The men of the Croix d’Or slowly made their way upward toward the higher crest of the range, spread out in an impatient fan whose narrow point was made up of the three experienced men. At times the trail was almost lost in the carpet of pine needles and heavy growths of mountain grass, and again it would show plainly over long stretches where the earth was exposed. It dipped down over a crest and sought a hollow in which ran a mountain stream, spread out over a rocky bed and running swiftly. At its bank they paused. It was plain that their man had taken to the water to retard pursuit, if such came. The millman threw up his hand and called the others around him.

“Before we go any farther,” he said, “let’s find out how many shooting irons are in this crowd. We may need ’em.”

The men looked blankly at one another, expressing by their actions the fact that in all the party there was not one who possessed a weapon.

“Then it seems to me the best thing to do is for one man to go back to the mine and get some,” said Rogers, assuming leadership. “Who ever goes will find my gun hanging up at the head of my bunk in a holster. Bring that and the belt. There’s cartridges in it.”

One after another told where a weapon might be found, and two men volunteered to return for them. It was agreed that the others were to keep on and that after leaving the stream men were to be posted at intervals to guide the messengers as they came up. Rogers proved something of a general in the disposition of his little army, and then, with Sinclair on one bank of the stream and Chloride on the other, he plunged into the water and began an up-stream course.

“It stands to reason,” he argued, “that our man didn’t go down stream unless it was for a blind. He wouldn’t double back because it would bring him out almost where he started. He will keep on up this way until she gets too small to travel in and then will hit off somewhere else. You other fellers keep behind.”

They began a slow, painstaking course up the stream and began to fear they had been mistaken in their surmise, when Sinclair gave a shout. He had found the trail again, a telltale footprint with the patched sole. It broke upward on the other side of the caÑon, and now men were posted within shouting distance of one another and left behind to notify the two men bringing weapons which way to go. Across spots where the trail was difficult or entirely lost, and still higher until the timber line was passed and bare gray rocks were everywhere, the man-hunters made their way, and another watchman was left on the highest point. Down the other side and into the timber line again, directed only by a broken twig, a freshly turned bowlder, or now and then a faint suggestion of a footprint, they plunged as rapidly as they could and then through tangled brush until suddenly they came out to an old disused path. Unerringly they picked up the footprints again, and now these indicated that the quarry had felt himself secure against pursuit and made no further attempt at concealment.

“He is heading out to the east, just as you said he would,” the smith declared, as he sat down with the others to await the coming of the messengers. They were certain now that henceforth 211 they would travel rapidly. They talked in low, angry voices among themselves, while Rogers, silent and grim, sat quietly on a bowlder and smoked. A shout from the hilltop attracted their attention and they looked up to see a group beginning to descend. The men with guns had returned and the outposts doubled back on themselves as they came, adding a man at intervals, until they joined those waiting for them. Without delay the men strung out in single file along the path, with the old millman in the lead. For the most part they went as quietly as would Indians on the war-path, loping along now and then down declivities, or panting upward when the trail climbed to higher altitudes. There was no doubt at all that the man who had dynamited the dam was certain of his having evaded all followers, and indeed he would have done so with men less trained and astute.

“Does any one know this country here?” demanded Rogers, suddenly halting his little band.

“I do,” declared one of the drill runners. “I worked over here on this side one time about two years ago. Why?”

“Well, where does this trail go?”

“To an old logging camp, first, then from there there is a road leading over to Malapi.”

Rogers lowered his hand from his ear and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Many men at the camp?”

“No, I think it’s been abandoned for two or three years,” replied the drill runner. Rogers slapped his hand on his leg, and seemed confident again.

“Then that’s where we’ll find him. In that old, abandoned camp,” he exclaimed. “It’s a ten-to-one bet that he got some supplies up there some time within the last few days, when he made up his mind to do this job, and that he plans to lay quiet there until it is safe for him to get out of the country.”

The others nodded their heads sagely.

