By all the tricks of stage-craft and book-craft, of the copybook headlines and platitudinous lies which we have had rammed down our throats since childhood, virtue should have triumphed in the person of the Ranger, because he fought regardless of consequences for right. MacDonald, the sheep rancher, who went out of his way to enforce the fair deal and the square deal, when he could very much more easily have remained safely at home, a fire-insurance, bread-and-butter, safety-guarantee Christian of the quiescent kind, MacDonald by all the tricks of the-be-good-and-you-will-prosper doctrines, ought not to have been shot down as he stood guard at the head of the mine shaft.

A very great many years ago, a very great Man, in fact, the very greatest moral teacher the world has ever known, declared that the milk-and-water, neither-hot-nor-cold, quiescent, safety-guarantee type of Christianity was a thing to be spewed out of the mouth; but that was a very great many years ago. Time has softened the edge of that passion for right. Perhaps, He didn't mean it! Perhaps, we have permitted sentimentality to sand-paper down the fighting edge of militant righteousness that goes out beyond the Safety Line! To be sure, bread-and-butter goodness is an easier matter than risking hot shot beyond the Safety Line; and perhaps, a sentimental Deity may be persuaded to allow us a little jam on our bread and butter if we sit tight on the safe side with a fire-insurance policy in the shape of a creed! Personally, I wonder when we all take to joining the sit-tight, safety-guarantee brigade, who is to stand on the outside guard? Or is there any modern Fighting Line? Or does the Fighting Line belong to the old Shibboleth legends of Canaanite and Jebusite and Perizzite and God knows what other "ite"? I hear these ancient gentry preached about and the heroes who smote them hip and thigh extolled. Personally, I am a great deal more interested in the modern tussle for a promised land than in those old time frays for a fertile patch in a sterile wilderness; and I see the same call for the hero's fighting edge; and I like the MacDonalds, who jump out from behind the Safety Line to fight for right, though it bring but the bloody bullet holes in the soft of the temple; and I like the Waylands, who take up the game trail to run down crime though it bring the sword of dismissal dangling over their own heads; and I like best of all the Matthews, who throw aside their "skin-dicate contracts" to take up the game of playing as joyfully for right as they have for wrong, "rich" (I wish you could have heard the full way in which he said that word) "rich" on "thirty dollars a year for clothes," spending self without stint, joyfully, unknowing of self-pity, for the making of right into might, for the making of a patch of human weeds into a garden of goodness. Only, I would put on record the fact that each man's reward was not the hero's crown of laurel leaves, but the crown that their great prototype wore upon the Cross.

Eleanor could not understand why she had been formally notified to attend the coroner's inquest till the drift of the questions began to indicate that this investigation like many another was not an investigation to find out but an investigation to hush up, not a following of the clues of evidence but a deliberate attempt to throw pursuit off on false clues. In fact, there were many things about that inquest which Eleanor could not fathom. Why, for instance was the local district attorney not present? Why had the Smelter Coking Company a special pleader present? Why was the great Federal Government not represented by an attorney of equal ability, instead of this downy-lipped silent and incredibly ignorant youth? Why was the first session of the inquest adjourned till the burial of her father? Why did the sheriff act as a mentor at the ear of the chief coroner? Why did the justice of the peace acting as coroner listen to all suggestions from the Smelter Company's attorney and the Sheriff, and reject all suggestions from her father's friends? Why was the stenographer instructed to erase some evidence and preserve other? What was the ground of discrimination? If you doubt whether these things are ever done, dear reader; then, peruse with close scrutiny the first criminal trial that comes under your notice; and see if you think that the term of the Old Dispensation 'wresting the judgment' has become obsolete? You don't suppose those long-whiskered old patriarchs openly took the bribe in hand and right before the claimants, tucked the loose shekels into the wide phalacteries of holy skirts—do you?

Yet, there were certain features of that inquest which awakened strange hope in her breast. It was held in the county court room; and the crowd gathering to listen and hear somehow gave her a different impression from the unwashed rabble that usually infests public courts to feast on the carrion of criminal proceedings. Men predominated, of course; but they were decent men, men of standing, not idlers and blacklegs. As she passed up the aisle with Matthews and Mrs. Williams to the front row of chairs where the news editor and Wayland and Brydges and the youth from Washington were already seated, she heard a man's voice say, "They've gone too far this time, by Jingo! It will take more than wind-jamming to win next fall's elections with this against them."

