their fantastic steps; the challenge hurled at the star-world's complacent reign. Even the perfect burnish of the silver moon was powerless before the victorious march of day.

His spirit responded in perfect harmony. As the flush of victory deepened it reminded him of all that a life of effort meant. The myriad hues growing in the east were the symbol of human hope of success so hardly striven. The massing billows, fantastic cloud-shapes, rich in splendid habiliments, suggested the enthronement of joy supreme. And then, in blazing splendor, the golden rising sun pointed the achievement of that perfect happiness which the merciful Creator designs for every living creature.

It was a moment when there should have been no room for shadowed memory. It was a moment when only the great looking forward should have filled him. But the strong soul of the man had been deeply seared by the conflict which had been fought and won. In the midst of all the emotion of that day of days memory would not wholly be denied, and he dwelt upon those events of which he had read so deeply in the pages of his book of life.

For all his desire to forget, the rapid moving scenes of the summer days came back to him now, vivid, painful. It was as though the pure search-light of dawn had a power of revealing no less than its inspiration of hope and delight. He contemplated afresh his journey down the river with his prisoner and his loyal friends. He remembered his landing on that very spot when sleep wrapped the Mission of St. Agatha, as it did now. He thought of his first visit to the Padre, and of his ultimate telling of his story to the two women who had suffered so deeply at the hands of the murderer. It had been painful. Yet it had not been without a measure of compensation. Had he not run the man to earth? And was not the avenging of the girl he loved yet to come? Yes, this had been so, and he dwelt on the courage and patience which governed the simple women who listened to the details of man's merciless villainy.

The story told, then had come the great looking forward. His work completed, he had promised that not a consideration in the world should stay his feet from the return. And Jessie had yielded to his urgency. On that return she would give herself to him, and the beloved Padre should bless their union in the little Mission House. Then had come the mother's renunciation of all the ties which had so long held her to the banks of the Snake River. Happiness had been hers in the long years of her life there, but the overwhelming shadow of suffering weighed her down completely now, and she would gladly renounce the home which had known her so long.

So it had been arranged under the strong purpose the man had put forth, and, in consequence, added energy was flung into his labors. That night his canoe glided from the landing, and he was accompanied by Keewin, and two other Indians, who had been witnesses of Murray's movements on the day of the murder in Leaping Horse.

The memory of these things carried him on to his journey's end where he encountered again the tawdry pretentiousness of Leaping Horse, seeking to hide its moral poverty under raiment of garish hue. He remembered the anxious, busy days when the machinery of outland justice creaked rustily under his efforts to persuade it into full and perfect motion. The labor of it. How Bill Brudenell had labored. The staunch efforts of the Mounted Police. And all the time the dread of a breakdown in the rusted machinery, and the escape of the murderer from the just penalty of his crimes.

None knew better than Kars the nearness of that disaster. Money had flowed like water in the interests of the accused. It had correspondingly had to flow in the interests of the prosecution. The tradition of Leaping Horse had been maintained throughout the whole trial. And loathing and disgust colored his every recollection. The defending counsel had set out to buy and corrupt. Kars had accepted the challenge without scruple. The case was one of circumstance, circumstance that was overwhelming. But the power of money in Leaping Horse was tremendous. The verdict remained uncertain to the last moment. Perhaps the balance was turned through weight of money. Kars cared very little. The Jesuitical method of it all was a matter for scruple. And scruple was banished completely from this battle-field.

And Justice had won. Whatever the method, Justice had won. The relief of it. The cold reward. Allan Mowbray was avenged. Jessie and her mother were freed from the threat which had so long over-shadowed their lives. The bitter air of the northland had been cleansed of a pestilential breath. So he turned his back on Leaping Horse with the knowledge that the murderer would pay his penalty before God and man.

Nor was the whole thing without a curiously grim irony. Even while Murray McTavish was fighting for his life he was witness of the complete shattering of all that for which he had striven. His trial revealed to the world the secret which his every effort had sought to keep inviolate, and the horde of vultures from the gold city were breaking the trail in their surging lust. Word flashed down the boulevards. It flew through the slums. It sung on the wires to the rail-heads at the coast. It reached the wealthy headquarters at Seattle. Thence it journeyed on the wings of cable and wire to every corner of the world. And the message only told the fabulous stories of the new strike on Bell River. The world was left all unconcerned with the crimes it had inspired.

