"I'll be all right, sir. I'll be thick as thieves with Greasy soon.

There's another thing you oughta know, sir. There's a lot o' feelin'

runnin' against the Force. Shouldn't be surprised if they tries to

rush the pass, or somethin'. It's not safe for even six policemen to

be seen on the streets in Prospect now, sir--take it from me."

"I know that, Perkins. Any more meetings?"

"No, sir, but the guys at the theatres spout long spiels, all sayin'

there oughta be a change in Black Elk Territory an' the yallah-legs

should be swept away."

"They haven't counseled violence or said anything more about a change

actually at hand?"

"Not since Greasy shot that actor 'bout three weeks ago, sir.

Strange thing, that!"

"Very. Well, keep your eyes and ears open, Perkins. And stick to

Greasy--tight. I may tell you, things are looking very serious here.

We've had meetings demanding the Lieutenant-Governor's resignation

and a clean sweep of everyone in power. They haven't threatened--but

the Territory is rising to a turmoil. The other day, though, a

miners' meeting at Nugget advised lynching the recorder. Mr.

Cranbrook talked them into reason--a fine piece of diplomacy; but it

all points to unrest. You report similar troubles from Prospect.

Then again, I learn, recently, of several attempts to smuggle in

large quantities of arms--started with a big nigger in the late

summer--I'm speaking confidentially--and has continued intermittently

ever since. It may mean nothing--or a great deal. Now, do all these

things connect? And is Greasy in the game? That's what you must

find out, Perkins."

"I'll stick to Greasy day an' night, sir."

"Good. And keep me posted. Mum's the word.

"Yes, sir. Good night."

III

Hopeful Pass lay gripped in the first big cold of the northern

winter. Every lake, creek and river in Black Elk was frozen over.

The miners had deserted their claims for town or retired into their

shacks till spring. Travellers in the pass might be counted on one

hand. The human tide, like the watery tide, had succumbed to the

wintry clutch.

And yet the Mounted Police post was as active as in the days of the

rush. Half the men were tramping up and down in the snow. Outside

their big fur coats they wore their bandoliers, belts and revolvers,

and each man carried his carbine, while young Inspector Gemmell,

similarly equipped, was sitting on an open box of ammunition.

They were going to fight? They were--if necessary.

Gemmell, who had relieved Cranbrook at Nugget a short time before,

had been advised by headquarters that an attempt might soon be made

by the thugs of Prospect to rush the post on Hopeful Pass and gain

admittance to the gold-fields. He was to avert this attempt by

'taking such steps as he deemed advisable'--(Let the boy run his own

show!) and Gemmell, who included Hopeful Pass in his jurisdiction,

had instantly taken long steps--in Hopeful Pass direction, since it

was better that he should be on the scene of action himself.

To resist the advance, Gemmell had erected a barrier covering the

approach to the post and had maintained a perpetual look-out in the

pass a mile or two ahead. This lookout was on duty now.

From Prospect that morning had come word of an advance. Gemmell had

thereupon turned out half his men, leaving the rest in comfort in the

tent. Gemmell had also a Maxim in the tent but, as it was

water-cooled, it was liable to freeze up if left for too long in the

open.

If the thugs came up, Gemmell planned to emulate the Spartans of

Thermopylae.

The pass must be held to the last.

He meant to hold it.

Meanwhile, he wished the thugs would 'get it over,' as he was sure

his nose was freezing.

Gemmell's scouts suddenly appeared over the skyline a hundred yards

away.

"Gang of two hundred, heavily armed, just come into sight, sir," the

scouts reported on arrival.

"All right," said Gemmell. Then, to the men in the tent, "Turn out,

you fellows!"

The fellows turned out. Gemmell mounted the Maxim in a conspicuous

position, pointing down the pass. He stationed his reserve behind

the barrier. The remainder of the men, six all told, he drew up in a

line, across the pass.

Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited.

"If you'll pardon me, sir,"--Sergeant Kellett tactfully placed his

superior knowledge and experience at his C.O.'s disposal--"I'd parley

with them first."

"Yes, Sergeant," said Gemmell.

He wished his moustache was bigger.

An hour passed.

"Are you sure they're coming?" Gemmell asked the scouts.

A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and a crowd of

men surged over the crest below.

All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the boundary-line, a

stone's throw in front.

Two hundred?--a low estimate. There were at least three hundred in

the crowd--ruffians all, and well armed, the dregs of Prospect, the

toughest town on earth. Gemmell looked for Greasy Jones or his gang

but saw none of them.

The crowd yelled with mingled passion and triumph when it saw

Gemmell. He slung his carbine easily over his shoulder and

unbuttoned the holster of his revolver. On the boundary-line he met

the mob, face to face.

"Out o' the way!" roared the crowd--and halted.

"Sorry, but this is the boundary," replied Gemmell coolly. He was

forced to raise his voice. "Behind me is Canadian territory. You

can't pass!"

These remarks produced a storm of hoots, laughs and jeers. The crowd

began to advance again, intending to sweep Gemmell aside.

On the very edge of Canadian territory the crowd halted again,

checked by their leader, a desperate-looking villain, who waved

significantly toward the line of Police.

"Well, what you got to say?"

Turning, when the mob had halted and had fallen into silence, the

leader challenged Gemmell.

"My orders," shouted Gemmell, in return, "are to halt you at the

boundary. I have a big force of men, and a Maxim gun, that could

clean up this pass in half a minute. Now, I don't want trouble. I

want you fellows to have some sense and go home."

The leader of the mob placed himself in front of Gemmell, feet wide

apart, hands on hips, and looked him up and down. "Say, kid," he

demanded, "who th' hell d'you think you are? Who told you to stop us

law-abidin' citizens?"

"Her Majesty the Queen!" said Gemmell.

"Whoop!" shouted the man; and the crowd jeered.

"What th' hell right has Her Majesty got in Black Elk, anyhow?" went

on the leader. "The Black Elk miners is the boys to run that

country. An' they want us in. An' we're gain' in! See?"

He thrust his lowering face to within an inch of the Inspector's.

"Get your men an' your pop-gun out o' th' way!" the thug continued.

"An' no one'll be hurt! Out o' th' way, you----!"

And he put out his hand to thrust Gemmell aside.

"Hard words!" smiled the Inspector.

Then he flicked the man across the mouth.

A shriek of anger rose from the crowd. The leader, his face crimson,

whipped out a revolver and pointed it at Gemmell.

"Out o' th' way!" he roared.

"We're on Canadian soil. You've broken the law!"

With that, the Inspector dashed the thug's weapon aside and closed

with him.

Sergeant Kellett, waiting with the line behind, saw the youngster

struggling furiously, in a turmoil of snow, and the mob closing.

Instantly, he doubled his men forward. A row of levelled carbines

came suddenly to Gemmell's rescue.

"Stand back, you!" ordered Kellett hotly. "Or I'll open fire!" A

roaring mass, the toughs swayed to and fro before that slender

barrier. Between them, as on common ground, Gemmell and his

antagonist rolled and struggled.

Sergeant Kellett whipped out his handcuffs, watching his chance to

plunge into the fight.

But out of the scurry of snow came Gemmell, at that instant--smiling

and on top! His face was lacerated, the tough kicking and clawing

like a mad dog. Gemmell had pitched the revolver out of reach in the

first struggle.

"Leave him, Sergeant!" he implored. "He's my meat!"

Then--click!--pulling a pair of hand-cuffs from his own pocket--the

arrest was a fact accomplished.

To get back with their prisoner to the post was the work of a moment.

The crowd, now lacking determined leadership, wavered. The arrest

left them dazed.

"All ready?"

The machine-gun crew and the men at the barrier nodded.

The Inspector hailed the crowd.

"Get out!" he shouted. "Do you hear? The first man moving this way

will mean the end of the lot of you! Remember my Maxim!"

Then both sides waited, facing each other, in intense silence.

This was the crisis. Which was it to be--a fight or a retreat?

"Don't fire, sir, till they're right on us!" whispered Kellett.

"Never do, sir, never do!"

The mob gathered itself together, yelling. The Police maintained

their ominous silence. Motionless, they faced the mob--twelve men

against three hundred. The flag above them blew out gloriously in

the breeze.

Suddenly the toughs charged.

Gemmell's face was marble, under dried streaks of blood. This,

surely, was the end. Bullets whistled round them, the crowd opening

fire as it advanced.

"Machine-gun, ready there!"

"Ready!"

The mob had forgotten the machine-gun. Every man heard that firm

cry, "Machine-gun, ready there!" and the answer, "Ready!" Now they

remembered. Quick as lightning, a mental picture flashed through

them ... a picture of the pass, blocked with their bodies, dominated

by a devil of brass and steel.

And the rush--melted away. Melted away!

The Police were left with their prisoner. The crowd went sullenly

pouring back to Prospect in defeat.

Gemmell drew a deep breath. The tense line relaxed.