"You bet there's an awakening," returned another voice. "The-dyed-in-the-woollies don't realize yet; but they will waken up after election day!"

The news editor had only finished giving evidence; on the whole immaterial testimony; for suspicions do not pass with juries and coroners.

"How was it you attended the examination of this mine?" was the last question asked him.

Considering the Smelter City lots, for which the news editor had yet to pay and the "kiddies" which he had to support, it would have been an easy matter for him 'to slink' that question. "A newspaper man's pursuit of a good story" would have been answer enough to satisfy any coroner; but the news editor did not give that answer. He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. Then, he put them back on his nose and looked straight at the gentleman presiding.

"May I answer that question in my own way, taking plenty of time?" he asked. "I take it this inquest is being held to get at the real truth."

The coroner said, "Go ahead!"

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company sat up and whispered something to Brydges. The handy man turned lazily round. "Yes," he said, "one of our staff."

The news editor cleared his throat, and a little sharp intersection of lines bridged above his nose.

"For some little time, it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on."

The attorney for the Smelter City Coking Company jumped to his feet.

"The witness should keep to a strict recital of fact, not rumors," he interjected; and the downy-lipped representative of the Federal Government said nothing about the privileges of a witness, or the impropriety of a special pleader opening his mouth at an inquest.

"Confine yourself to facts," ordered the coroner heavily.

Wayland and Eleanor suddenly leaned forward. The news editor rubbed his glasses and resumed in a low clear tense voice. How many of the listeners had the faintest idea of what the recital cost him?

"I take it the object of this inquest is to ascertain facts. If I am to relate facts, I must repeat that for some little time it has been known in the Valley that a quiet contest has been going on between the people and certain interests which I do not need to name. It was well known in our office that the miners on Coal Hill had openly boasted no Washington man was going to get away with any facts about mining operations. O'Finnigan of Shanty Town had boasted he had been brought down from the Ridge for 'a surprise party' as he called it. For some little time, as news editor I had been dissatisfied with the reports of this whole struggle: they struck me as exceedingly biased and untruthful; in fact what the reporters call 'doped news'; 'news doped by outsiders for special reasons of their own.'"

Bat's boot came down with a clump on the floor. The attorney was up again, glaring at the coroner. The news editor cleared his throat.

"So I determined to go and see this thing for myself—"

"With the result," roared the attorney, "that you saw every facility afforded for the most thorough examination of the mine."

There was a shuffling of feet among the men at the back of the room.
More men seemed to be crowding in.

"That," said the news editor aloud, sitting back beside Wayland, "That effectually cooks my dough! See that you fellows do as well!"

Eleanor was next questioned, most considerately and courteously. Twice she was interrupted. The first time was when she repeated that her father had said he expected no trouble whatsoever.

"I would call your attention to the fact, Mr. Coroner, that the deceased gentleman assured his daughter he expected no trouble whatsoever," called out the attorney.

The Sheriff leaned over and whispered to the coroner.

"Did the half-breed woman known as Calamity leave the Ranch House the night before the examination of the mine?" asked the coroner.

It was when Eleanor was describing the mad look of Calamity that the attorney again interrupted:

"Mr. Coroner, out of respect to the memory of the deceased gentleman and to the member of his family present, I ask that the stenographer strike out the record of the insane woman's babblings! The fact is established on the word of Miss MacDonald that the Indian woman set out with the express intention of seeking her employer. What she intended to do when she found him, we cannot know; for the woman was plainly insane and her word is worthless."

Bat wore a tallow smile. The attorney's expression became inscrutable. Sheriff Flood's face shone as a new moon. The other faces were a puzzled blank.

"You want to check that," whispered the news editor to Wayland.
Matthews was being questioned.

"Before A proceed t' answer y'r verra civil inquiries, Mr. Coroner, A wud ask the privilege o' puttin' three questions!"