The scenes of the early days were renewed. Nor was there any great difference from them. It was a pell-mell rush. Incompetent, harpy, "sharp" and the gold seeker of substance. It was a train of the northland flotsam, moving again without scruple or mercy. Kars watched its beginning. He understood. None could understand this sort of thing better. All his life had been spent in the midst of such conditions. The thing had been bound to come, and he was frankly glad that those who had served him so well were already in possession of all they required in the new Eldorado.

How the "rush" ultimately fared he neither knew nor seriously cared. It had no concern for him. The lust of gold had completely passed from him. All he cared was that it had left Fort Mowbray untouched. The overland route had suited the needs of these folk best. It was shorter, and therein lay its claim. The waterways which would have brought pandemonium to the doors of the folk he loved were circuitous, and the double burden of water and land transport would have been a hindrance in the crazy haste of the reckless souls seeking fortune in a whirlwind of desire.

So the girl he loved was saved the contamination from which he desired to shield her. So the pristine calm of the Mission of St. Agatha was left unbroken. Father Jose was left to his snuff-box and his mission of mercy. And Kars was glad.

His work was done. And now, on this day of days, as he watched its splendid birth, he thanked his God that the contamination of the gold world which had so long overshadowed would no longer threaten the life of the girl who was to be given into his keeping before its close.

The sun cleared the sky-line, a molten, magnificent spectacle. And as it rose the multi-hued escort of cloud fell away. Its duty was done. It had launched the God of day upon its merciful task for mankind. It would go, waiting to conduct him to his nightly couch at the other side of the world.

Kars drew a deep breath. The draught of morning air was nectar to his widely expanding lungs. Realization of happiness rarely comes till it is past. Kars was realizing it to the full.

His eyes turned from the splendid vision. The landing was crowded with craft. But it was not the craft of trade which usually gathered at the close of summer. It was his own outfit, largely augmented. And it was deeply laden.

He dwelt upon it for some moments. Its appeal held him fascinated. A week had been spent upon the lading, a week of unalloyed happiness and deeply sentimental care. These were canoes laden with the many household goods and treasures of the feminine hearts who were about to take their places in his life. Those slight, graceful vessels contained a hundred memories of happiness and pain carefully taken from the settings to which they had so long been bound. He knew that they represented the yielding up of long years of treasured life upon the altar of sacrifice his coming had set up. He had no other feeling than thankfulness and tenderness. It stirred every fibre of his manhood to its depths.

His happy contemplation was suddenly broken. A sound behind him caught his quick ears. In a moment he had turned, and, in that moment, the deep happiness of his communing became a living fire of delight.

Jessie was standing in the mouth of the avenue which led down from the clearing. She stood there framed in the setting of ripe summer foliage, already tinging with the hues of fall. Her ruddy brown hair was without covering, and her tall slim figure was wrapped in an ample fur-lined cloak which reached to her feet. Kars recognized the garment as something he had dared to purchase for her in Leaping Horse, to keep her from the night and morning chills on the journey from the Fort. In his eyes she made a picture beyond all compare. Her soft cheeks were tinted with a blush of embarrassment, and her smiling eyes were shyly regarding him.

He strode up to her, his arms outheld. The girl yielded to his embrace on the instant, and then hastily released herself, and glanced about her in real apprehension.

Kars smilingly shook his head.

"There's no one around," he comforted her.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite."

The girl led the way back to the landing.

"Tell me," she cried, glancing half shyly up at the strong, smiling face that contained in its rugged molding the whole meaning of life to her. "What—why are you down here—now?"

The man's responsive smile was half shamefaced. He shook his head.

"I can't just say. Maybe it's the same reason you're around."

"Oh, I just came along to look at things."

Kars' embarrassment passed. He laughed buoyantly.

"That's how I felt. I needed to look at—things."

"What things?"

The girl pressed him. Her great love demanded confession of those inner feelings and thoughts a man can so rarely express. Kars resorted to subterfuge.

"You see, I'm responsible to you and your mother for the outfit. I had to see nothing's amiss. There won't be a heap of time later, and we start right out by noon. You can trust Bill most all the time. And Charley's no fool on the trail. But I had to get around."

"So you got up before the sun to see to it."

Kars laughed again.

"Yes. Same as you."

The girl shook her head.

