omprehension
sounding in his voice. "I have no moccasins. I t'ink pretty damn
cold." His satisfied expression changed to naive surprise when an
outburst of laughter greeted his statement, but he went on stolidly.
"One more shot I hear, and I run down the trail."

Then Corliss pressed in through the crowd to Frona, and she lost what
the man was saying.

"What's up?" the engineer was asking. "Anything serious? Can I be of
any use?"

"Yes, yes." She caught his hand gratefully. "Get over the
back-channel somehow and tell my father to come. Tell him that Gregory
St. Vincent is in trouble; that he is charged with-- What are you
charged with, Gregory?" she asked, turning to him.

"Murder."

"Murder?" from Corliss.

"Yes, yes. Say that he is charged with murder; that I am here; and
that I need him. And tell him to bring me some clothes. And,
Vance,"--with a pressure of the hand and swift upward look,--"don't
take any . . . any big chances, but do try to make it."

"Oh, I'll make it all right." He tossed his head confidently and
proceeded to elbow his way towards the door.

"Who is helping you in your defence?" she asked St. Vincent.

He shook his head. "No. They wanted to appoint some one,--a renegade
lawyer from the States, Bill Brown,--but I declined him. He's taken
the other side, now. It's lynch law, you know, and their minds are
made up. They're bound to get me."

"I wish there were time to hear your side."

"But, Frona, I am innocent. I--"

"S-sh!" She laid her hand on his arm to hush him, and turned her
attention to the witness.

"So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we
pull him into the shack. He cry and stand in one place--"

"Who cried?" interrupted the prosecuting lawyer.

"Him. That feller there." The Scandinavian pointed directly at St.
Vincent. "And I make a light. The slush-lamp I find spilt over most
everything, but I have a candle in my pocket. It is good practice to
carry a candle in the pocket," he affirmed gravely. "And Borg he lay
on the floor dead. And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too."

"Said who did it?"

Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent. "Him. That feller
there."

"Did she?" Frona whispered.

"Yes," St. Vincent whispered back, "she did. But I cannot imagine what
prompted her. She must have been out of her head."

The warm-faced man in the faded mackinaws then put the witness through