"Go ahead, Sir!"

"Why is the man O'Finnigan not here?"

"Still drunk," answered the Sheriff.

"Then, if A commit a crime, if A cut y'r throat, Mr. Coroner, all A have t' do t' avoid awkward questions, is t' fill up? Verra well! Why is the woman Calamity, herself, not here?"

"Can't be found," called Wayland.

"So that if A'm accused of a crime A know no more about than th' babe unborn, all A've t' do t' rivet that crime on myself for life is not to be found? Verra well—"

"Sir," interrupted the coroner.

"A wud ask why is that little Irish lassie not here?"

Mrs. Williams explained that Lizzie, having exhausted the Indian children with her boastings in two days, had lost interest in life and run back to the slums.

"A always did say if y' took a pig out o' a pen an' putt it in a parlor, 'twould feel lonesome for its hogwash," exclaimed the old frontiersman running a puzzled hand through his mop of white hair. Matthews also was twice interrupted in his testimony. He was explaining that he anticipated trouble about the mine from what had already happened on the Rim Rocks when Wayland trod forcibly and sharply on his foot; and all reference to the pursuit across the Desert was omitted. The coroner, it seemed, did not want any details about the Rim Rocks. The second interruption came when he began to quote Mistress Lizzie O'Finnigan's words those afternoons on the Ridge. The attorney sprang up:

"As the child is an incorrigible liar and her father an incorrigible drunkard, Mr. Coroner, I think it only fair to the Company that their aspersions and reference to us be stricken off the records;" and the coroner instructed the stenographer to erase all reference to Lizzie's babbling.

The old frontiersman sat back with a dazed feeling that while he had expressed anticipation of trouble at the mine, he had failed to give proof or reason for that anticipation.

Brydges' evidence was innocuous to the very end. The Sheriff had whispered something to the coroner.

"Is there any reason why anyone in the Valley might harbor a grudge against the sheep rancher?" asked the coroner.

Brydges hesitated as one who could say much if he would. "Yes, there is," he answered lowering his eyes and flushing dully.

It was the attorney again who was on his feet.

"Mr. Coroner, the dead cannot defend themselves. Out of respect to the deceased gentleman and the member of his family present, I think that line of enquiry ought not to be recorded or pursued."

"The second time they have said that; what do they mean?" Eleanor asked
Mrs. Williams in a whisper.

Matthews was hanging on to his chair to hold himself down and the news editor had leaned across Eleanor to speak to Wayland: "Good God, Wayland! Don't you see the drift? Can't you head that off?"

"Leave 't' me," muttered the old frontiersman gripping his chair.

"But you have given your evidence: Wayland is our only chance left.
Don't you see how they'll clinch it?"

"Hold y'r head shut," ordered Matthews.

Wayland was giving his evidence, as little as he could possibly give, it seemed to Eleanor, from the time he had telephoned down to her father to come and take corroborative proof of the value of the coal mines.

"You did not anticipate any trouble about the examination?"

"None whatever," answered Wayland. He had described the examination of the two tunnels and the preparation to go down the shaft when the Sheriff again whispered to the coroner.

"When MacDonald seemed to change his mind about going down the shaft, was there anyone visible except the Sheriff?"

"Not that I saw," answered Wayland; and he went on to describe the cutting of the cable and the climb up the side of the shaft.

Eleanor became suddenly conscious that tense stillness reigned in the county court room. Some man standing behind the back benches shuffled his feet and cleared his throat with an offensive "hem." The roomful of people looked back angrily. The attorney had pencilled a line on a scrap of paper and shoved it across in front of the coroner. Through the open windows, Eleanor could see that a great concourse of people was gathering outside.

"When you found the body, was anyone else present at the top of the shaft?"

For the fraction of a second, Eleanor wondered if they meant to cast suspicion on the Ranger.

"Yes," answered Wayland, "the woman, Calamity was lying on the ground sobbing to break her heart. No one else was visible."

"You say the wound was such that it could not possibly have been self-inflicted?"

"You determined that for yourselves, when you examined the body," answered Wayland.

"Was the woman's position such that she might have shot him?"

