CY LISKARD was squatting on his rolled blankets. The interior of his log shanty was disordered. For all the man’s physical roughness, for all the conditions of the life he lived, his hut on the hills above the Lias River had always been something scrupulous in its neatness. Now its interior was completely dishevelled. It was an atmosphere associated with final departure, with absolute quittance.

But it was something more. It was as if the man had searched it completely with a view to the destruction of everything that could leave a clue to the identity of its occupant. There was a pile of stuff lying upon the hard-beaten earth floor awaiting destruction, and outside the door a large fire was doing its share in the work of concealment. Then, too, down on the creek below there was a great smouldering heap which represented the complete destruction of the elaborate sluice box and the general gear of the gold worker’s craft that could not easily be otherwise removed.

The man had done his work systematically and without apparent haste. And now he sat on his blankets gazing out through the open doorway on the devouring flames of his fire. There was the pile on the floor yet to be consumed. There was the removal of his blankets and kit. Then there was the shanty itself to be disposed of. After that——?

The man’s dead eyes were more than usually expressionless for all the teeming thought of his brain. He was lost in one of those fierce trains of thought which leave the body completely relaxed, inert.

He had returned from the river mouth at a speed that rarely drove him. Apprehension had pursued him every mile of the way. But it was not physical fear. No. It was something deeper, more abiding than that. He was beset with concern for an invisible, intangible threat that seemed to be enveloping him. A threat that was clear enough in its work of despoliation without a sign of how or whence it came. Fury was driving him hard. Fury, and that other thing that left him groping for the thing he must do.

Now as he sat waiting for the fire outside to do its work, he was contemplating the courses that were open to him. And his mind and brutish nature, being what they were, looked first and foremost for some method of retaliation upon an unseen, unknown, but not wholly unguessed agency that was operating for his hurt.

No. It was not unguessed. Two agencies sprang to his mind. There was the memory of those “fool” figures in their hooded white cloaks who had surrounded him while a rawhide rope dangled before his eyes. For all he derided their methods they were not easily forgotten. Then there was that other. The man he had sought to kill, and who, through his friends, had contrived to outwit him. A queer desperation was driving. He knew he must act quickly, at once. But even the feeling of desperation and the uncertainty of the thing about him could not rob him of his lust for vengeance. His lust to kill.

His plans had been urgently completed. He knew he must quit his mountain retreat. He must defy everything and reach Beacon with all speed. His credit was lying at Victor Burns’ bank. That was his, which he believed no power could rob him of. He must collect it at once. It was all that had been left to him. And with that in his possession he would be free to devote himself to the vengeance which looked a thousand times more desirable to him now.

He rose from his seat and replenished the fire outside with the collected heap in the shack. It was the last. He had destroyed the last of his makeshift furnishings, and only his camp outfit and his treasured weapons were left to encumber his journey. And now he sat again, having closed the door to defend himself against the fierce heat and the smoke of his fire.

Yes. Beacon must be his first objective. It would be easy enough. At the bank he was just an ordinary customer. There was, there could be no doubt about his credit there. He was wholly unknown except as a gold man from the hills. There was nothing against him except for the sentence of that absurd bunch who called themselves the Aurora Clan. They were powerless to interfere—— He stirred uneasily.

No. He would give them no chance. He would give no one any chance. He would descend upon the bank at the busiest time of the day, and be gone with his cash before a soul was wise to his presence in the city. Then——

He dismissed Beacon from his mind and his thought was caught and held where a wrecked ship that was lying on the rocks at the mouth of the Alsek River. And curiously enough the mental vision of it robbed him of something of the even train of his urgent thought. A queer feeling took hold of him in the pit of the stomach. It came of a sudden, and he stirred uneasily, and strove to moisten his lips with a tongue that had somehow become almost dry.

The stare of his dead eyes displayed nothing of his emotion. They looked and looked squarely at the lateral logs of the wall in front of him. Even the flutter of the torn cotton which covered the window directly above where he was gazing drew not a vestige of his attention. And it was not until the loose cotton ripped with a screaming tear that his gaze came back to the things about him. He looked up with a start to find himself gazing into the ominous ring of the muzzle of a heavy gun. It was thrust through the aperture of the windows where the cotton had been torn away.

“Sit right there, Julian Caspar. Don’t move a little bit. Not a finger, boy, or you’re as dead as Jim Carver you murdered for his gold.”

