of the Snake River. Happiness had been hers in the long
years of her life there, but the overwhelming shadow of suffering
weighed her down completely now, and she would gladly renounce the home
which had known her so long.

So it had been arranged under the strong purpose the man had put forth,
and, in consequence, added energy was flung into his labors. That
night his canoe glided from the landing, and he was accompanied by
Keewin, and two other Indians, who had been witnesses of Murray's
movements on the day of the murder in Leaping Horse.

The memory of these things carried him on to his journey's end where he
encountered again the tawdry pretentiousness of Leaping Horse, seeking
to hide its moral poverty under raiment of garish hue. He remembered
the anxious, busy days when the machinery of outland justice creaked
rustily under his efforts to persuade it into full and perfect motion.
The labor of it. How Bill Brudenell had labored. The staunch efforts
of the Mounted Police. And all the time the dread of a breakdown in
the rusted machinery, and the escape of the murderer from the just
penalty of his crimes.

None knew better than Kars the nearness of that disaster. Money had
flowed like water in the interests of the accused. It had
correspondingly had to flow in the interests of the prosecution. The
tradition of Leaping Horse had been maintained throughout the whole
trial. And loathing and disgust colored his every recollection. The
defending counsel had set out to buy and corrupt. Kars had accepted
the challenge without scruple. The case was one of circumstance,
circumstance that was overwhelming. But the power of money in Leaping
Horse was tremendous. The verdict remained uncertain to the last
moment. Perhaps the balance was turned through weight of money. Kars
cared very little. The Jesuitical method of it all was a matter for
scruple. And scruple was banished completely from this battle-field.

And Justice had won. Whatever the method, Justice had won. The relief
of it. The cold reward. Allan Mowbray was avenged. Jessie and her
mother were freed from the threat which had so long over-shadowed their
lives. The bitter air of the northland had been cleansed of a
pestilential breath. So he turned his back on Leaping Horse with the
knowledge that the murderer would pay his penalty before God and man.

Nor was the whole thing without a curiously grim irony. Even while
Murray McTavish wa