"The shot was in the right temple, close; close enough to scorch the face! You have the record of that! The woman was kneeling on the ground a little to the left facing him."

"Did she carry a weapon?"

"She did not."

"How do you know she had not one concealed?"

"Because I caught her by the shoulders and lifted her up and shook her and said, 'Calamity, who did this?'"

"What did she answer?"

The attorney was on his feet with a bang of his fist on the table that shut off the answer:

"Mr. Coroner, this evidence has proceeded far enough to show that the death of the deceased gentleman had absolutely no connection whatever with the official examination of the mines. The dead cannot defend themselves. Out of respect to the deceased and the member of his family—"

"That," interrupted Matthews, breaking from his chair, "is the third time th' insinuation has been thrown out that MacDonald had things in his life that wud na bear tellin'! A know his life: A know all his life: ask me!"

But the attorney and the coroner were in an endless wrangle as to law, that was Hebrew to the listeners, and gave the roomful of spectators ample time to imbibe the false impression that was meant to be conveyed, and to pass it to the prurient crowd outside. After a half hour of reading from authorities to prove that the answer was inadmissible as evidence, and another half hour rattling off counter authorities at such a rate the listeners could not possibly judge for themselves, the coroner reserved decision as to whether that answer could be admitted as evidence or not, coming as it did from a person plainly of unsound mind.

"What next happened?"

"I tied a stone to the cut end of the cable and unrolled the rope on the hoist and gave it a hard enough pitch to send the stone past the bend in the shaft."

"And when you turned to work the hoist and bring up the others?"

"And when I turned to work the hoist, the Indian woman was nowhere to be seen. The chances are she knew the guilty parties would try to throw the blame—"

"Mr. Coroner," shouted the attorney, "there can be no chances recorded as evidence where the reputation of a gentleman, who cannot defend himself, is concerned."

"Good God," said the news editor under his breath.

"Humph! A'll put a crimp in that! The Sheriff man is to give evidence yet! Eleanor, y' better not wait! A'm goin' t' do some plain speakin' t' y' father's honor, but 'tis not talk for a woman's ears! Y've heard y'r father defamed."

"Then, I'll wait and hear him cleared," she whispered to Mrs. Williams.
"Will you stay?"

The Sheriff had gone round in front of the table, not too near it for obvious reasons; for the time of his revenge had come and his rotundity protruded full blown and swelling. He told how MacDonald had refused to go down the shaft.

"Do you know any reason for that sudden change of mind?"

"I don't know whether it's the reason or not; but somethin' happened jes' as he had his leg up to climb in, might a' made him change his mind! Th' squaw come ridin' all bareheaded, an' mad as a hornet out o' th' cottonwoods wavin' her hands roarin' crazy! Minit he seen her, he quit goin' down: said he'd give me a hand at the hoist! I seen what made him change his mind al' right! She waz ravin' mad, come rampin' out, then, she seen me, an' kin' o' hiked back ahint the cottonwood; but I seen her plain! Jes as we commenced unwindin' her—"

"You mean the hoist?"

"Yes, jes' as we began lettin' her down, I sees O'Finnigan come up from
Smelter City trail roarin' drunk, ugly drunk, yellin' 'Hell: he waz
Uncle Sam,' an' all that."

"If y'll not admit the child's story of her father, why d' y' admit this man's story of him?" demanded Matthews; but the coroner ignored the interruption and the doughty defender of the law continued.

"I put up with his drunken yellin' till I felt the bucket bump the first level. Then I sez, 'Now, my gen'leman, hand over that bottle o' tipperary, an' scat out o' this!' There it is," the Sheriff laid a black square whiskey bottle on the desk. "He began jawin' an' cuttin' up gineral. T' make a long story short, I took him by the scruff o' th' neck and helped him down Smelter City trail an'-an'-an' I jugged him: that's all; an' there he is yet! When I came back up, this had happened."

"When you arrested O'Finnigan for drunkenness, where was the woman,
Calamity?"

"Hidin' back among th' cottonwoods! She'd slid off her horse! Jes' as I turned down the trail, I looked back! She waz comin' peepin' out from tree t' tree!"

"How was MacDonald standing?"