It was hard to believe the mob had given way, not on account of the

carbines but simply and solely on account of the mere threat of the

Maxim.

For the Maxim had been frozen up for the past twenty minutes.

"Bluffed 'em, by the Lord Harry!" said Gemmell.

IV

Greasy Jones and Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., sat opposite each other

in the little room wherein they had held their first conversation,

months before.

On the stairs outside, Greasy Jones' spy, whom Northcote knew as

Charlie, kept watch. Charlie had fulfilled his duty faithfully.

Greasy was well aware that Welland had not 'squealed.'

"Look here," said Welland forcibly. "What are you kicking at?

Haven't you been paid regularly? Isn't everything O.K.?"

The gangster started moodily at the candle flame.

"Don't misunderstand me, Molyneux," he said. "I ain't kickin'. But

I do think things ain't goin' as good as they oughta have gone."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Welland impatiently. "What's the matter with

them? Isn't Black Elk in a turmoil? Aren't the miners demanding the

resignation of the Lieutenant-Governor and half the administration?

Hasn't a petition as long as Hopeful Pass gone round calling for the

transference of governing powers to the miners? Haven't we got more

than enough arms in the country to overthrow the Police? Isn't every

man in Black Elk ready to follow you as soon as you appear? Haven't

you slipped in half your gang? And your talkers? Aren't the Police

asleep? What more do you want?"

"Just listen to me a minute. When we first thought o' this thing,

the idea was we was to make the first-comers sore about the others

who came in later an' struck it rich first. Wasn't that so?"

"Yes," said Welland.

"Well, now we've got the _whole country_ stirred up, not only the

first-comers. An' that's dangerous. I mean, the yallah-legs is all

the more liable to get on to what we're really tryin' to do."

"Now, don't be a fool, Greasy. The idea certainly was to stir up the

first-comers; and we've done it, too. But I promised to help from my

side. Well, I have. I got men all through the country to bribe the

recorders and different government officials until the whole thing's

just rotten with corruption. I got 'em to try to bribe the Police,

too, but no luck so far. Never mind; the Territory's rotten. And

the result? Why, everyone but the old prospectors and a few fools is

on our side, instead of just the first-comers!"

"Where do the first-comers get in, then?"

"Why, I'll show you," said Welland. "We keep what we intend to do

_after_ the turn-over quiet. The Police think the whole country's

against 'em. Then, when that's over, the first-comers and us--that

is, you and your gang--we tell the rest, 'We're running this show

now!' See? Then we put them in their places--quick!"

"That's what you once said me an' my gang 'ud do to the

first-comers," said Greasy. "We was to get _them_ stirred up only.

Then we was to throw _them_ down only. Now what do we do with 'em?

Are _they_ to be thrown down, too?"

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Welland. "They throw the others down. Then we

throw _them_ down. Is that clear?"

"A hell of a lot o' throwin' down!" muttered the mollified gangster.

"But I guess I see. Has all that been kept hidden, though?"

"Certainly! None but your gang and a few men in with us know that

we're going to smash the Government by force, if force is necessary.

We've been preaching peace the whole time. Nor do they know that

we're going to throw down the others when we're ready. See?"

"I guess I see," said Greasy again. "'Stead o' just a small crowd to

scare the yallah-legs, we get everyone. And afterwards we gets our

fling. That right?"

"Got it!"

"You're even slicker than I thought," the gangster remarked

admiringly. "Say, I don't like the way the yallah-legs got No-nose.

Suppose he squeals?"

"I know for a fact he hasn't squealed."

"You do?" asked the gangster quickly.

"Yes. He daren't. He knows what's coming. And he knows you'd kill

him if you got at him and the scheme failed."

"That's so. Well, about these here arms. The yallah-legs has got

most o' 'em. Don't they suspect nothin'?"

"Nobody knows what you're sending them through for, do they? Nor

who's sending them? Nor where they go to?"

"No. They don't even know it's me sendin' 'em. They're told to

leave 'em at a certain place in Nugget. Then O'Brien calls an' gets

'em an' stows 'em away. An' they stays stowed till wanted. An'

O'Brien daren't squeal, 'cause I got him watched. An' he knows it."

"Well, what are you afraid of?"

"Just that the yallah-legs has smelt trouble."

"They haven't. And, anyway, they'd never connect these arms with you

or with any big plan."

Greasy was satisfied--till he raised another point.

"I ain't got half my men I wants through the pass; not more'n twenty.

An' it's gettin' harder all the time to get 'em through. An' we

tried to rush the pass--that is, some o' the boys did, an' 'bout

thirty o' my men behind, so's the yallah-legs wouldn't see 'em. An'

what happened? Why that li'l squirt of an officer an' his twelve men

wouldn't let 'em through--kep' 'em off with a bloody Maxim!"

Welland felt tempted to tell the gangster that the crowd had been

bluffed. But he refrained.

"Why did you try it?" he demanded.

"Well, you remember you said we could try it if we weren't gettin'

men through quick enough."

"Pah! None of the crowd had the guts to make a real charge."

"At a Maxim? They ain't crazy."

The gangster spat scornfully on the floor.

"Oh, never mind. We'll smuggle a few more through before we shoot."

The gangster grunted.

"Are you sure the yallah-legs is asleep?" he asked.

"Certain. But I'll find out again before you slip across the line.

Anything else?"

"You bet!" Greasy sat up and looked fiercely at his companion. "How

do I know you won't double-cross me yet? You--a Canadian M.P.?"

"My dear Greasy," said Welland, with an air of infinite patience.

"Suppose I did? Couldn't you give away my part of the show--and ruin

me?"

"I s'pose so," the gangster admitted. "But I ain't let on about it

to anyone."

"Why not?" the politician enquired derisively.

"An' have you get to know it? Then you'd squeal on me sure!"

"That's right. So we understand each other!" Welland smiled.

This delightful pair most certainly possessed an amazing mutual

understanding!

Followed a pause, while they lit cigars.

"Like to know what I've done?" the gangster asked. "Well, I've got

all the Prospect toughs behind me--ready to rush in as soon as we let

'em from inside. My men are just hintin' to 'em quiet that the li'l

old U.S. is goin' to back us later. Also, the same thing among the

guys in Black Elk. That's bolsterin' 'em up. An' later, we'll tell

it that it's so, for sure." Welland nodded. "Then--look here!"

From a corner the gangster produced a large bag. Emptying it, he

revealed notepaper, stamps, rubber stamps, and a flag. He spread the

smaller articles out on the table and held up the flag by the corners.

"Look!" he repeated.

Welland, eyebrows raised, complied.

The paper bore the device of a black elk's head, with the slogan,

'Liberty or Death' above it, below it the words, 'The Black Elk

Republic,' and at one side, 'F.D. Jones, President.' The rubber

stamps bore similar legends, with such captions as 'Board of Health'

and 'Department of Justice.' The stamps were white, with the black

elk's head and motto. The flag was also white, with the same device

and the initials, 'B.E.R.'

"Splendid!" said Welland. "Splendid!"

He seemed struck with the assurance and determination which had

caused these things to be prepared.

"Notice I'm president?" Greasy grinned.

"You bet! Why, this is fine! Real revolution--and no mistake about

it!"

"Sure thing! Pretty fine, eh?"

"I--er--hope you were careful in having these things made, though,"

said Welland slowly, as an afterthought.

"Careful!" Greasy was scornful. "The flag was made by my woman.

She's under my heel! She's made six. Everything else was made by

men that I've got where I want, don't worry."

The gangster stowed his treasures away.

"When do you think we'd better spring it?" he enquired.

"Soon as the country's thoroughly tied up," said Welland. "Less than

a month now, I guess--first heavy snow. Eh?"

The gangster nodded.

"You'll send me word?"

"Either that or come down and see you. It's getting hard for me to

get away now. But trust me. Now, is there anything else?"

Greasy pondered.

"Oh, I was forgettin' to tell you I been tappin' the telegraph lines

from Discovery to Prospect for the past week. An' I'll keep it up

till we're ready."

"Why, you're a genius!" Welland cried. "I never thought of that.

Anything important come through? You know, all the messages for

Canada have to come down by that line."

"Yep, I know. Guess that's why I'm doin' it. I am a genius, I

guess. No, nothin' much's come through yet. But, if there does,

I'll know it."

"Fine. Well, that's all, eh? All right. Say, this is going to be

great, Greasy! Shake!"

The two friends shook, mightily satisfied.

V

Hector, coming into his quarters one night, found awaiting him the

first of his usual visitors--Welland.

"Cold night," said Hector cordially. "Glad to see you've stoked up

the stove."

"Yes," said Welland. "Look at this."

He held up Hector's ink-bottle, placed on a table outside the

immediate circle of the warmth. The ink was curdling into ice.

"I told Blythe to put the bottle on the stove," Hector said. "He's

forgetful. Had a good trip?"