It was spoken quietly, almost gently, in a voice whose tones startled the man on his blankets and left him utterly unmoving. His queer eyes were fixed on the dark face peering in at him through the aperture of the window from behind the threatening gun.

But the whole position underwent a change on the instant. The door was flung open and Ivor McLagan thrust his way in.

“Up with those hands, Caspar!” he cried roughly. And his own levelled gun enforced the sharp order. “Right up—this time. That’s better. You didn’t do it right at the Speedway. You’re learning manners. No. Keep ’em up. Len Stern’s here and is yearning to sift his hands through your pockets. Get busy, Len. I’ll watch his monkey tricks.”

The man on the blankets gave no sign, and his eyes helped the illusion of submission. His hands were thrust above his head while he watched the man he hated most in the world. But Ivor bulked large and fiercely threatening behind the deadly automatic he was gripping. And the other had reason enough to know there was no play-game where McLagan was concerned.

In less than a minute the work was completed. Len Stern, relieved of his hold-up through the window, came to his task on the run. The man was deprived of his gun and a pocket full of cartridge clips. The rifle leaning against the wall was unloaded and put out of harm’s way. And furthermore, a long, razor-like sheath knife was transferred to the keeping of the man from Australia.

“That all, Len?” McLagan spoke in the harsh tone of a man without mercy. “We’re taking no chances with the feller who’s done up a ship’s company. Is he harmless?”

“As a babe.”

Len Stern left the man and moved clear. Then he waited, leaning with his elbow propped on the window framing while McLagan lowered his threatening weapon.

The engineer’s quick eyes took in the details of the dishevelled interior.

“Making a quick getaway, Caspar, eh?” he snapped sharply. “Making a break for the open where the thing lying back of you’s not going to come again.” He shook his head. “You can’t escape that, boy, not as long as you live. And when you’re dead, I guess you’ll get its consequences. Say, a feller can’t commit cold-blooded murder without it leaving a hell of a stain, if it’s only on the brutal mind that designed it. Can you guess why we’re here? Can you guess why Len Stern’s come all along from Perth in Australia? Sure you can. But I tell you, in case you don’t guess right. Len Stern’s got along to make sure you swing by your darn neck for murdering his partner, and goodness knows how many more. You can drop your hands.”

The man lowered his arms and it was noticeable that his fists were tightly clenched. His eyes displayed nothing but cold contemplation as they looked back into McLagan’s face. Those looking on, observing his every movement with the closest scrutiny, were not without a feeling of appreciation for the sheer nerve he was displaying. But they were neither of them deceived. A storm lay behind those cold eyes. It was raging, consuming. And it was expressed in the two fiercely clenched fists.

The man shook his head.

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly, with a shrug. “You’re dead wrong. I’m not worried a thing with any memory of murder. I don’t have to be. I don’t know this feller you call Len Stern. And as for his partner I can’t guess the thing you’re talking. I’m a gold man scratching over the dirt of this creek. And my name’s Liskard—Cy Liskard. You’ve a hold-up on me for, I suppose, the stuff you reckon to get out of me. You’ll get not an ounce. I’m quitting for the reason the show don’t pay. Well?”

It was consummately done. It was too well done. McLagan laughed coldly.

“We’ll cut all that right out,” he said. He dropped back to the door framing and leant his big body against it, but his gun was in his hand ready for instant use. “This isn’t any old game of bluff. It’s just cold business that’s going through as we fixed it. You can keep that junk for the law courts where you’ll stand up to answer for your play. For the moment the things concerning us are toting you right in to Beacon, and handing you over to Alan Goodchurch. Then you’ll be passed on to Fairbanks. I’m not wise if they use an electric chair there or hang a boy like you right out of hand. It don’t signify, anyway. They don’t treat murder easy in Fairbanks, which makes me feel good passing you along in that direction. Your ponies are fixed for your journey. You’ve set things that way, and I’m obliged. We’ll be able to travel the quicker. You can get up off those blankets. You’re going to start right away. I can’t give you even blanket room on the journey. You see, we’re going to make Beacon quick.”

But the man who had been called Julian Caspar made no attempt to obey. He stirred where he sat, but that was all. McLagan was watching. He was watching with every faculty alert. He was looking to read behind that baffling mask which was his victim’s greatest asset.