"Say, it won't do. I'll—I'll be frank. Yes. I was awake. Wide awake—hours. I just couldn't lie there waiting—waiting. I had to get around. I had to look at it all—again. Say, John, dear, it's our great day. The greatest in all life for us. And all this means—means just a great big whole world. So I stole out of the house, and hurried along to look at it. Am I foolish? Am I just a silly, sentimental girl? I—I—couldn't help it. True."

They were standing at the edge of the landing. The speeding waters were lapping gently at the prows of the moored craft under pressure of the light morning breeze. The groans of the summer-racked glacier across the river rumbled sonorously, accentuating the virgin peace of the world about them. The insect world was already droning its day-long song, and the cries of the feathered world came from the distance.

The girl's appeal was irresistible. Kars caught her in his arms, and his passionate kisses rained on her upturned face. All the ardor of his strong soul gazed down into her half-closed eyes in those moments of rapture.

"You couldn't help it? No more could I," he cried, yielding all restraint before the passion of that moment. "I had to get around. I had to see the day from its beginning. Same as I want to see it to its end. Great? Why, it's everything to me—to us, little Jessie. I want it all—all. I wouldn't miss a second of its time. I watched the first streak of the dawn, and I've seen the sun get up full of fire and glory. And that's just how this day is to us. Think of it, little girl, think of it. By noon you'll be my wife—my wife. And after, after we've eaten, and Father Jose and Bill have said their pieces, we'll be setting out down the river with all the folks we care for, for a new, big, wide world, and the wide open trail of happiness waiting for us. If it wasn't I'm holding you right now in my arms I guess it—it would be incredible."

But the girl had suddenly remembered the possibility of prying eyes. With obvious reluctance she released herself from the embrace she had no desire to deny.

"Yes," she breathed, "it's almost—incredible." Then with a sudden passionate abandon she held out her arms as though to embrace all that which told her of her joy. "But it's real, real. I'm glad—so glad."

It was a scene which had for its inspiration a world of the gentler human emotions.

The laden canoes had added their human freight. Each was manned by its small dusky crew, Indians tried in the service of the long trail, men of the Mission, and men who had learned to regard John Kars as a great white chief. It was an expedition that had none of the grim earnestness of the long trail. The dusky Indians, even, were imbued with the spirit of the moment. Every one of these people had witnessed the wonderful ceremonial of a white man's mating, the whole Mission had been feasted on white man's fare. Now the landing was thronged for the departure. Women, and men, and children. They were gathered there for the final Godspeed.

Peigan Charley was consumed with his authority over the vessels which led the way, bearing the baggage of the party. He was part of the white man's life, therefore his contempt for the simple awe of the rest of his race, at the witnessing of the wedding ceremony, still claimed his profoundest "damn-fool." Never were his feelings of superiority more deeply stirred.

Bill Brudenell piloted the vessel which bore Ailsa Mowbray towards the new life for which she had renounced her old home. Kars and his bride were the last in the procession, as the vessels swept out into the stream under the powerful strokes of the paddles.

It was an unforgetable moment for all. For the women it had perhaps an even deeper meaning than for any one else. It was happiness and regret blended in a confused tangle. But it was a tangle which time would completely unravel, and, flinging aside all regret, would set happiness upon its throne. For Bill it was the great desire of his life fulfilled. His friend, the one man above all others he regarded, had finally stepped upon the path he had always craved for him. For himself? His years were passing. There was still work to be done in the unsavory purlieus of Leaping Horse.

For John Kars it was a moment of the profoundest, unalloyed joy. No searching of his emotions could have revealed anything but the wholesome feelings of a man who has achieved his destiny in those things which the God of All has set out for human desire. The world lay all before him. Wealth was his, and, in his frail barque, setting out upon the waters of destiny, was the wife he had won for himself from the bosom of the desolate north.

Father Jose, gray headed, aged in the long years of a life of sacrifice, stood at the forefront of the landing as the procession glided out on to the bosom of the stream. Simple in spirit, single in purpose, he regarded the going with the calmness which long years of trial had imposed upon him. His farewell was smiling. It was deep with truth and feeling. He knew it was the close of a long chapter in the book of his life's effort. He accepted it, and turned the page.

But for all the great gathering of his Mission about him he was a lonely little figure, and the sigh which followed his voiceless blessing came from a loyal heart which knew no other purpose than to continue to the end its work of patient, unremitting mercy.