"Fine. Went to Prospect. I'm writing home my impressions, you

know--have done for some time--and I thought I'd get acquainted with

that hell-hole. Hadn't really time when I last visited it. I wanted

to contrast it with Discovery City, thinking it would throw the

wonderful order and quiet of Black Elk into strong relief."

"And?"

"Why, it's the finest contrast I ever clapped eyes on. Fact! This

place is Paradise. But no wonder. Look at your men! Why, the way

that kid Gemmell held the pass--it's marvellous!"

"I'd have flayed him if he'd let 'em through," said Hector grimly.

"Still, it was a good piece of work."

"Things might be worse than they are here if a few of those swine got

in."

"Yes. But there are none of that type here."

"None?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," Welland smiled. "If those Prospect

toughs had a hand in the present unrest, for instance----"

"We'd be up against a big thing."

"Yes."

"But, as it is, there's a difference."

"Aren't you alarmed?"

"By the present situation? No."

"There's a lot of discontent," Welland reminded him. "And many tough

characters. And they're armed."

"Yes. But they're sensible. They won't try violence."

Welland fingered his beard reflectively.

"Why are you so sure?" he asked.

"Well, I know positively they're not preaching violence. And I know

their opinion of the Mounted Police."

"I see," said Welland slowly. "I see."

Just then Blythe put his head in.

"Dr. Quick's waitin' outside, sir.'

"Oh!" exclaimed Hector. "Tell him I'm coming. I go round the

hospital every night with Quick, you know, Molyneux. Who's that with

you in the next room, Blythe?"

"Charlie, sir--Mr. Northcote's man."

"Oh, yes. Well, excuse me, won't you, Molyneux?"

And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed.

"The fool!" Welland's lip curled sardonically. "We've got him

buffaloed, by God! The poor--blind--fool!"

VI

Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in North

America, was summoned to Police headquarters with an intimation that

he was required for a long and arduous journey. Antoine was not

surprised. Surprise was beneath his principles. Besides, he was

often employed on special missions by the Police, who knew his

inflexible fidelity.

A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his prime, built

on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad-shouldered. Born

in a Hudson's Bay post, there was no trail of the North unknown to

Antoine, no team he could not handle. To him, a run of one hundred

miles a day was next to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun

itself.

Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and sled outside,

Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, smoking his short pipe

and spitting reflectively at the stove while the Superintendent,

Manitou-pewabic, prepared a despatch in the next room.

Presently he was summoned into the Presence.

Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic--in Antoine's

eyes, a god and hero.

"Cold night, Antoine."

Antoine nodded.

Hector held out a large official envelope, carefully sealed.

"For our representative in Prospect," he said. "You will hand it

over to him, Antoine, and wait there for an answer. You may have to

wait several days. The Sergeant there will give you the answer and

you will bring it back to me here."

Antoine nodded again.

"Guard both despatch and answer with your life. No-one must see the

despatch but the Sergeant. No-one must see the answer till you give

it to me. Tell no-one your business either way. You must travel

fast, Antoine, very fast--both going and coming; faster than ever

before."

Antoine's eyes gleamed with the light of battle.

"All right. Now, this"--the Superintendent handed him a small,

unsealed envelope--"is a letter which you will show to any Mounted

Policeman or Mounted Police post, if necessary. It authorizes you to

claim any assistance you wish. Understand?"

Antoine nodded.

"Dogs in good shape? That's fine. Start at once, Antoine. Good

luck and goodbye. Remember--the fastest trip you've ever made----"

Antoine carefully stowed the two envelopes away and, drawing himself

to his full height, saluted the Superintendent gravely.

A moment later, whirling his whip, he swept off behind his dogs,

fleeing like a shadow, under the mysterious sheen of the northern

lights--swept off into the vast silence, down the Prospect trail.

Welland, roused from sleep by the jingle of bells, gave a thought to

the 'poor blind fool,' turned over in bed and slept again.

Chapter V

I

In Hector's view, the biggest man, mentally or spiritually, in Black

Elk Territory, was Northcote--by this time one of his closest friends.

With the approach of the long winter night and the slowing down of

the wheels of Black Elk activity, Hector saw more of Northcote than

ever. The clergyman liked to talk to the Superintendent, whom he

ardently admired. Hector liked to talk to the clergyman, because

Northcote knew Life as few men know it, was charitable and merciful,

friend of the fallen, rarely criticising, never condemning--no

pink-tea preacher, shivering at the sight of sin, but a great knight

wielding a mighty lance in the heart of the dark fight. So Hector

liked him.

From Northcote--though the clergyman did not know it--Hector learned

much.

Northcote had several favourite themes. And, reclining in his chair,

pipe in mouth, feet on the stove, he would ramble on in his deep,

quiet voice, from one theme to another, as the spirit moved him,

while Hector sat content to listen.

Men open their hearts to each other in that way.

"Came across a queer case today--" Northcote would begin; he always

ruminated on these occasions; never preached--"a boy here who struck

it fairly rich this summer; and he wants to buy a claim to work next

year--a big claim, that will make his pile for life. But his mother,

in Nova Scotia, is dying. Her only chance is to get to Florida or

some mild climate. To send her there will cost the boy most of his

summer's takings. And that means--no claim next year. He's got to

choose between his claim and his mother--a nasty situation for an

ambitious lad--a nasty situation.

"Well, I converted him to the right way of thinking. Gave him a

little sermon on Sacrifice, gilding the pill. This boy is the type

which hates anything churchy. So I left out the biggest sacrifice of

all. But I told him about Nelson, going back to sea, maimed and

dog-tired of it as he was, to blockade Cadiz in his uncomfortable

little ships and, eventually, to win Trafalgar. I tried to show him

how there's not a really successful business man who hasn't had to

make great sacrifices to achieve success. He was interested in

learning what our early explorers endured to open up the country. In

the end, he realized, I think, that all big things, everything worth

while, is won by sacrifice. 'And usually,' I said, 'there comes a

time, at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big

concrete sacrifice. Sydney made it,' I said, 'when he gave that cup

of water to the dying soldier. He wanted that water so badly

himself. But he gave it up. Once in every man's life,' I said, 'the

time of his great sacrifice comes. Your time has come to you now.'"

"And the boy--?" asked Hector.

"Is sending off the money by tomorrow's mail."

The words stuck in Hector's memory: 'Everything worth while is won by

sacrifice.' 'Once in every man's life, the time of his great

sacrifice comes.'

Of one thing he was certain: everything he had achieved, thus far,

had been won by grim, fierce sacrifice--the sacrifice of self to

state. But had the time of his great sacrifice come--or was it still

upon the way?

He could not answer that question--yet.

II

In the crisis rapidly approaching, Hector, on whom so much depended,

was conscious of great moral support.

First, he saw that the level-headed old-timers were with him. They

were not numerous and their influence was small. But individually

each man of them was worth any two of the clamourous adventurers

among whom discontent was flourishing.

Then there was the great moral support of the Commissioner. In those

anxious days when the temper of the crowd was sweeping towards its

climax, he often recalled the Commissioner's encouraging farewell on

his transference to the gold area: 'It's the last bit of true

pioneering this country will see, Adair.... It will be a big

job--one of the biggest we've ever done, ... but it will be a

splendid thing in the way of a crowning achievement to all you've

done already. Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.' These words

were to him a tremendous driving force, a great source of

inspiration. Remembering them, he could feel that, though thousands

of miles lay between him and headquarters, though Black Elk Territory

was cut off from the rest of Canada, there was still at headquarters

a keen, strong personality, watching his every move intently, pouring

bright rays of faith and power and confidence in his direction.

Greater than all this, however, was the moral support lent him by the

people of Canada--the real Canada, beyond the mountains. He knew

that its weight was behind him. With each mail he received letters

and papers telling him that this was so. Politicians--Welland's

political tools and henchmen--might be against him. But the people,

the great, long-suffering, oft-deluded and victimised people, whose

hearts could not betray them--from coast to coast they knew that in

Superintendent Adair they had a man. They recognised his strength

and integrity, and they trusted him to see that the dignity of Canada

was maintained, the law of Canada enforced, in Black Elk Territory.

With such support, Hector felt that he would gladly stand against the

world.

One item in particular, clipped by Hugh from a powerful Eastern

paper, voiced the general feeling well. Hector had read it, wavering

between amazement and humility. It was high-flown nonsense, of

course; but, with the storm fast closing upon him, he found much

comfort in the memory of its sentiment.

'In Superintendent Adair'--it ran--'the Canadian people have a worthy

representative. He is a fighter, born and bred, son of a veteran of

the Peninsula and Waterloo. So he is a living link with the Empire's

great traditions, with the blood of British heroes in his veins.