It was that slight shift of position that betrayed. It was an unconscious movement impelled by some inner qualm, a qualm similar to that which had assailed him when he had thought of the wreck at the mouth of the Alsek River. And a feeling of satisfaction warmed McLagan as he waited for the reply he saw coming.

The man spoke harshly, but without any sign of the fury that was driving him. He had himself under a control that rarely enough gave way, and was strongest in emergency.

“You’re talking a whole lot, McLagan,” he said, “but you’re not talking the way of a feller who’s dead sure of the thing he’s putting on the other feller.” He shook his head. “Try again. Maybe that way you’ll make me feel like the boy you’re reckoning to make me believe I am. A hold-up’s generally got more behind it than seems. You see you’re not a sheriff, or a law officer. You’re just an oil man. I haven’t seen a sign of any warrant for my arrest. Do you get me?”

McLagan smiled at the shrewd retort. He was more than prepared for it. He signed to Len Stern, while his gun was raised ever so slightly covering his man.

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “I’m not worrying for details. You can think the thing you please. We won’t waste time in discussion. Just fix those bracelets right on his wrists, Len, and then go fix his ponies ready for the start. No, Caspar. Don’t move. Not a move. As sure as God I’ll fix you right here. And I’ll fix you better than the mess you made of things down at my home place. I told you then you’ll hang, and that’s sure why I’m here now. That’s it, Len,” he went on, as the irons were clipped on the man’s wrists. “Now go and see to his plugs while I look to him.”

The two men remained watching each other in silence after Len Stern had passed out of the shack. It seemed as if a tremendous silent conflict of will was raging. The hard face of Julian Caspar was apparently unyielding under the hate that no power of his seemed able to abate. The eyes of the other were harshly compelling, and kept the queer dead eyes of his victim unblinkingly observing him. McLagan’s decision was clear in his mind. It was impossible to judge of the thing passing in the mind of the other as he sat with his shackled hands resting on his drawn-up knees.

At last the prisoner shook his head.

“You’re needing something, McLagan,” he said, his face slightly relaxing. “Maybe I can guess the thing it is. Well, if you’re ready to hand out the price I’ll sell what you need.”

McLagan drew a deep breath. Quite suddenly a curious feeling of admiration stirred within him. The man’s words and manner inspired him with a sense of his own inferiority. His shrewdness and nerve amazed him. He felt he had been read like an open book. He failed utterly to realise that this man was fighting for something he treasured above all else—his life. And knew full well that it was forfeit unless his wit should adequately serve him.

He nodded.

“I surely do,” he said quietly. “And when a murderer is captured, and the irons are fixed right, there’s only one price he can ask. That’s freedom.”

“That’s so. Well?”

The relaxing was gone from the man’s face. McLagan read the anxiety lying behind that final interrogation.

“I let you go once before, Caspar,” he went on coldly. “I told you then you’d hang, you were born to hang. That’s why I let you go. I’m still sure you’ll hang. That’s why I’m ready to let you loose on this hill country again. But if you want me to do that, why, you’ve got to hand me the story of your ship the Imperial from A to Z. There’s no lies’ll serve you. Len Stern and I know enough to check you up all the time. You can only get away on the truth. In return we’ll release you now, right here. There’s the hill country back of here, and the Canadian border beyond. It’s a dog’s chance. You’re tough, and maybe you can get through. I don’t know and don’t care. It’s a chance of a respite before that hanging which is coming your way.”

McLagan ceased speaking and the sound of Len Stern passing outside came in the silence that followed. Then Caspar cleared a throat that was dry with fierce anxiety. And suspicion lurked behind his expressionless eyes.

“Why d’you need that story? What’s the dirty game behind it? When a feller like you gets his hands on a man he reckons to have done murder, why, for a story, is he ready to hand him a getaway?” He shook his head. “The price is right, McLagan. But ther’s a snag somewhere. It looks like your case is bad. It looks like you’re maybe a bad payer. It looks like ther’s things to you you ain’t yearning to have around in the light of open court.”

Again he shook his head.

But the challenge left McLagan quite unruffled. His smile was derisive as his answer came on the instant.