“If you’re sure of that,” the drill runner said, “the best thing to do is for us to leave the trail over here a ways and come up to the old camp from behind it. He might be on the watch for this trail.”

“Good again!” asserted the millman. “Here, you take the lead now and we’ll follow.”

For another hour they plugged along the trail with an increasing alertness, and wondering how soon the drill runner would turn off. At last he looked back and gestured to them. They understood. He slipped off the trail into the 213 brush and began going slowly. Once he stopped to whisper to them to be cautious, inasmuch as within a few hundred yards they would reach their goal. Now they began to exercise the utmost caution of movement, spreading out according to individual judgment to avoid windfalls and thickets. Again the lead man stopped and signaled them. He beckoned with his arm, and they closed up and peered where he indicated.

Out in the center of a clearing stood a big, rambling structure that had done service and been abandoned. A slow wisp of smoke, gray and thin, floated upward from the rough chimney, a part of whose top rocks had been dislodged by winter storms. They dropped to the ground and held a whispered consultation. They argued heatedly over the best course to pursue. The millman favored surrounding the cabin, and then permitting him with two others to advance boldly to the door and endeavor to capture their man.

The packer, Sinclair, suggested another course, which was nothing less valorous than a straight rush for the doors and windows; but Chloride fought that plan.

“It ain’t that I’m afraid to take my chances,” he declared; “but if we do that, some of us, with 214 such a crowd, is sure to get shot. We don’t want to lose no lives on a skunk of a dynamiter like this feller must be. I’m for surroundin’ the house, then callin’ him out. If he’s an honest man, he’ll come. If he ain’t, he’ll fight. Then we’ll get him in the long run if we have to fire the cabin to-night.”

“And maybe burn a couple of million dollars worth of timber with it at the same time,” growled the drill runner. “That’s a fine idea! I’m for Jack’s plan. First, line out around the cabin, out of sight of course, then two men walk up and get him. I’m one of ’em.”

“And I the other,” declared Rogers. “Let’s lose no time.”

Silently, as before, the party spread out until it had completed the ring around the cabin and then, when all was in readiness, the millman and the runner, with pistols loosened, stepped out into the open and walked around to the door. There was a moment’s tensity as they made that march, neither they nor the watchers knowing when a shot might sound and bring one of them to the ground. The runner rapped on the door, insistently. It creaked and gave back a sodden, hollow sound, but at first there was no response. He rapped again, and at the same time tried to open 215 it; but it was barred. A voice from inside called, “Hello! What do you want out there?”

“Want to see you,” the runner answered. “Open the door, can’t you?”

There was an instant’s hesitation and then again the voice, “Well, what do you want? Who are you?”

“Two men that ain’t familiar with these parts,” was the wary reply of the runner. “Want to talk it over with you.”

There was the creaking of a bar, and the door was opened cautiously. One eye applied to a crack scanned the runner, who stood there alert. Rogers was out of sight. Apparently the man in the cabin did not recognize the runner, for now he flung the door wide and stepped out. As he did so he saw the millman, whom he recognized, and swiftly pulled a gun and shot at him. Even as he did so the younger man leaped upon him, caught his wrist and wrenched the weapon from his hand. He did the unexpected thing. Instead of fighting, or attempting to regain the cabin, he deftly threw out a foot, tripped the runner against Rogers, leaped over both as they fell, and dashed headlong for the forest. Suddenly, as he gained the edge, several shots cracked viciously, but none of them seemed to have taken 216 effect. He snarled loudly with excitement and plunged into the edge of the timber. Quite as quickly as he gained it a man arose straight in his path, leaped forward, caught him around the waist, and brought him to the ground. Men came rushing forward, almost falling over one another, but arrived too late to assist in the capture. Lying under and pinned to the earth by the huge blacksmith, struggling for release, and cursing between shut teeth, was the man who had been the watchman at the Croix d’Or when its new proprietor arrived, the man Wolff, whose past had been exposed by The Lily in the presence of some of those who were now his captors.