Adair was brought up for an officer; and to those who know him he is

the personification of the best type of British officer, whose soul

is in his corps, who thinks only of the steep and narrow path of

Duty. But he is more than that. Fate killed his prospects of an

early Commission. Nevertheless, being determined to serve, he joined

the original North-West Mounted Police and fought his way up through

ten strenuous years to commissioned rank. And he has continued to

advance ever since. Today he is looked upon in the West as the

embodiment, in one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted

Police. And the comparison is apt, for we find in Adair all those

high qualities of devotion, ability, firmness, strength and

determination which we have learned to expect of the Mounted Police.

Some even speak of him as the embodiment of Western Canada. And this

too, is apt, for he has grown up with the country, kept up with and

done much to aid its advance. And the qualities we attribute to

Western Canada, once more, are Adair's. Out there, they call him by

the name the Indians gave him--Manitou-pewabic--a tribute to his

personality, for the phrase means 'Spirit-of-Iron.' Surely this is

the spirit which has made not only the man, but the Force to which he

belongs and the country which is its environment--Spirit-of-Iron!

'This is the man today responsible for maintaining the Queen's

authority in Black Elk. He has a desperate job on hand. We have

heard of the unrest sweeping the Territory from end to end--unrest

which may end in serious trouble. Cut off from the rest of Canada

and with only a handful of men, Adair is sitting on a powder-barrel.

That the disgruntled cut-throats returning from the country are so

loud in their abuse of the Superintendent, however, is the greatest

possible tribute. Adair has handled many such in his time and none

has ever beaten him.... Whatever may yet happen in Black Elk, Adair

may rest confident that Canada looks to him. And, on their part, the

Canadian people may rest confident that the country's honour is

absolutely safe in the care of this modern Lion of the North.'

'The personification of the British officer ... and of the Mounted

Police ... and of Western Canada ... this modern Lion of the North'!

Rubbish! Nonsense! But there was more truth in this article than

Hector would recognize. At any rate, with the words before him, he

was resolved humbly to do his best to serve these people, resolved

firmly to see that, while life remained to him, whatever lay ahead,

he would not fail them.

III

The exodus of miners from the creeks to the towns was now reaching

alarming proportions. It was known to all men that the unrest and

discontent was risen almost to high-water mark. No violence had been

preached. The law-abiding element, from the Lieutenant-Governor

down, had no idea that there was organisation in it all and still

less that the real purpose of those secretly behind the movement was

swift--perhaps bloody--revolution. But they sensed a menace

vaguely--like horses in a field, restlessly switching tails and ears

when a tempest is in the air.

From the Lieutenant-Governor down, they placed their confidence in

one man--Spirit-of-Iron. The Lieutenant-Governor, among many others,

had, in fact, told him so.

"They're going to spring something, Adair," he had said. "Nothing

extreme. But they're going to ask for my resignation. They don't

trust me. But you can handle them. Adair, I'm afraid it will be up

to you."

Then, with stunning suddenness, came the news--terrible news to the

law-abiding element, glorious news to the rest--that Spirit-of-Iron

was ill, perhaps upon his death-bed! The Lieutenant-Governor felt

that the solid rock on which he stood had melted away.

Blythe, stammering, white-faced, brought the news to Dr. Quick, who

hurried over. All the twinkle went out of the doctor's eyes when he

saw Hector.

"He would go round the infectious wards with me!" the doctor groaned,

cursing himself. "It's typhus!"

It was easy to isolate the patient. But to keep the news from the

lawless crowd was impossible. Within twenty-four hours the whole

Territory knew that the one man the malcontents really feared was

_hors de combat_.

There was a waitress in Discovery, known to every soul in town as

Seattle Sue. Her face was painted, her hair dyed, her language unfit

for drawing-rooms, but she had that rare physical phenomenon, a heart

of pure gold. In the early days of the rush, when the temporary

hospitals were full, this girl had volunteered to nurse in her spare

time--no small sacrifice, since her duties as a waitress occupied

twelve hours daily. Today, Seattle Sue was the best nurse in

Discovery.

"We'll get Seattle Sue!" said Dr. Quick. "We must save him!"

Here it was, too, that Nita Oswald showed the mettle of her pastures.

Appreciating what it all meant, she was at Hector's door, offering

her services, before the doctor had finished his preliminary

examination.

With Blythe and the doctor, the two women made a powerful quadruple

alliance. But the stake was tremendous. It would tax them all to

the utmost to pull Hector through.

Outside, day after day, the crowd clamoured for bulletins. The men

of the Force threatened mutiny if they, at least, were not kept

informed. But Lancaster would allow no bulletins. It was better

that the malcontents should not know that the great chief was dying.

The delirium, the worst feature of the case, came on in a few days.

At times the Superintendent was quite calm, whispering, muttering,

sighing, smiling; then they guessed, from phrases here and there,

that he thought himself a boy again or at home. At others he talked

violently, shouted, gave orders, laughed; then they knew that he was

living through his daily life in the Force, as he had lived it twenty

years, or fighting over many of his desperate battles. At other

times--most frequent--he became a raving lunatic, at grips with some

awful menace, struggling against terrific odds, crying bitterly over

his physical helplessness, making desperate efforts to get up and

rush outside. They did not know that at these times he was dealing

with the local crisis.

In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed of the

situation.

To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pictures, sometimes

awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed with lapses of clear sanity,

when the agony of his position reached its height. And it went like

this:

He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes and in the

woods of his old Ontario home. He saw himself fighting his first

fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and suddenly his opponent

became Welland, whom he fought furiously, though why he could not

say. Then Sergeant Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and

stood before him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room.

But they were not in the room. They were in the stable-yard, at

home. The Sergeant was giving him advice--the old slogan: 'Fight,

little master, till the last shot's fired!'

'Till the last shot's fired!' Yes, he must fight till ... but

against what? And why? Suddenly he remembered and, remembering,

wept, cursing his great weakness and the Fate that held him helpless

at the crisis of his life.

Then his father came to talk to him--out of the air. He saw the fine

old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with a small boy at his

knee. He was telling stories--stories of days long past, of Adairs

who had been mighty fighters, nobly serving King and Country, each in

his time. As he talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms

on the mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath:

'Strong. Steadfast.'--'Strong. Steadfast.'

He heard his father's voice: 'The Adair motto for centuries, Hector.

An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.'

'An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.' And surely strong

and steadfast now--now--when the crisis was upon him. 'Strong.

Steadfast.' And here he was, helpless in bed, while the trumpets

sounded for battle and he was not there!

Sometimes his mother came--sweet-faced,

white-haired--smiling--touching his face with gentle fingers. He

took her in his arms and kissed her. As their lips touched, she

became suddenly young and beautiful--became, not herself, in the days

of her youth--but Frances. He was in Arcady with Frances. He heard

himself making his humble confession--thrilled to her reply--gave a

glad, wild cry of joy and swung her off her feet, kissing her madly.

A hand came out then, from nowhere, tearing her away--her father's

hand. No, not her father's--Welland's. Why Welland's? Why? She

was gone--his arms were empty. And he knew himself back in

Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen dreary years ago.

Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, 'Frances! Frances!'

many, many times. Afterwards, while they wondered what it meant,

they swore never to betray the secret the Big Chief had unwittingly

revealed.

Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest--the arrest of

Red-hot Dan. He saw the whiskey-trader at his door--but the face was

Welland's. Welland came out, shot at him, missed. Hector ran to his

horse--galloped away--with Welland after him. His enemy required no

horse but pursued on foot, travelling like the wind. Hector rode at

a furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds--thousands--of

miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and years--but still

Welland followed him, tirelessly. Then he found himself on the

ground, half-stunned, his horse beside him, Welland bending over him,

pointing a rifle, grinning hideously. And Moon came out of thin air

to thrust herself before the murderer. Hector struggled to his feet

and called her. She stretched out her arms. He stepped to meet

her--and found--Mrs. MacFarlane. For some unfathomable reason, he

hated her. Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland once more. And

yet it was not Welland--but Whitewash Bill. He advanced, without a

weapon, to meet him--advanced--and the outlaw became a trumpeter,

sounding the Reveille.

Gone, instantly, were all Hector's hates and fears. Enwrapt, he

heard the clear call soaring to the stars--soar and die, quivering,

to merge into the 'Fall in.' Before the call finished, the trumpeter

had vanished. But the magic notes went on and drifted into other

calls, till he had heard them all, the calls that were the very voice

of the Service he loved. Then came wonderful sights--long dear to

him--the far-crying trumpet playing perpetual accompaniment. He saw

the old Force riding westward--westward--on the first march to the

Rockies; saw the sentry at Broncho, smart as a Russian prince in fur

coat, cap, gauntlets, burnished bandolier; saw his old division

drilling--glorious 'J'--a mounted parade--saw the long scarlet line

circle and wheel, heard the tremendous thunder of innumerable hoofs;

and still the trumpet sounded. The thunder of hoofs swelled to roars

of applause. The packed hall at Broncho rose before him and the

Marquis, appearing from the dead, bowed and began to sing, over and

over again, the chorus of a song about himself, sung by the men of

the Force everywhere for their love of, and pride in, him:

_Hi, you bad young Nitchie, there is someone goin' to git ye;

Hi, you bad old outlaw!--An' he's never known to fail.