"He waz standin' with his back t' her, with his hand hangin' kind o' loose from th' hoist waitin' for 'em t' ring th' bell t' let her down t' next level!"

There was a long silence. Eleanor had turned very white. The eyes of the news editor emitted sparks.

"I expected that," commented Wayland.

"Y' d', did y'?" rumbled Matthews. "Then A 'll wager y 'll nut be expectin' what A 'll spring!"

The room suddenly filled with a rustling and whispering. Men were demonstrating exactly how it had happened. The handy man's tallow smile melted on his face; and the tortoise shell eyes looked sidewise at Wayland. The look wasn't malicious; and it wasn't triumphant. It was the look of a gambler saying, "Come on my four-flusher, beat that! Show down!" The rabble outside deployed off the pavement across the street back a whole block. Eleanor could hear the hum through the open window.

The attorney was leaning across the table conferring with the coroner.

The coroner rapped the table and cried for "order."

The room suddenly silenced.

"Gentlemen, as this evidence will have to be handed in to the district attorney for what action he deems best, I wish to ask one more question. Mr. Sheriff, you know this Valley and the people in it well?"

"I do, known it for twenty years."

"Do you know of any reason why this woman Calamity would have shot or wished to shoot, her employer, MacDonald?"

The Sheriff changed a quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

Eleanor leaned forward looking straight in his eyes. Bat was eyeing Eleanor quizzically. (Had he constructed the evidence so skilfully that he had come to believe it himself?) Matthews was almost tearing the arms out of the chair where he sat.

"Well," said Sheriff Flood clasping his hands in rest across his portly person. "I guess squaw is same as any other woman in one respect. I guess she had same reason for shootin' MacDonal' as any other woman in her place would o' had," and he looked up well pleased with himself at the roomful. For a moment, there was deadly heavy silence; then the hum of the crowd on the steps pouring the word out to those in the street.

"Ye lyin' scut[1]! Ye filthy cess pool o' dirt an' falsehood!"

The old frontiersman had sprung from his place and smashed his chair in twenty atoms on the table between the sheriff and the coroner.

"Y'll not offend the deceased gentleman's memory? Y'll not offend his daughter here? An' the dead can't defend themselves? An' y're all s' verra delicate y're lettin' a stinkin' slanderous unclean unspoken damnable hell-spawned lie go forth unchallenged t' blacken a dead man's memory? Oh, A know y'r kind well! A've heard harlots lisp an' whisp' an' half tell and damn by a lie o' th' eye! Y' are insinuatin' this woman Calamity shot her master to avenge dishonor in her early life? 'Tis a lie! 'Tis a most damnable black an' filthy lie! She wud a' died for MacDonald ten thousand times over if she could, because he had long ago, before ever he came here, avenged her dishonor."

The coroner had sprung back from the table. The mighty man of valor, who defended law, had precipitately put the space of overturned benches between himself and the irate old frontiersman. Matthews suddenly swung to face the spectators.