“That’s all right, Caspar,” he said. “It can look just as it pleases you to make it look. I don’t care a cent. The only thing is Len’s coming right back. I can hear him. And so can you. The ponies, I guess, are fixed. Well, we’re starting for Beacon right away, or we aren’t. You can please your darn self. The price will be paid or not, as you choose. But you’ve only five seconds to choose in.”

Caspar stirred.

“You swear to get out an’ leave me free?”

“On those terms, yes.”

“Then you can have the yarn.”

“The simple facts?”

“Yes—curse you!”

The malevolent fury in the man’s final curse was the epitome of all his pent feeling. McLagan was his one object of insane hate. And he was driven to bend before his will. He knew the desperate nature of the thing he was doing. He knew the risk of it all. The evidence he was about to put into his hated enemy’s hand. But he knew, being the man he was, and with shackles on his wrists, that it was his only chance. So he yielded. But his yielding had only come with his recognition that the shackles holding him were the official shackles of the United States Government, and must clearly have been put into the hands of these men for their present purpose.

Julian Caspar was still sitting on his piled blankets. McLagan was still leaning against the doorway with his gun in evidence. Len Stern was propped, as before, where the cotton hung loose from the window framing. The monotonous tones of the prisoner’s voice broke up the stillness of the atmosphere of the place. He had been talking for some time. He was not looking at his captors. His dead eyes were on the log wall in front of him. And his gaze suggested a mind reviewing in sequence a series of pictures which gave him not a moment of mental unease. He was transferring his stock at a price. And only was it the payment of the price for which he was concerned.

“It was too easy,” he was saying, with a sound that was perhaps a mirthless imitation of a laugh. “It’s queer ther’s such darn fools running around loose. That boy, Carver, and Stern, here, surely needed wet-nurses before they set out to handle a bunch of dust the way they thought. Why should I stand around on a lousy commission with the stuff lying safe under my hatches, and with only a bum crew of Chinks, an’ a few poor whites to deal with.” He shook his head. “Not on your life. I’d have stood for equal share. I’d have let that boy live for some other guy to do up later. But he guessed to hand me commission. Me, who was the only thing that could help him handle his stuff right. No. My mind was fixed the moment Stern an’ me signed our charter. There was haf a million of stuff to trade, and I guessed I knew who would do the trading.”

He paused and shifted his position. His audience remained unmoving but watchful.

“I got him in the doldrums south of the line,” he went on, after a moment. “It didn’t need argument how best I could fix him. He was soft in his foolishness. It was in the night. There wasn’t any darn moon, and a thin cloud hid up the stars. There wasn’t a breath of wind, an’ it was as hot as hell. I guessed a walk along the deck would be better than blankets on a night like that, and he guessed that way, too. Then I’d got another thought back of my head. You see, I knew the monkey tricks of the sailorman, whether Chink or white. In the doldrums, without a breeze, you can never keep a watch on deck out of their blankets at night. The midnight watch came on deck an’ the others went to quarters. Then us two folks started pacing the main deck for cool. You see, the moment the watch had changed they’d oozed off for’ard and rolled into their blankets, and we were left to the main deck where even the man at the wheel couldn’t guess the thing happening. There was only the officer of the watch. I waited for him. He went below to get a drink, I guess. That was my time. That boy and me were away up near the winch. I jerked that long knife of mine in through the neck of his thick peacoat. It went deep and far, and he dropped in my arms without a sound. It’s the Indian trick of skewering a man’s heart, and comes easy with practice. I heaved him to the rail and dropped him over, and the thing was done without a mess, and in a few seconds. Then I waited for the officer. I treated him as he came out from the cabin, and got rid of him, too. It was not because he knew a thing. But I looked to make an atmosphere for those who were to learn things later. Then I dealt with the boy at the wheel, and left the ship with a loose helm. After that I went below and waited. The thing I guessed happened. The ship yawed and was set flat aback. And in awhile I was shouted for by one of the watch. I cleared from my bunk and raised hell till he’d told me the thing that had happened. It was a play game to me. It was an elegant show. I mustered the watches, and looked for the absentees. I located the first officer was missing. Then I got wise that Carver, too, was nowhere around. Then I raised every sort of hell a feller born to the sea knows about. And in the end had the second officer log a scrap. A ‘hold-up’ by one of the Chink crew—identity unguessed. And it worked smooth and easy, as I knew it would when dealing with a bunch of sailor toughs without sense between ’em the size of a buck louse. Maybe it was—too easy.”