He's the soul of Law and Order, so you'd better cross the border,

When Manitou-pewabic's on the trail!_

His heart went out passionately towards these men. Suddenly, there

was a change. Darkness came over the hall. The trumpet, which,

somehow, had all the while been sounding, changed its tune to some

ominous, terrible call--the 'Last Post'--symbolical of the end--and

of Death--the funeral call! A Union Jack at the end of the room,

growing suddenly to gigantic proportions, was torn to shreds.

Lightning and thunder stormed around it. The trumpet call died,

shuddering. There came a noise like a mighty whirlwind and through

the shreds a two-headed monster thrust itself--its faces the faces of

Welland and Molyneux--one and yet not the same. Hector awoke, in an

agony.

Then, in moments of lucid thinking, he realised his weakness to the

full and saw the situation in all its horror. He saw the great

crisis, not definitely, but as a vague, impenetrable menace, coming

upon him--Welland, somehow, mixed up in it--and could do nothing to

divert it. Lancaster had told him, at one time, that the miners,

seeking to take advantage of his illness, were planning a great

meeting at which they proposed to present their demands. Knowing

this, he strove to overcome his weakness, strove piteously and

failed. No other officer in Black Elk could deal with the

approaching menace. He felt that; but could not fathom it, while he

felt it. Again, since his illness, a terrific blizzard had come

up--one of the worst ever known. The telegraph lines were down,

Hopeful Pass was blocked and all communication with the outside world

was cut off. Antoine had not returned. Even _he_ could not return

in the blizzard. Suppose he did not return before the meeting--what

then? What then? Again and again, Hector asked for Antoine and

received from Lancaster the hopeless answer, 'He has not come back.'

This drove him, time without number, to try to reach the window, to

see if Antoine had returned or the blizzard moderated and, that

effort thwarted, kept him tossing in despair upon his bed.

In his agony, he saw a crash, himself utterly disgraced, all his

twenty-odd years of service gone for nothing, the trust of his men

and of his country turned into a mockery. This was the end of his

dreams.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.

He felt like that other of the Bible, helpless in his cot, while Fate

shrieked in his ear: 'The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!'

The spark of his great courage, which had won for him his tribal

name, 'Spirit-of-Iron,' struggled fiercely in those terrible

hours--struggled, but flickered and burned low----

"I'm afraid we're going to lose him," said Dr. Quick, blinking behind

his big round glasses.

Outside, consternation held the law-abiding element.

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes at last.

IV

Through Blythe, Hector eventually turned the corner. He awoke one

night to find himself suddenly calm, self-possessed and comfortable,

though as weak as ever. At first, having no idea of what had

happened to him, he stared childishly 'round the room, struggling for

light. Then gradually he made out a man, wrapped in a blanket and

lying at the foot of the bed.

"Who's that?" he asked. "Who's that?"

He thought he spoke loudly. Actually, his voice was little better

than a whisper.

But the man in the blanket sat up, discovering the wan, intensely

woe-begone face of Blythe.

"Did you call, sir?"

"Who's that? Is that----"

Try as he would, he could not remember the name of his own servant!

"Blythe, sir."

"Oh, yes, Blythe. Why aren't you in bed, Blythe?"

"Bed, sir? Why--why, sir--the fact is"--a suspicious huskiness crept

into Blythe's voice and his dismal face quivered--"they said as you

was dyin', sir----"

"_Dying?_"

"Yes, sir. The doctor gave you up tonight, sir. An' Miss

Oswald--an' that Seattle Sue--they was dog-tired. So--I wanted to be

near, sir--when you--pegged out--an' I told 'em to take a rest,

an'--an'----"

Here words failed the faithful and tender-hearted Blythe and he began

to blubber miserably.

"Why, Blythe! You idiot--you fool, I'm all right! Stop it at

once--and turn up the lamp."

Hector was actually laughing at Blythe, with a touch of his old

humour. The sight of that doleful face, combined with the assertion

that he was dying, had brought back the Big Chief from the edge of

the Great Divide.

Blythe, delighted, jumped up, turned up the lamp and hastened out,

returning in a moment with Dr. Quick.

"What's this? What's this?" said the doctor, twinkling. "Blythe

told me to come quick, because you're coming 'round. I'm Quick,

Major, at all times, but never quicker than I've been now."

The familiar pun brought another smile to the wasted face.

"Thank God," said the doctor, solemnly, after investigation, "you'll

do."

Then he gave Hector a sleeping draught.

When Hector awoke again, it was to find Lancaster at his bedside.

Never had he seen a man in a state of greater thankfulness. And

behind him were the doctor, Nita and Seattle Sue.

"We've decided," said Lancaster, "that it will be best for Discovery

City generally to remain ignorant of your recovery--for the present.

Meanwhile, Major, you must keep quiet and get well."

"I agree as to the first remark and also as to getting well. But I

can't keep quiet," said Hector.

"You _must_," the doctor insisted.

"I _can't_," Hector asserted. "If you want me to get well quickly,

you'll relieve my mind. Mr. Lancaster, I must see you alone--now."

The Lieutenant-Governor reluctantly signed to the others to leave the

room.

"What time is it?" asked Hector.

"Three o'clock in the afternoon."

"And the date?"

Lancaster told him.

"How long have I been ill?"

"Twelve days."

"Good God! Twelve days! My God, what time I've lost!"

"There's a chance for you to play your part yet. The blizzard has

postponed the big meeting for a week. The miners from the outlying

camps couldn't travel."

"Thank God for that! I've a week in which to recover--and prepare.

We must keep the change secret, as you said just now. Surprise is

the first element of success."

"It is. No-one will know you've turned the corner."

"Has Antoine returned?"

The Lieutenant-Governor's face grew serious.

"No. He must have been held up. I doubt, now, if he can get here in

time."

"He must!" Hector struggled to sit up in bed. "So much depends on

it. He must get through. He cannot fail us, surely----"

The Lieutenant-Governor put out a hand.

"Don't excite yourself, Adair. Take it quietly, man; take it

quietly."

The Superintendent fell back exhausted.

"Has the blizzard died down?"

"Yes. There's still a chance."

"Well, we must get ready."

"But you're really not fit."

"Nonsense. You told me once you were looking to me."

"God knows that's true--but----"

"Well, I'm better now."

Lancaster stared at the emaciated face, set in its iron-hard lines,

and gained a deeper sense of the man's indomitable will.

"You must rest now. Promise me," he said.

"On one condition: that you send Forshaw to me tonight."

"You're really not fit----"

"My God, Lancaster," Hector groaned in an agony; "how can I rest with

this thing before me? You _must_ do as I ask."

The Lieutenant-Governor silently pressed the sick man's hand, trying

to express in that simple action all he felt.

"I'll send him, Major," he said.

When Lancaster left him, Hector lay gasping. The effort of the

interview, short as it had been, had completely played him out. The

realization wounded him bitterly. The man whose physical strength

was proverbial was, he had discovered, at this crisis, as incapable

of action as a baby. He revolted madly against it, but the fact

remained. As with his body, so with his brain. Fiercely as he

tried, now, to form some plan, he found himself utterly unable to do

it. His penetration, his self-control and powers of concentration

were all gone. He could not get Antoine out of his mind. The man's

absence tortured him, shut out everything else. Through the coming

days, this was to dominate his thoughts, jeering, like a fiend, at

his helplessness.

Exhaustion brought him rest at last.

Blythe awakened him some hours later, with a collation prepared from

eggs. Hector took the glass, astonished. Eggs were as rare as women

in Black Elk.

"You bin havin' 'em ever since you got sick, sir," said Blythe

proudly.

"I have, eh? A dollar apiece! This will ruin me financially, I see

that."

"No 't'won't, sir," exclaimed Blythe quickly.

He watched his chief drink the mixture with intense satisfaction.

"How's that?"

"Well, sir--" Blythe became hesitant. "Fact is--Sergeant Savage, he

said he'd break my neck if I told you--the boys passed 'round the

hat, sir--seein' you were ill, it was all they could do----"

"You mean--" said Hector slowly, "that the men bought these eggs for

me, out of their pay?"

"Yessir," said Blythe, now shamefaced, feeling himself a traitor.

"You've had six or seven dozen, sir."

Hector put down the glass. Tears welled up in his eyes. Blythe

looked desperate.

"I'm not ashamed of them, Blythe," said Hector thickly. "God bless

the boys--God bless 'em."

Finishing the drink, he felt better. And, somehow, Blythe's

confession had helped him wonderfully. The collective strength of

the men seemed to pass into him.

"What's the time, Blythe?"

"'Bout seven, sir."

