going?" Bill demanded, recalling himself from his own
contemplation. Kars turned again.

"I'm going to hand over to Abe and the boys," he said. "They're
needing this thing. Guess I'm quit of Bell River. There's a wealth of
gold here'll set them crazy. And they can help 'emselves all they
choose. You and I, Bill, are going to see this thing through, and our
work don't quit till Murray's hanging by the neck. Then--then--why
then," a smile dawned in his eyes, and robbed them of that frigidity
which had so desperately held them, "then I'll ask you to help me fix
things with Father Jose so Jessie and I can break a new trail that
don't head out north of 'sixty.'"

CHAPTER XXXI

THE CLOSE OF THE LONG TRAIL

Bell River lay far behind. Leagues beyond the shadowy hills serrating
the purple horizon, it was lost like a bad dream yielding to the light
of day.

For Kars the lure of it all was broken, broken beyond repair. The wide
expanses of the northland had become a desert in which life was no
longer endurable. The wind-swept crests, the undulating, barren plains
no longer spoke of a boundless freedom and the elemental battle. These
things had become something to forget in the absorbing claim of a life
to come, wherein the harshness of battle had no place. The darkling
woods, scarce trodden by the foot of man, no longer possessed the
mystic charm of childhood's fancy. The trackless wastes held only
threat, upon which watchful eyes would now gladly close. The stirring
glacial fields of summer, monsters of the ages, boomed out their
maledictions upon ears deaf to all their pristine wrath. The westward
streams and trail were alone desirable, for, at the end of these
things, the voice was calling. The voice of Life which every man must
ultimately hear and obey.

Such was the mood of the man who for years had dreamed the dream of the
Northland; the bitter, free, remorseless Northland. To him she had
given of her best and fiercest. Battle and peace within her bosom had
been his. He was of the strong whom the Northland loves. She had
yielded him her all, a mistress who knows no middle course. And now he
was satiated.

She had gambled for his soul. She had won and held it. And, in the
end, she had been forced to yield her treasure. Such is the fate of
the Northland wanton, bending to the will of Nature supreme. Her hold
is only upon superb youth, which must find outlet for its abounding
life. She