There was a moment of reflective silence before the man spoke again. McLagan made no attempt to urge him. A queer nauseation affected him deeply as he watched the man, who, now that he had embarked upon his story, seemed rather to enjoy dwelling on the hideous incidents of it. Len Stern was less calm. All the youth in him was aflame. The cold satisfaction of Caspar in telling of the slaughter of his partner drove him almost beyond his powers of restraint.

“The game was only at its start,” Caspar went on at last. “I’d got it clear cut in my mind. We were coming up through the big islands, and at first I thought of running for the China coast. But it didn’t take long to show me it was liable to be a bad move with twelve Chinks aboard out of a crew of eighteen. I changed plan right away. I’d run for Alaska where gold is found. I’d deal with the crew one way or another, and abandon ship, and run the gold inland by motor launch where its presence wouldn’t set a flutter stirring. From the start luck ran with me, but it was only later I was to learn how well it was running.”

“My next move was obvious to a feller looking to lose himself and his bunch,” he continued, with his queer eyes lighting unwholesomely. “I was my own wireless man. It was mostly a hobby with me, and I’d set it up myself. I got busy and sent out a distress signal. I sent it out telling the darn fools who picked it up I was foundering a thousand miles from where I happened to be sailing. I kept sending it to make sure, and I guess it didn’t let me down. As a result my craft was fathoms deep in the South Pacific. That left me free with leisure to fix the crew when, and the way, I wanted ’em.”

He drew a deep breath and once he raised his eyes derisively to the frowning dark face of Len Stern. Then he went on at once.

“I wanted that crew for awhile. We’d a mighty big piece of sailing to do before I put the rest of my plan into operation. It’s queer, now I think of it, how my luck stood by. We steered E.N.E. after we’d cleared the islands. And it came on to blow hard. But it was a fair breeze, dead on our quarter, and I carried on every stitch of canvas we could spread. There were times when those darn Chinks groused. They came aft an’ once looked ugly. But I didn’t let go. No. I needed ’em yet. The only feller I didn’t need was the second officer. Well, I took council with the Chink steward I carried. He was a boy who knew me good, and who’d worked for me since ever I’d held a master’s ticket. He was handy. I guess he was quicker with a knife than any yeller mongrel I’ve ever seen. Well, it was blowing hard and a dead black night, and when morning came and the wind eased there was a dead officer overboard and only the boy who acted as third and me to run the ship. And so we came along up towards the fifties, where we ran into elegant fair weather like spring, for all it was dead winter. I guess the Pacific’s well named.

“Then the thing that made me feel real good—at first—happened. It happened at change of watch midday. The bunch were waiting amidships to take over, standing around smoking and chewing like the lousy crowd they were. The sun was beating down fine on the litter of lumber stacked on the deck. I was on the poop deck watching those boys and guessing about things. And in the midst of it I saw them boys take a hunch to themselves peeking down the deck. I looked too. An’ then—Say, you’ve seen it, McLagan. Yes. It was there. Right at the spot where I jerked my knife under his collarbone. It was there just as crazy a thing as I ever see. But it was there, and stayed there, just as long as the sun shone. I wanted to laff. Then I didn’t. Then I thought hard an’ waited, and pretended I hadn’t seen.

“It was two days later the play began,” he went on, his manner becoming harsher. “They came aft. The whole darn bunch. An’ I kind of knew the thing coming. I was ready for ’em. I saw my whole play in a jump. That queer thing had been there each day, an’ all the time the sun shone. Oh, it made me sick, their fool slobber. But I listened. You see, we were near to the coast, and the weather was elegant for my plans. So I listened. The darn ship was haunted. That was their stuff. They were plumb scared, the whole bunch, except three cold-blooded Chinks who’d the nerve of the whole flock. I listened and I agreed. I told ’em I’d seen it too, and was just as badly scared as they were. But I wasn’t a darn fool and wasn’t yearning for an open boat for the sake of a crazy shadow. Then I pretended savage and told ’em to get right back to their sennit an’ holy-stone, or I’d dose their darn guts with lead. It acted the way I wanted. They tried to rush me. I had Jim Shan, the steward, with me. A sign from him, and the other three Chinks lent a hand. They turned on the bunch. And I unloosed. There was a tough scrap, but we beat ’em back. When they were rightly cowed I handed ’em the thing I’d do. They could have one of the launches. It was a hundred miles to Seattle. They could have the vittles and get. They went. And the darn third officer went with ’em. And next day it blew a howling winter gale. I guess they’d as much chance as cordite in hell. I was left with four Chinks which included Jim Shan.