"Right. Finish your job and clear out. Inspector Forshaw will be

here soon."

With Blythe's departure, Hector gathered himself together for the

great effort facing him. His brain was working more freely, but his

physical weakness filled him with panic.

"God, but this illness must have pulled me down," he thought, and

with the thought resolved to see if it was so.

Against all orders, he got out of bed and put his slippers on. The

effort was stupendous. The room swam before his eyes and he thought

himself about to faint. But he set his teeth, calling all his

tremendous will-power to his aid, feeling that inestimable things

depended on his success or failure now. Then, clutching at the bed,

the chair, the table, for support, he made a tragic and

heart-breaking pilgrimage on his trembling legs across the narrow

space to the shaving mirror by the lamp. Sweat streaming down his

face, his heart pounding furiously, he looked into the

mirror--received a stunning shock----

His face had shrunk to livid whiteness and was as thin as a knife.

Two black hollows showed 'round his eyes, two in his wasted cheeks.

His bloodless lips were set tight and his hair--almost in a

night--had become streaked with grey.

That grey hair was the price of the mental torment he had endured.

That face was the face of the man on whom depended everything in

Black Elk, that raw skeleton actually all that stood between

Lancaster and his enemies. Then God help Lancaster!

Exhausted, he turned back to bed. How he reached it he never knew.

Presently came Forshaw's knock.

He braced himself to fight his great fight.

"Come in!"

A moment later he found himself haltingly dictating orders to the

little Adjutant.

Chapter VI

I

In a small room in a low-down house in Discovery, Welland and Greasy

Jones met secretly.

Greasy had successfully made his way through Hopeful Pass in disguise

and was now in hiding in this low-down house, awaiting the hour of

the miners' rally, when the long and carefully planned coup was to be

made and Black Elk Territory declared a republic.

The rally was planned for eight o'clock that night. It was now six

a.m.

The two conspirators had met to arrange the final details. Welland

had not seen the gangster since their last meeting in Prospect. The

risks were too great. And one meeting--this meeting--in Discovery

was all he dared venture. Even now he was very nervous.

"You're sure everyone's asleep?" he asked. "And that no-one can

overhear us?"

"Sure," replied Greasy impatiently. "There's only two people in the

house. One's the owner, a man the yallah-legs don't suspect, the

other's my woman--an' she don't count."

"Your--why did you bring _her_ along? We don't want women here."

"You forget I was a respectable trader goin' to open store in

Discovery," the gangster grinned. "An' t' have a wife along helped

the effect."

"All right," said Welland apologetically. "Don't think me a

fuss-cat, Greasy. But you understand--a man in my position----"

"What about a man in _mine_? If the yallah-legs knew I was here, I'd

be behind the bars in two snorts----"

"Well, they don't," said Welland, "and won't--till too late. Now, do

all hands know about the meeting?"

"Yes," smiled Greasy. "It's a meetin' to present a petition to his

Nibs the Lieut. Gov. The first-comers, though, an' my men, has been

tipped off to what's goin' to happen. They're all armed an' ready to

fight, if necess'ry. Arms concealed, o' course. Are you sure the

yallah-legs knows nothin'?"

"Of our intentions? Nothing! They think it's a tea party. Of

course, they're scared--a little."

"Sure to be," Greasy agreed.

"How many of your men got through the pass?"

"'Bout thirty. Enough, I guess. That includes Philibert, Kelly, an'

Pete--the best o' 'em. The Spaniard was spotted an', o' course,

No-nose, early in the game."

"Good. And they're to take charge, if it comes to violence?"

"Yep. They'll be in the crowd, same as me."

"I've promised the Lieutenant-Governor to go on the platform with

him. As an M.P., it's my place. You'll have to arrest me--for

appearance' sake. You can let me out afterwards, but I must be

arrested, with the rest of them."

"Yep. I understand. Now what about a programme?"

"Well, Lancaster proposes to speak first, pleading his case. Then

the men with the petition plan to present it and answer him. I

understand Adair may speak, too."

"Hell, yes," said Greasy fiercely. "I thought he was dyin'.

Yesterday, when the news come 'round that he was better--why, it was

a real surprise packet, that was!"

"It certainly was. Even I knew nothing about his recovery till it

was announced."

"Damn the swine! It 'ud have served us perfectly if he'd died. Our

biggest enemy out o' the way----!"

"That's true." Welland's voice was suddenly very sinister. "But

I've a plan for settling him. Best we could have--puts him out at

the start."

"What is it?"

"This: The time for us to throw down our cards is just after

Lancaster and himself have spoken. Adair's had a flag hoisted above

the platform. On a given signal, picked men'll rush forward, led by

yourself and your lieutenants, capture everyone on the platform,

you'll say your say for the Republic, tear down the flag--run up your

own--and tell Lancaster to order the Police to surrender. He'll do

it, you bet, when he sees the odds--every man in Black Elk will be

there. And--the Territory's ours!"

"That's O.K. But what about Adair?"

"We'll want a signal, won't we? And Adair out of the way? We all

recognize him as the backbone of resistance, don't we? Well, you get

a man you can trust--a dead shot; station him somewhere overlooking

the platform; as soon as Adair finishes speaking, let him be shot

down--kill him! That blows up your resistance--bang! And there's

your signal!"

"By George, you're a slick 'un!"

"Do you agree?"

"You bet I do. I know just the man. It's settled, then. We shoot

Adair!"

II

At six o'clock in the evening, Hector sat in his room, awaiting the

hour of the meeting.

Though the week intervening since his recovery had done much for him,

he was still pitifully thin and weak. His clothes sagged on him and

his face was deathly. Only the determination to see the matter

through personally kept him up. The Lieutenant-Governor and all his

friends marvelled at his resolution.

He was quite calm.

Blythe came in.

"Please, sir," he said gloomily, "there's a woman wants to see you,

sir. All in a hurry, she is--out o' breath. Matter o' life an'

death, she says. Queer lookin', sir, queer."

"Never mind. Show her in."

The woman was queer. She was in the late forties. Her once

beautiful hair had been dyed to hide the grey. She had been very

pretty in her time, but was now flabby, unhealthy and inclined to

fatness. And she was hopelessly painted and pencilled. She wore a

heavy fur coat. Hector had seen many of her kind--women of the

streets.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

Horror crept into her eyes at sight of his emaciated face. Her

nerves on the raw, she twisted her hands restlessly, looked here,

there, everywhere.

"You needn't be afraid of me. What is it?" he said, very quietly.

She burst into a confession, the wildest, maddest thing he had ever

heard. At the end, she was sobbing at his feet.

He listened and his face never changed in the slightest, but to

become a little more set, a little sterner. Nor did he move a

muscle--just sat motionless.

"You overheard this fellow talking to the man you live with?" he

asked at last.

She nodded, crying.

"And he is to shoot me when I go up on the platform tonight?"

She nodded again.

"You don't know the man?"

"No. I was in the room upstairs. I heard them through the floor."

"I see. You wouldn't know his voice? You didn't hear his name?

"No."

"I see." Still that calm, thoughtful tone. "They didn't mention

where the shot was to come from?"

"No. Just from the crowd."

"So I'm to be shot by an unknown assassin from somewhere in the

crowd--a crowd of at least ten thousand, from every part of Black

Elk," he said bitterly.

"That's it," she said.

He knew that to discover the assassin in the crowd would be

impossible.

There came a painful silence. Hector broke it.

"You won't tell me your man's name? Is it useless to ask?"

She nodded.

"I love him," she whispered.

"So I can't get at him. You won't even point out the house?"

"No."

"Won't anything I say drag the information from you?"

"Nothing will."

He considered a while, facing this terrible and unexpected menace.

"Suppose I arrest you?"

She started to her knees.

"Oh, for God's sake, no!" she gasped. "Don't do that! Sooner or

later he--my man--he'd get at me, knowing I'd betrayed his plan. And

he'd kill me. He'd kill me when you let me out, if not before."

"But I could jail him too. Suppose I keep you. I can get someone to

identify you. Then I can arrest your man--and discover this assassin

from him."

"You can't," she declared. "Not before the meeting. There isn't

time. And anyway, I swear, before God, no-one knows me in Discovery."

"There's isn't time," he thought. "That's true."

"Well," he asked her, "what do you propose to do, when you leave

here?"

"I'm going to clear out--to Prospect--leave this damn country--go

home--right now."

"Right now, eh?" he repeated.

'I'll have you followed when you leave here and trace you to that

precious man of yours,' had been his thought. But if she fled at

once from Discovery, to follow her would be futile.

"Your man will follow and kill you just the same. He'll easily trace

you and catch you up."

"I must chance that," she said desperately.

He saw that she was really resolved on immediate flight.

"Why don't you go back to your man?" he asked.

"After betraying his plans? And after he'd forbidden me to leave the

house today? You don't know him!"