“Might have guessed it,” growled the smith. “It’s like him, anyhow.”

Two others reached over and assisted him. They caught Wolff by his arms and lifted him to his feet, where they held him. Another man ran his hand over his clothes and took out a big hunting knife, sheathed. A further search revealed nothing save a small sum of money and a few dynamite caps. The prisoner attempted to brazen it out.

“What do you mean by this, anyhow?” he demanded. “Bein’ held up, am I?”

No one replied to him directly, but it was Rogers 217 who said, “Lift his feet up there until we get a look at the shoes.” Unceremoniously they hoisted him clear of the ground, although in a sudden panic he kicked and struggled. There was no doubt of it. The shoes were identical with those worn by the man who had dynamited the reservoir dam. The hobnails had betrayed him. For the first time he seemed to lose courage and whined a protest.

“Where were you last night?” demanded the smith, frowning in his face.

“Right here in this cabin. Been here two days now.”

They walked him between them back to the door and Chloride and Sinclair went in. They inspected it closely. They dropped to their knees and examined the deposit of dust. They walked over to the fireplace and inspected the ash surrounding the little blaze, which had been started less than an hour before, as far as they could decide. Below was a heap of mouldy ash that had been beaten down by winter snows and summer rains falling through the broken chimney. The others watched the two inquisitors curiously through the open door.

“If he has been here two days he has moved around the room scarcely at all,” Sinclair declared, 218 “because the dust isn’t disturbed by more than one or two trails. And, what’s more, that fire is the first one that has been built here in many a long month, and it wasn’t started very long ago. It’s too thin. He just got here! He’s the man!”

The prisoner was ringed round by accusing, scowling eyes. He shoved a dry tongue out and wet his lips as if the nervous strain were beginning to tell. He started to speak, but apparently decided to say nothing and stood looking at the ground.

“Well,” demanded Rogers, “what have you to say for yourself? You’ve plainly lied about being here in the cabin. What did you do that for?”

“I didn’t say that I was in the cabin. I slept outside,” Wolff growled.

“Then take us to the place where you camped,” suggested one of the drill runners. A chorus of approving shouts seconded his request; but Wolff began to appear more confused than ever and did not answer. He took refuge in a fierce burst of anger.

“What do you fellows mean, anyhow?” he demanded. “I ain’t done nothin’. What right 219 have you to come up here and grab a man that way? Who are you lookin’ for, anyhow?”

“Wolff,” said the old millman, steadily, “we are looking for the man that blew up the Croix d’Or power-house and dam last night. And what’s more, we think we’ve got him. You’re the man, all right!”

His attempts to pretend ignorance and innocence were pitiful. This impromptu court was trying him there in the open beside the cabin, and he knew that its verdict would be a speedy one. He started to run the gamut of appeal, denial, and anger; but his hearers were inflexible. They silenced him at last.

“We need just one thing more, boys,” said Rogers, “and that is to be sure that these are the same boots that made the tracks there by the dam. All we have to do to prove that is to take this fellow back with us. The tracks will still be there. If they are the same we can be sure.”

“That’s right,” added the blacksmith. “That’d be proof enough. Let’s move out.”

They knotted their huge handkerchiefs and bound his arms at the elbows and then his hands at the wrists, and started him forward. He fought at first, but on being prodded sharply with the muzzle of a gun moved sullenly in their midst 220 along the trail he had so lately come over. They trudged in a harsh silence, save now and then when he tried to persuade them of his innocence, only to convince them further that he lied. Their return was made much faster than their coming, for now they had no need to seek a trail, nor to walk in a mountain stream. They forged ahead rapidly under the direction of the runner who had been in that part of the mountains before, and yet it was almost dusk when they came down the hill above the great wreck. They led him to the big heap of broken masonry and then ordered him to sit down. He had to be thrown from his feet, after which they removed his shoes, and while two of them stood guard over him the others descended to the edge of the wall and found the clear-cut prints which had been first noted that morning and which, trailed, had led to his capture. They struck matches to be certain that there was no mistake and bent over while Rogers carefully pressed one of the shoes into the mud beside that first imprint. They were undoubtedly the same. He then fitted the shoe into that track, and all further proof was unnecessary. Grimly they passed back to where Wolff was being guarded.