"Men," he cried, "foul murder has been done; and this slander is t' fasten guilt on a poor innocent outcast woman, t' send her a scapegoat int' th' wilderness bearin' th' sins o' those higher up that A do na' name; of y'r Man Higher Up, who is the curse o' this land! 'Twas in my boyhood days on Saskatchewan! This woman, that y' have seen wander the Black Hills sinnin' unashamed, was but a fair slip o' an Indian girl, then, pure as y'r own girls in school! She married a little Indian boy, Wandering Spirit o' the Crees at Frog Lake! The Indian Officer at Frog Lake was a Sioux half-breed—he took her forcibly from Wandering Spirit t' th' Agency House! 'Twas y'r sheep rancher, MacDonald, who was fur trader then, went forcibly to th' Agency House, thrashed the Agent, and brought her back to the Indian, Wandering Spirit! A was passin' West by dog train to the Mountains when A stopped at the Agency House! MacDonald had gone North. Little Wandering Spirit comes and asks me t' interpret something he has to say t' th' Master—meanin' that danged unclean Sioux beast. Says I, 'Wandering Spirit has something not pleasant t' say t' you: Y' better get another interpreter.' The officer says, 'Spit it out! Y' can't phase me.' Boys, A spit it out. A gave it to him plain! The boy Indian stood in the door o' th' Agency House holdin' a loaded dog-train whip hidden behind his back. He was na' but half as big as the brute behind the Government desk! He says, 'Tell the Master he must leave my wife alone! If ever he comes near m' tepee again, A do to him like that,' rolling a dead leaf t' powder 'tween his hands. The officer lets out a roar o' filthy oaths! I hear the little Indian give a scream like a hurt wild cat. 'He calls me a dog—a son of a dog,' he screams; an' boys, with one leap he was over that counter with his dog whip; an' what A did t' y'r Sheriff last week in the Pass is nothing to what that bit of an Indian boy did t' yon bullying Agent! He thrashed him, an' he thrashed him, an' he chased him bellowin' round the Agency House till the blackguard's pants were ribbons an' the blood stripes reached down an' soaked his socks. Boys, A went on to th' Mountains! When A came back next year an' when MacDonald came back from MacKenzie River, we found that Agent had had Little Wandering Spirit arrested by the Mounted Police for assault an' battery, an' sentenced to a year in th' penitentiary! 'Twas too late to undo the wrong! Th' girl, th' woman y' know as Calamity, had gone insane from abuse! A helped to pry her dead child from her arms! A helped the priest t' bury it in the snow! Next year, was the Rebellion! Y'r sheepman an' his wife, Miss Eleanor here was na' born then, had come down from the North. The Indians loved him. They'd never touch him; but when the Rebellion broke out, 'twas Wandering Spirit went dancing mad for revenge from one end o' the Reserve t' th' other! When the massacre came, the officer had tripped the little Indian fellow to his face an' was pointin' the old muzzle loader at the back o' his head to blow out his brains, when along comes the MacDonald man an' kicks the gun from the bully's hand! Little Wandering Spirit up an' he pours that muzzle loader into the officer's face; an' he borrows another gun an' empties that in his face; and he snatches a knife; an' what he left o' that brute y' could bury in a coffin th' length o' y'r hand! 'Twas th' Indian's way o' vengeance; but blame fell on MacDonald; an' when Wandering Spirit was hanged for the murder, MacDonald fled from Canada; for his sympathies were with the Indians, as every right feelin' man's were;[2] for back a generation, there was Indian blood on the mother's side; but the Act o' Amnesty has been passed this many a year; an' A'd come to take him back to a fortune waitin' him in Scotland, to an inheritance when this happened.

"Y' know how he found her again, eatin' garbage in the Black Hills where the miners had cast her off; how he gave her an asylum an' a home; an' this is the man y'r fulthy sheriff poltroon coward says she'd shoot! Men, men o' th' Nation, murder has been done here: coward assassin murder on an innocent man! The notes on the mine have been robbed from his pocket. Who planned this murder? Who shot MacDonald by mistake? Who planned th' Rim Rocks outrage? Is it to this y' have let y'r Democracy come? Is this y'r self government workin' worse outrage than the despotism o' Russia? We'd have hanged our kings in Scotland for less sin! France would a' tanned her rulers' hide into moccasins for less! What are y' goin' to do about it." His shout rang and rang through the court. "Will ye make of self-government a farce, a screamin' shame, a shriekin' laughter in th' ears o' th' world?"

There were cries of "Sit down! Sit down! Shut up! Go on! Who is the old tow-head?" Then some one cried out "Moyese." Half the spectators cheered. Half hissed. Then a voice yelled "Wayland! Wayland!" and Eleanor felt the leap to her blood; for the crowd outside took up the cry "Wayland, Wayland? What's the matter with Wayland?"

The Sheriff and Coroner were on the table shouting for "order—order" when some wag heaved under and upset table, sheriff, coroner and all.