"Well, evidently, if I go, I'm certain to be shot," he smiled "Isn't

that so?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"Then--why did you come to warn me?"

"I can't--" she choked--"I can't stand by and see you shot!"

"Not even by your man's assassin?"

"Not even that."

"For Christ's sake, Major Adair," she burst out suddenly, "don't go!"

"That's for me to decide," he said grimly. "If you'd tell me where

to find that assassin--I don't ask you to betray your man--I

understand that side of it--you might save my life. Or if you'd come

earlier----"

"I came as soon as I could," she protested. "Before God, that's

true."

"All right. I believe you."

By this time, recovering a little, she had risen. He was thinking

hard.

"Promise you won't go," she begged.

He looked at her--a piteous object, her powder trailed by tears.

"I promise--nothing," he said firmly.

"Oh, if you go, all this will be wasted--you know the risks I've

run--I've been through hell today."

Her voice rang with agony and despair.

"I appreciate that," he answered quietly, "and thank you. Now--to

get you away safely."

"Eh?"

She stared.

"You must be escorted," he went on, his coolness bewildering her, "or

that man of yours will get you. A mail leaves here in half an

hour--dog-train; the fastest run to Prospect going. I'll send you

out with it. It's under Police escort. You'll be safe."

"I--I don't know--what to say----"

"Don't say anything," he answered. "I owe you this for your warning.

And--before you go--won't you tell me really why you came? I

recognise--forgive my saying so--that you're not illiterate. What

induced you----"

She hung her head--then, swiftly, threw it back--great courage in the

way she faced the scorn she felt impending.

"Hector," she exclaimed, "don't you remember--Georgina Harris--in

Toronto?"

He puckered his brows, struggling with his memory. Slowly it all

came back. He saw the girl standing with him, under the lamp--many

years, many years ago.

Georgina Harris--the hideous truth confronted him. The girl had

followed the path that might have been expected, then. This painted,

wornout woman, mistress to a criminal, was Georgina Harris. Life

suddenly seemed a terrible thing, youth dead with them both----

"I loved you once, Hector," she said wanly. "That's why I couldn't

see you shot in cold blood--now. Don't condemn me, Hector. Please!"

He could not speak a word.

As soon as the woman had gone, under Blythe's escort, to join the

mail, Hector thought the matter over.

To discover the assassin now was impossible. Two alternatives faced

him if he was to save his life: One, to order the meeting cancelled;

two, to stay away.

To cancel the meeting at this stage would be useless. The crowd

would insist on holding it, defying the law. The fat would then be

in the fire. To stay away would be a confession of weakness, after

the declaration that he would attend. Moreover, Lancaster could not

handle the crowd alone.

He must either betray his trust, let down the country when he was

needed most, or--face practically certain death.

He had a very short time in which to make his decision--a decision

that was so momentous.

Now he must be truly 'Spirit-of-Iron'! To face death in cold blood,

not in battle, but at the hands of an unknown assassin--to sacrifice

life on the gory altar of Duty--that was what he was required to do.

Blow on blow--trial on trial--racking him--scourging him----

The night was dark--very, very dark.

III

At seven o'clock the Rev. Mr. Northcote, strangely excited, came over

to Hector, demanding his immediate attendance at the parson's

quarters.

"I'm very busy," said Hector. "What is it?"

"A most urgent and important matter."

"This is very mysterious," Hector smiled. "Well, just for a minute,

then. Go ahead. But not too fast. I'm tottery still."

They walked slowly over to Northcote's. The world was ominously

still, frozen in deathly silence. From the town came the occasional

howl of a husky and a murmur, as of a great crowd gathering. The

night was pregnant with possibilities.

They entered the shack. Northcote pushed open the sitting-room door.

"In there," he whispered, smiling--gave Hector a gentle push--he went

in.

The room was brightly lighted. By the stove stood a woman, in

breeches, heavy stockings, moccasins and mackinaw coat--a woman with

ruddy-gold hair--strangely familiar----

"Hector!" she said.

He heard his own voice, on a strained, unnatural note:

"Frances!"

Then everything went black before his eyes.

The shock passed, leaving behind an ecstasy. He felt that he was

dreaming and would awake to a world of cold, deadly fact at any

moment. He saw her hanging back, irresolute, as if she doubted his

feelings after all these years. And, a second later, he knew himself

holding her hands, tumbling out broken, incoherent words, leaving no

time for her breathless, half-crying, half-laughing answers, and at

last, taking her in his arms, kissing her desperately, saying over

and over again:

"Frances! ... Frances!"

While she answered, as he allowed her, with: "Hector! Oh, Hector!

My dear, darling.... Hector----?"

Then--everything else forgotten--except the marvellous, wonderful

fact that she was with him--he began, turning her face to the light,

holding her hands in a fevered clutch:

"But Frances.... Why are you here? When did you get here? Frances,

I don't understand.... This is too miraculous----"

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"Your letter--when?"

"Hector, I wrote you not long ago, telling you I was on my way up

here, and to write and tell me not to if you--if you'd forgotten.

And, as you didn't answer----"

"I never had it. Our mails are uncertain. Several have been

lost--shipwreck and so on. Frances, this is a surprise.... I can't

speak...."

"I was terribly afraid--before you came in--that you'd--you might

have--forgotten, Hector. I didn't know whether you'd think me

mad--but I had faith in you. I've never forgotten what you

said--that night at home--when you said you'd never--well, love

anyone else--and I promised to be true to you. So I thought, 'He'll

keep his word.' Then, when I met Mr. Northcote--he's such a

dear--and found he knew you so well--I just told him, Hector. And he

said he was sure--I needn't be afraid----"

"Afraid?" She was in his arms again. "Afraid? Frances, if you only

knew--how I've thought of you--how your face has always been before

me--day and night--in these fifteen long, long years--what hell I

went through when I lost you--and how hope left me long ago--so I

just went on alone. I'm not the sort that loves more than once,

Frances. I've loved you always--you don't know what you've been to

me--I'm no orator, Frances, but----"

"I can guess--" she whispered.

Presently, he asked her, overwhelmed once more with wonder:

"But Frances--how did you get here--where did you meet Northcote?

Surely you didn't come into this wild part of the world--alone?"

"Not exactly alone. I chummed up with some men on the boat--and your

fellows--how magnificent they are, Hector!--helped me along. I met

Mr. Northcote by chance, at Lucky. The blizzard caught him there,

like the rest of us--he'd come down on business, he said. He offered

to escort me to Discovery. And that explains, doesn't it?"

"But then--you really came alone--all this way? Why?"

"Must I tell you?" she asked, eyes very misty.

"Frances--not----?"

"Because you were here? Yes, Hector."

"But--why, it's the pluckiest----"

"Love makes heroes of us all, Hector."

He kissed her again, passionately.

"Still I'm in the dark, Frances. Your long silence--where have you

been? What have you been doing? I wrote when I got my Commission,

you know--to the address you gave Mrs. Tweedy--you remember her?

Well, it came back--a 'dead letter'--and after that it was useless,

of course, to write again. Why didn't you get that letter?"

"We moved away from that address in a day or so. Then father started

us off on a wild pilgrimage--everywhere, in the States, to cover our

trail--afterwards to England--France----"

"I see. But why didn't you write--you had my address--a word--a

line?"

"Don't reproach me, Hector. Father had me spied on shamelessly. I

couldn't get a letter out of the house--or write one. It was

terrible. But I stood it, for mother's sake."

"But surely--in fifteen years?"

"Wait. When we got to France, father made a marriage of convenience

for me--a wealthy young Frenchman--Deschamps----"

"Then--why are you here?"

She saw the light dying in his eyes.

"Goose," she laughed. "Let me finish. I had to marry him. Oh,

Hector, I can't tell you the agony, the shame, I went through--the

fight I made. But it was no good. I married him at last--because I

had to, Hector. I gave you up then, forever--because I had to.

Jules was terribly jealous--he really did love me, Hector. When once

his wife, I had to play the game, even though it--broke my heart.

You _must_ understand, Hector."

"I do," he answered.

"But--afterwards--I couldn't put you out of my mind. God knows, I

tried. I couldn't love Jules. We drifted apart. But I played the

game. All the same, I couldn't forget you. I followed your career,

Hector, as well as I could. You don't know how proud and happy I was

to see you climbing up--up--up--all the time." She smiled

delightfully. "I watched for--a wife, Hector. But none appeared.

Can you guess my thoughts, then? I can't express them. They're a

secret between God and me. But I was happier than ever."

"Frances!" he said.

"A year ago, Jules died. As soon as his affairs were settled, I

travelled extensively. I was restless--didn't know what to do.

Father and mother are both dead, so I couldn't go back to them.

Gradually it came to me, Hector, that, I should seek you

out--wherever you were. I felt sure of you still, Hector, dear, you

see--and perhaps you needed me. But what's the use of saying more?