“We had a mighty tough time for two days. But we were quit of that shadow. There were four of us to handle wheel and sail, and one was a cook. But the boys had shortened down before they went and we had to chance the rest. Anyway we got through. And after that the weather set dead fair and we crawled up the coast. But the shadow came again and somehow it worried me. Then I played my last trump. I told Jim Shan the story of the gold, and promised him equal shares with his friends if we got it through to the coast. Say, those boys. Ever see a Chink with the yearning for gold looking out of his queer, snake eyes? It’s not good to look at.

“Do you need more?” Julian Caspar shook his head as his queer eyes searched the implacable face of McLagan. “But of course you do. You’re the sort to want every ounce of your pound. Well, you can have it. I’m looking for that dog’s chance for more than one reason.”

He passed his manacled hands up to his shock of hair, and tried to run them back over it. Then they dropped again to his lap.

“The rest was easy—in a way. I set right in to work to change the vessel’s name, and it took me guessing hard. I had to think like hell not to leave a clue. Those boys helped me, and Jim Shan was the neatest hand with paint and a brush I ever located. He did it all right. And the vessel was sort of reborn the Limpet, an’ the name amused me. But it was the waiting around and watching those Chinks. Say, ever waited around with a bunch more used to knives than Bibles? Gee! Then there was that cursed shadow. Say, I’ve got nerve. But there’s things to break the best nerve if you only locate ’em. It was that shadow. There wasn’t a day I didn’t sit at that cabin table, with the alleyway facing me, that I couldn’t see that shadow traipsing—traipsing—Psha! I could have shut the door. I could have sat elsewhere. But someway I hadn’t the grit to do it. No, I had to keep an eye on that shadow all the time—and on those Chinks.”

“Well, it don’t signify now. I’d got it all fixed ready. We were making our getaway that night. Then I was eating my food. I’d been sitting watching the crazy antics of the shadow in the sun, and sudden I got sick in the pit of the stomach. I quit. I quit right there and hailed the Chinks. Well, those boys lasted long enough to crowd on every stitch of canvas. They lasted long enough to launch the motor with the gold and vittles stowed. They lasted long enough to clear the vessel’s side and head for the coast. Then they died quick. All four got lead poisoning, and I dropped ’em over the side. It was them or me, and I knew it. I wasn’t yearning. So I pumped ’em plumb up to the plimsol full of lead, and set ’em where their knives couldn’t reach me. Then——”

“You ran for the mouth of the Lias,” McLagan broke in. “You ran in and cached your stuff in a cave you didn’t reckon folks ’ud locate. And stowed your launch where you didn’t see anything but sea-fowl nosing.”

“You swine!”

McLagan nodded.

“That’s all right,” he said, straightening himself up. “Don’t worry for compliments. That’s not in the story. Yes. I’ve got your gold. There’ll be embargo on your credit at Victor Burns’ Bank. And the launch is away up on the Alsek River where its use in my oil workings’ll keep it in shape. But you’ve got your dog’s chance. I promised that, and you’re going to get it. It’s a hell of a poor-bred dog’s chance. Loose those irons, Len. I’ll hold him covered so there’s no monkeying. He reckons he’d like to translate his opinion of me into something more active. But he won’t. Loose him——”

“But—Say, you’re not going——?”

Len Stern, with his whole mind and body seething with the horror of the thing he had listened to, stared at the engineer incredulously.

“Loose him? What——?”

McLagan nodded.

“Yes. Loose him, boy. I promised him that. I promised him a run for it. It was the price of his yarn. Leave it that way, boy. Loose him, and let’s get out into God’s pure air. This place is foul with the stench of his rotten soul.”

They were out in the open where the air was pure, and the full daylight was pleasant to contemplate after the contaminated atmosphere of Julian Caspar’s quarters. The latter was somewhere behind them, free to undertake anything his evil mind prompted. But McLagan felt no concern as they moved down the slope to the mouth of the Creek debouching on the broad waters of the Lias River. It was left to the more hot-headed Len Stern to concern himself.