The last Eleanor saw before the news editor and Wayland pushed Mrs. Williams and herself through a door behind the coroner's seat to a taxicab that whirled them off to the hotel, was a wild sprawling of the Sheriff coming down in mid-air. Bat Brydges and the downy-lipped youth, chalky white as a dead birch tree, were letting themselves hastily out through a back window. Matthews was being carried down the aisle on the shoulders of a howling rabble of men and boys. His head was bare; his coat was almost torn from his shoulders. His face was passionate with jubilant laughter. "Yell, boys! Yell for Wayland," he was urging. Could Eleanor have known what happened at the door, her heart would have beat still faster. The old frontiersman brought her word two hours later when he joined them at the hotel.

"They hauled me out to th' steps o' th' court house," he said, "an' A says 'Yell boys! Yell, Yell like Hell for Wayland!' An' they set me down on th' steps an' began yellin' 'Speech! Speech!' A held up m' two hands like this. 'Men,' says I, 'y' ask for a word! Well, A'll give it t' you. A'll give it t' y' from the door o' y'r own sacred court o' justice, which y' have seen profaned this day by injustice, an' a lie, an' a bribe into th' bedlam o' a mob! Y' ask for a word. A will give it y', Men o' the United States o' the World; Men o' Liberty; Men o' Strength; the world has its eye on ye! What will y' do? M' word is this t' all time: M' word is th' simple word o' the old prophets that ye conned by heart at y'r mother's knee: Y' ha' seen the author o' crime an' outrage an' murder tryin' to wrest the judgment, t' pervert the court, to slander the dead, t' send into th' wilderness a poor innocent scapegoat o' sin, to defile the vera presence o' death. An' ye ha' seen a young man single-handed fightin' for right, to save y'r land from the looters, an' y'r forests from the timber thieves, an' y'r mines from the coal pirates! Y' ha' seen evil an' good an' the fruits o' them! Choose ye this day which ye will serve!' Man alive, Wayland, ye should a' heard them! They yelled like Hell for y'! They yelled till they split the welkin! They yelled, Wayland, till A couldna' keep th' tears from m' eyes; an' then, man alive, they yelled more than ever! Whiles we were yellin' and riproarin' outside, y'r brave Sheriff man, he gets the door shut an' locked, an' the windows down, an' the shades all drawn; an' they brings in a verdict o' 'come to his death by the hands o' parties unknown.' Oh, A'll warrant 'twill be 'by the hands o' parties unknown.' They'll never more try t' fasten that crime on poor old Calamity; tho' she's no so old when y' come t' think o' it, except in her bein' sore sinned against."

"I wonder if they'll try to come down on you for the disorder," asked
Wayland.

The old frontiersman chuckled. "A wish t' God they would," he said.
"What A'm wonderin' is what y' fat Bat fellow's doin'?"

"Oh, I can tell you that," answered the news editor. "Bat is singing small! I'll bet you a five there won't be a line nor the fraction of a line of all this in the local papers; nor as much as a blank space about it in any other paper. My God, if I could only lay my hand on a moneyed man who would back a paper thro' a fight like this and tell the counting rooms to go to the Devil! I know a score of editors would jump for the job and work their heads off! You needn't think we are specially keen for eating dog on this kind of a job! 'Tisn't the men inside the office bedevil us: 'tis y'r outside interest—"

Eleanor gave him a quick queer look. She was learning to think fast and decide quickly. But the news editor was quite right. Not a word of the disgraceful attempt to pervert justice appeared in either the local or any other paper. MacDonald's death was briefly recorded as accidental and the coroner's verdict given in a four line paragraph. Do not ask me the why of this, dear reader; or I shall ask you the why of a hundred other equally mysterious silences. Don't forget, as Wayland has already informed you, there are other countries besides Russia where everything is not given out to the press. And do not curse the press! It is not the fault of the press in Russia. Is it here?

[1] I can find no authority for the old frontiersman's use of the word but in a certain Elizabethan dramatist; and as he uses the word "scut" for the bobtail of a fleeing rabbit or sheep, perhaps the meanings of the word as used are identical.—Author.

[2] It need scarcely be explained these are the old frontiersman's sentiments, not the writer's; but on investigation I found his statement of facts as to what transformed little Wandering Spirit into a blood-thirsty monster was absolutely true. This, of course, did not justify the Rebellion, but helps to explain it, to explain why a worthless scamp like Riel could rouse the peaceful natives to blood thirst and rapine.—Author.