The craft and its occupants were out of sight by the time Jeffery Neilson reached the river bank with his rifle. The flush had swept from his bronze skin, leaving it a ghastly yellow, and for once in his life no oaths came to his lips. He could only mutter, strangely, from a convulsed throat.

Like an insane man he hastened down the river bank, fighting his way through the brush. The thickets were dense, ordinarily impenetrable to any mortal strength except to that mighty, incalculable power of the moose and grizzly; yet they could not restrain him now. The tough clothes he wore were nearly torn from his body; his face and hands were scratched as if by the claws of a lynx; but he did not pause till he reached the bank of the gray river.

Only one more glimpse of the canoe was vouchsafed him, and that glimpse came too late. He saw the light barge just as it hovered at the crest of the rapids. Even if he could have shot straight at so great a range and had killed the man in the stern, no miracle could have saved his daughter. She would have been instantly swept to her death against the crags.

Some measure of self-control returned to him then, and he made his way fast as he could toward the claim. Sensing the older man's distress, Ray straightened from his work at the sight of him.

The face before him was drawn and white; but there was no time for questions. Hard hands seized his arm.

"Ray, do you know of a canoe anywhere—up or down this river?"

"There's one at the landing. None other I know of."

"Think, man! You don't know where we can get one?"

"No. Old Hiram's canoe was the only one. What's the matter?"

"Do you think there's one chance in a million of getting down through those rapids on a raft?"

Ray's eyes opened wide. "A raft!" he echoed. "Man, are you crazy? Even at this high water a canoe wouldn't have a chance in ten of making it. The river's falling every hour—"

"I know it. Do you suppose there's a canoe in town?"

"No! Of course there isn't—one that you could even dream about shooting those rapids in. Besides, by the time we got there and packed it up—it would take two days to pack it the best we could do—the river would be too far down to tackle the trip at all. And it won't come up again till fall—you know that. Tell me what's the matter. Has Beatrice—"

"Beatrice has gone down, that's all."

"Then she's dead—no hope of anything else. Only an expert could hope to take her through, and there's nothing to live on Back There. What's the use of trying to follow—?"

Neilson straightened, his eyes searching Ray's. "She's got food, I suppose. And she's got an expert paddler to take her there."

Ray's face seemed to darken before his eyes. His hands half closed, shook in his face, then caught at Neilson's shoulders. "You don't mean—she's run away?"

"Don't be a fool. Not run away—abducted. The prospector I told you about—Darby—was the old man's partner. He's paying us back. Heaven only knows what the girl's fate will be—I don't dare to think of it. Ray, I wish to God I had died before I ever saw this day!"

Ray stared blankly. "Then he found out—about the murder?" he gasped.

"Yes. Here's his letter. Take time—and read it. There's no use to try to act before we think—how to act. If I could only see a way—"

Ray read the letter carefully, crumpling it at last in savage wrath. "It's your fault!" he cried. "Why didn't you save her for me as I've always asked you to do; why did you let her go out with him at all? I'll bet she wanted to go—"

"I'd rather she had, instead of being taken by force!" The older man—aged incredibly in a few little minutes—slowly straightened. "But don't storm at me, Ray!" he warned, carefully and quietly. "I've stood a lot from you, but to-day I'd kill you for one word!"

They faced each other in black disdain, but Ray knew he spoke the truth. There was no toying with this man's wrath to-day.

"And if you'd let me croak this devil like I wanted to, it wouldn't have happened either. But there's no use crying about either one. The girl's a goner, sure; she's deep in the rapids by now."

"Yes, and it's part of this man's hellish plan to take her clear through to Back There. You see, he dares us to come for her—and he'll be waiting and ready for us, mark my words. My God, she's probably dead—smashed to pieces—already!"

"He says he's got the old man's letter, leaving the claim to him. That messes up things even worse."

"I wish I'd never heard of the claim. There's only one thing to do, and that's to rush into Snowy Gulch and get a big outfit—all the horses and supplies we can find—and go after her by land."

"Yes, and walk right into his trap. Think again, Neilson. It would take weeks and months to get in that way. Besides, what would happen to the claim while we're gone?"

"You needn't fear for the claim! Of course, I'd expect you to think of that first—you who loved Beatrice so dearly!" Neilson's face was white with disdain. "It'll be recorded in our names, by then—likely Chan is already in Bradleyburg—and Darby himself is the only man on earth we have to fear." He paused, putting his faith in desperate craft. "If you want to cinch the claim, the first thing to do is go and stamp the life out of Darby; otherwise he'll turn up and make us trouble, just as he says."

"He can't do much if the claim's recorded in our names!"

"He can make us plenty of trouble. If you want the girl, Ray—don't lose a minute. Put your things together as fast as you can. We'll try to get some men in Snowy Gulch to come with us—to join in the hunt—and we'll hire every pack horse in the country. Get busy, and get busy quick."

Reluctant to leave his gold, yet seeing the truth in Neilson's words, Ray hastened to his cabin to get such few supplies as would be needed for the day's march into Snowy Gulch. In less than five minutes they were on their way—tramping in file down the narrow moose trail.

They crossed the divide, thus reaching the headwaters of Poor Man's Creek; then took the trail down toward the settlements. But the two claim-jumpers had not yet learned all the day's ill news. Half-way to the mouth of the stream they met Chan Heminway on his way back to the claim.