“I don’t get it, McLagan,” he said urgently. “You’ve let that rotten murderer free for the sake of his darn story. You’ve let him free after murdering poor Jim. Claire’s brother! The brother of the gal you’re to marry this fall! It’s wrong. It’s crazy. He——”

He broke off to gaze back up the hill at the shack that was still in full view.

“I can’t stand for it, Mac!” he went on hotly, a moment later. “We came here that that boy should swing for the thing he’s done. You said that. You——”

“He will swing, Len. He’ll swing within twenty-four hours.”

McLagan’s tone was cold. His manner was inflexible. And somehow the other remained silent.

They rounded a broad bluff of woodland that mounted the hillside, and all view of Caspar’s hut was obscured. Now the great waters of the Lias came into view. Its wide valley opened out in a splendid picture of forest, and hill, and the smiling sheen of the river’s waters.

“You beat me, Mac,” Len went on, in a tone of puzzlement. All his protest had died out of his manner. “How? He’ll hang in twenty-four hours? Will you tell me?”

McLagan’s pace increased. He was gazing away down at the great river. And suddenly a hot light filled his eyes, and left them frowning.

“Len, boy, cut it all out!” he cried irritably. “What sort of white-livered bunch of craziness do you take me for? What have I been working for these weeks, an’ months, but to hand that boy his med’cine? Say, if you’d been here months back and seen that poor mother woman’s grief, that poor girl’s grief, you’d have known some of the thing I feel. Those two gentle souls are mine. One of ’em’s going to be my wife, to live with me through the years of our lives. That boy’s going to die the only right way for a feller of his sort. He’s going to hang—just as sure as God.”

He laughed mirthlessly.

“I can’t bring that poor feller Jim back alive,” he went on. “But I can see that feller hangs. Why, I owe it him anyway for myself. If he lived he’d get me one way or another. No. He’s going to swing, as I say.”

The landing on the river was in full view when Len put his sharp question. Sasa Mannik was down there with his canoe waiting watchfully his boss’s return.

McLagan turned. His face was unsmiling.

“That’s not for you—yet. Someday you may learn things. Meanwhile get a holt on this. You’ve my word of honour as a man the thing’s as I say.”

Stern nodded.

“That surely goes, Mac,” he said. “But tell me. You see, you’ve got me badly guessing. Why for did you send me out of that shack to—fix his ponies? We’re on the river. We’re travelling by water.”

McLagan laughed.

“That’s easy, boy. The talk of ponies was bluff. I didn’t have a notion of running that feller into Beacon. Not a notion from the start. You see, I didn’t let you know the thing in my mind because of the questions I didn’t feel like answering. No. I left you thinking he was passing right into Beacon. I sent you out to fix his ponies because I had to make a talk. And I didn’t want a chance of you getting hot with the things I said and queering the game. I had to get that boy’s yarn. You see, the thing I reckoned to fix was justice, not revenge. Well, it would have been justice handing him over to Goodchurch. But I didn’t fancy that. The law’s queer and slow. It would have been a worry to Jim’s mother, to Claire. To all of us. It would have stirred up memories for those women folk, and would have hurt ’em. So I looked for better, quicker, surer means. But I’ve a queer sort of conscience that wouldn’t be satisfied with circumstantial evidence. I had to hear of the thing he’d done out of his own mouth. So I offered him a run for freedom to hand me his yarn. It was wiser than it looked. You see, I knew the man. He knew the thing he’d done. And he guessed what it would mean going on to Fairbanks. Given a run, he’s confident of making his getaway. His life’s more precious to him than the chance he takes handing out his story. I felt that—knowing him. My promise to him was a run for freedom, and he guessed it was good enough. You see, he didn’t know the thing I know. Now the thing’s sheer justice. He’s condemned himself. And the thought of his hanging leaves me without a qualm or—scruple. Let’s leave it that way, boy. I’ve given my word to you. Now we’re going to make my home place to hand over your gold to you, and to close up my shanty. Then for Beacon.”

“Shall I learn for sure—when it’s done?”

McLagan smiled gently as they paced down the hill. He understood the other’s feelings. He realised how hard, without further explanation, it must be for this man, who had been absent so long from the country, to accept his assurance. So he laid a reassuring hand upon his arm.

“Yes, Len. And,” he added, “believe me, his hanging’s as inevitable as that the sun’ll rise to-morrow.”