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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill was within. He was seated on his bunk contemplating the automatic
pistol which Kars had taken from Murray McTavish. It was lying across
his knee, and