At the first sight of him, riding in the rear of a long train of laden pack horses, they could hardly believe their eyes. It was not to be credited that he had made the trip to Bradleyburg and back in the few days he had been absent. Only an aeroplane could have made so fast a trip. Could it be that in spite of his definite orders he was returning with the duty of recording the claim still unperformed? To Neilson, however, the sight of the long pack train brought some measure of satisfaction. Here were horses laden with the summer supplies that Chan had been told to procure, and they could be utilized in the pursuit of Beatrice. Two days at least could be saved.

"What in the devil you coming back for?" Ray shouted, when Chan's identity became certain.

Chan rode nearer as if he had not heard. He checked his horse deliberately, undoubtedly inwardly excited by the news he had to tell and perhaps somewhat triumphant because he was its bearer. "I'm coming back because there ain't no use in staying at Snowy Gulch any longer," he answered at last. "I've got the supplies, and I'm packin' up to the claim, just as I was told."

"But why didn't you go to Bradleyburg and record the claim?" Ray stormed. "Don't you know until that's done we're likely to be chased off any minute?"

Chan looked into his partner's angry eyes, and his own lips drew in a scowl. "Because there wasn't any use in goin' to Bradleyburg."

Ray was stricken with terror, and his words faltered. "You mean you could tend to it in Snowy Gulch—"

"I don't mean nothing of the kind. Shut up a minute, and I'll tell you about it. A few days ago Steve Morris got a letter addressed to old Hiram Melville—in care of Steve. He opened it and read it, and I heard about it soon as I got into town. There ain't no use of our trying to record that claim."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Because it's already recorded, that's why. We all felt so sure, and we wasn't sure at all. Before old Hiram died he wrote a letter—one of them two letters you heard about, Neilson—and which you wished you'd got hold of. Who that letter was to was an official in Bradleyburg—an old friend of Hiram's—and in it was a description of the claim. This letter Morris got was a notice that his claim was all properly filed in his—Hiram's—name. Whatever formalities was necessary was cut out because the old man had been too sick to make the trip—the recorder got special permission from Victoria. To be plain, I didn't file the claim because it's already filed, and I didn't want to show myself up as a claim-jumper quite as bad as that."

"It's all over town—about the claim?"

"Sure, but there won't be a rush. There's quite a movement over Bradleyburg way for one thing; for another, this is a pocket country, once and for always."

For some seconds thereafter his partners could make no intelligent response. This bitter blow had been anticipated by neither. But Ray was a strong man, and his self-control quickly returned to him.

"You see what that means, don't you?" he asked Neilson.

"It means we've lost!"

The eyes before him narrowed and gleamed. "So that's what it means to you! Well, I don't look at it just that way. It means to me that we've got to take these supplies and these pack horses and start out and find Ben Darby—and never stop hunting till we've found him."

"Of course we've got to rescue Beatrice—"

"Rescuing Beatrice isn't all of it now, by a long shot. For the Lord's sake, Neilson—use your head a minute. Didn't old Hiram leave a will, giving this claim to his brother Ezra? If the claim wasn't recorded that will wouldn't mean much—but it is. And hasn't this Ben got a letter from Ezra leaving the claim to him? Now do you want to know who owns that claim? Ben Darby owns it, and as long as he can kick, that quarter of a million in gold can never be ours."

"You mean we've got to find him—and destroy that letter—"

"We've got to; that's all. He wrote us he had it, just to taunt us, and we've got to burn that up whether we find the girl or not. But that ain't all we've got to destroy—that piece of paper. You see that, don't you?"

Neilson breathed heavily. "It's all plain enough."

"I want it to be plain, so next time I want to let daylight through a man you won't stand in the way. It ain't just enough to burn up that letter. We've got to get the man who owns it, too. If we don't he'd still have a good enough case against us—with a good lawyer. Likely enough lots of people knew of their partnership, maybe have seen the letter—and they'd all be good witnesses in a suit. Our reputation ain't so good, after that Jenkins deal, that we'd shine very bright in a suit. Even if he couldn't prove his own claim, he could lug out the will old Hiram left—he alone knows where it's hid—and then his next nearest relatives would come in and get the claim. On the other hand, if we smash him, the thing will all quiet down; there'll be no claimants to work the mine; and after a few months we can step in and put up our own notices. But we've got to do that first—smash him wide-open as soon as we can catch up with him. He'll be way out in Back There, and no man would ever know what became of him, and there'd be nobody left to oppose us any more. But we can't be safe any other way."

Neilson nodded slowly. His subordinate had put the matter clearly; and there was truth in his words. In Ben's murder alone lay their safety.

He had always been adverse to bloodshed; but further reluctance meant ruin. Ben was one whom he could strike down without mercy or regret. And the blow would not be for expediency alone. There would be a personal debt to pay after the long months of searching. He could not forget that Beatrice was helpless in his hands.

"The thing to do is to turn back with Chan, at once," he said.

"Of course," Ray agreed. "That plan of yours to get help in chasing 'em down don't go any more. We don't want any spectators for what's ahead of us. Here's grub and horses a-plenty, and we needn't lose any time."

So they turned back toward the Yuga, on their quest of hate.