“Well, boys,” said Rogers, gravely, “this is 221 the man! There isn’t a doubt of it. Now you all know who he is, what his past has been, what he has done here, and I want to get your ideas what should be done with him.”

The smith stepped forward and took off his hat. It was as if he knew that he were the one to impose a death sentence.

“There ain’t but one thing for the likes of him. That’s hangin’,” he declared, steadily. “I vote to hang him. Here and now, across the end of the dam he shot out.”

He stepped back into the closely drawn circle. Rogers faced man after man, calling the name of each. There was no dissenting voice. The verdict was unanimous. So certain had been the outcome that one of their number had started along the pipe line to the wreck of the power-house for a rope before ever they compared the imprints of the telltale shoes, and now, almost by the time they had cast their ballot, this man returned.

“Wolff, you’ve heard,” said the old millman, with solemnity. “If you’ve got any messages you want sent, we’ll send them. If you want time to pray, this is your chance. There’s nothing you can say is going to change it. You are as good as dead. Boys, some of you get one 222 of those beams that’s tore loose there at the side, fasten the rope around the end, and shove it over the edge of the wall above the caÑon there for a few feet. He shall hang above the dam he dynamited.”

Wolff knew that they were in earnest. There was something more inexorable in their actions than in a court of law. At the last he showed some courage of a brute kind, reviling them all, sputtering forth his hatred, and interlarding it with a confession and threats of what he wanted to do. They silenced him by leading him to the wall and adjusting the noose. Once more Rogers besought him to pray and then, when he again burst into oaths, they thrust him off. The fall was as effective as ever hangman devised.

“In the morning, boys,” said the smith, “a half-dozen of us must be up early and come back here. The hound is at least entitled to a half-way decent burial. I’ll call some of you to come with me.”

That was their sole comment. They had neither regrets, compunctions, nor rancor. They had finished their task according to their own ideas of justice, without hesitation.

At the Croix d’Or the partners, worried over their problems, and somewhat astonished at the 223 non-appearance of the force, sat on the bench by the mess-house, smoking and silent.

In soft cadence they heard, as from the opposite side of the gulch, the tramping of feet. Swinging along in the dusk the men came, shadowy, unhalting, and homeward bound, like so many tired hounds returning after the day’s hunt. Their march led them past the bench; but they did not look up. There was an unusual gravity in their silence, a pronounced earnestness in their attitude.

“Well,” called Dick, “what did you learn?”

It was the smith who answered, but the others never halted, continuing that slow march to the bunk-house.

“We got him.”

“Where is he, then?”

“Hanging to a beam across the dam he blew up,” was the remorseless response.

He started as if to proceed after the others, then paused long enough to add: “It was that feller that used to be watchman here; the feller that tried to shoot Bill that night. Found him in that old, deserted cabin near the Potlach. Had the shoe on him, and at last said he did it, and was sorry for just one thing, that he didn’t get all of us. Said he’d ’a’ blown the bunk-house and 224 the office up in a week more, and that he’d tried to get you two with a bowlder and had killed your burros––well, when we swung him off, he was still cursing every one and everything connected with the Croix d’Or.”

He paused for an instant, then came closer, and lowered his voice.

“And that ain’t all. He said just before he went off––just like this––mind you: ‘I’d ’a’ got Bully Presby, too, because he didn’t treat me fair, after me doin’ my best and a-keepin’ my mouth shut about what I knew of the big lead.’ Now, what in hell do you suppose he meant by that?”