I returned to Canada. It was easy to find out where you were. Then

I wrote--and followed the letter. That's all."

"Frances! After all these years----"

So, for a moment, they gave themselves up to their great happiness.

It seemed to Hector that all his dreary, toilsome life was

compensated for, then and there; that once again he was back in

Paradise.

"We can still begin, Frances," he told her. "It's not too late. But

if only you'd come before.... Frances, I'm in the forties--think of

it--with you, it doesn't matter--" He took her face in his hands and

looked at her with a tenderness that pierced her heart. "Frances,

dear, you're just the same! You've hardly changed a bit--and

I--I!----"

"Hector, don't talk like that." Tears blinded her. "You've been

ill--my poor boy! Mr. Northcote didn't know, till we got here this

afternoon, or we'd have hurried even more. Hector--Hector----"

For the first time she realised to the full his ghastly thinness, the

age in his hair, and contrasted it, agonizingly, with the proud

strength and youth she had known long ago.

"Don't cry, little girl," he soothed her. "I'm all right. It's not

too late. I----"

Then he remembered----

Remembered the situation in Black Elk--that in a few minutes he must

join issue single-handed with a hostile crowd--and, worse than that,

face certain death.

Slowly, the awful cruelty of the position sank into his breast; that,

just when, after fifteen dreary years, Frances had been given back to

him, he was required by circumstances to give her up again.

The iron hand of Duty had him in its grip, was crushing him--robbing

him of everything.

Why had Frances been given to him, at this, of all times, when he

must give her up so soon? Better if she had not come at all. It was

not fair--it was hideous--that he should be faced with such a choice

as this----

The choice between his duty and his great love.

Yet that choice he had to make. To the meeting he must go--after a

little half-hour of ecstasy--half an hour in fifteen years!--he must

say 'Goodbye.'

The Human Parson's words came back to him now, in all their awful

truth:

'Everything worth while is won by sacrifice.' 'There comes a time,

at least once in every man's life, when he must make one big concrete

sacrifice.'

This was the time for him. It had him now!

She read the agony in his face.

"Hector," she begged, terrified. "What is it? What is it?"

He told her--not of the assassin--what was the use?--but of what was

before him. And she guessed the rest.

"Is there danger?" she said. Then, "Oh, I know there's danger!

Hector, Hector--don't go--my dear--it's too much--after all these

years of loneliness--I don't want----"

He took her hands, holding them strongly.

"Frances," he told her, "this is--terrible--to me. Don't make it any

harder than it already is."

She clung to him. He took her in his arms. So these two held to

each other, the wreckage of their hopes around them, in their great

agony....

Northcote knocked softly at the door.

"Major," they heard his voice, "it's time to go."

"Frances--" said Hector.

She made a tremendous effort--triumphed--smiled bravely into his

face----

"Go then, dear," she whispered. "God bless you."

This was a woman of the type which makes the old poet's words so very

true:

"Sweet and seemly is it to die for one's country."

IV

Throughout the afternoon, Welland had been in joyful mood.

His plans were completed and about to bring forth fruit.

Wandering through crowded Discovery, he sensed the temper of the

people and felt that he could not fail.

The revolution which the politician had induced Greasy Jones to

foster had, for Welland, two purposes: first, the ruin of

Superintendent Adair; second, his own political advancement.

On coming to Black Elk, Welland had aimed to secure a share of its

riches and to look for an opportunity of smashing the Superintendent.

His effort to break Hector openly having failed--as witness the

Whitewash Bill affair--he had recognized that the only method likely

to succeed was one of secrecy. A short stay in Prospect, a few weeks

in Discovery, had shown him that he had admirable material at hand.

Hundreds of desperate men, requiring only judicious bribery or subtle

encouragement, were there to do his bidding. Meanwhile, he had

acquired his share of Black Elk riches by purchase and partnership.

In time he realised that the civil administration was not

incorruptible, though Lancaster, at its head, was above suspicion.

He had already discovered much discontent. The idea struck him: Why

not secure the services of a desperado--Greasy Jones was the lucky

man--to foster this discontent and bring about revolution? A few

hundred men, if the plan were kept secret, could overthrow the

Government. Adair would be held responsible, as having failed to

detect the plot or crush the rising. The result would be his ruin.

But, when the wheels were started, Welland realised that, without a

just grievance, the movement would be supported only by the

discontented minority. Then he remembered the weaknesses of the

administration; offered it bribes, through other men; found that it

could be tempted; and at once undermined the public confidence in its

honesty by systematically corrupting it. This enabled him to enrich

himself and to stir the people to a sense of wrong.

In a short time nearly everyone in the Territory was clamouring for a

change, or at least a general clean-up. They were ripe for

revolution.

And Welland wanted revolution; and wanted Greasy Jones and his crowd

to dominate. For revolution would mean Hector's ruin. In that

respect, he had been honest with the gangster. But he was far too

wise to imagine that the Dominion would permit the Territory to

remain under the revolutionary flag. He knew perfectly well that the

Government, in the end, would crush the revolt and reestablish the

Queen's authority. Therefore, it behooved him to look to the future.

And, in looking to the future, he saw his chance to climb out of the

wreckage of the revolution to higher things.

Frankly, he intended to do nothing, either for or against the

revolution, after the Queen's authority was overthrown. He intended

to remain quiet until the troops from Canada arrived. Then his

scheme was to help the Government to 'tidy up' in every way. He

would tell them that he had foreseen the trouble all along, had

written home hinting of its coming--as he actually had--but had felt

confident of Lancaster's ability to hold his place. He would tell a

long tale of how Greasy Jones, after the revolution, had held him

captive. He would make his special knowledge of the Territory

invaluable. And, with one thing or another, he would finally appear

in the eyes of the Government and of Canada generally as the one

capable man in Black Elk, a statesman and a hero. The result would

be at least a place in the Cabinet. He might even rival the Prime

Minister.

The only man from whom he had anything to fear was Greasy, who alone

knew his part in fostering the revolution. Greasy would certainly

betray him to the re-established authority--if he waited for it,

which Welland was certain he would not. But no one would believe

Greasy. His assertions would be thought preposterous. How could his

word--or that of any of his confreres--count against that of Mr.

Steven Molyneux, M.P.?

Thus would the revolution achieve Welland's two aims: Hector's ruin;

and his own climb to great power.

For the first alone, he would never have run such risks; but for

both, he had done so. And all was well.

Hector's death, at the hands of an unknown assassin, had come to him

in the later stages, as an inspiration. The Superintendent's illness

had shown Welland how anxious he really was to see his enemy dead.

But, at the same time, he wished him to taste humiliation before he

died. His recovery gave Welland a chance to achieve that wish. To

find himself shot, at the very moment when the country needed him

most, to die with the triumphant shouts of the revolutionists in his

ears, shouts telling his degradation--what could be more terrible to

Hector? Welland's plan allowed for this.

The politician was very, very happy. He saw the enemy of a lifetime

dead at his feet, the revolution a success and the name of

Superintendent Adair smirched and blotted, as representing one who

had slept at his post and betrayed the people. And then he saw the

revolution crushed and himself risen to heights as yet untouched.

At ten to eight he walked over to join the Lieutenant-Governor, so

that he might sit on the platform and witness Hector's downfall.

Altogether, with his treachery to the Black Elk authorities and his

treachery to Greasy Jones, Welland was not unqualified for the

stigma, 'traitor.'

V

In the main square of Discovery City a vast crowd, representing most

of the inhabitants of Black Elk, was assembled--a wild, undisciplined

crowd, a heaping shovelful from the rubbish-heap of the whole wide

world. For days it had been gathering together, its outward purpose

to force Lancaster's resignation, the real purpose of its leaders to

launch revolution. They did not contemplate bloodshed. But they

were ready for it.

From a platform at one end of the square the Lieutenant-Governor and

the officer commanding the Mounted Police--the one man they really

feared--were to speak. Torches and lanterns around it threw it into

a fierce light and illuminated the Union Jack which flapped idly from

a pole above. The light fell also on the faces of the nearest men

and was at last lost in the great heart of the crowd. Overhead the

aurora surged and quivered, advanced and retired, staging marvellous

pageantry in the intense darkness and seeming to rustle and to

whisper. There was an awful atmosphere in the scene, as though

something tremendous were about to happen.

It was eight o'clock.

A thunderous roar burst suddenly from the crowd, burst and rolled

back and forth, like the roar of a fitful wind over the sea.

Acclamation, surprise, above all, hostility, were in that strange cry.

The Lieutenant-Governor's party had appeared on the platform.

Lancaster brought no escort with him. None of the Mounted Police

fringed the outskirts of the crowd. But with Lancaster was Major

Adair.

Welland seated himself at the edge of the platform. He had no wish

to be near Adair when the assassin fired his shot.

The crowd grew impatient, shouting and whistling, jeeringly for the

Lieutenant-Governor. Suddenly a man arose, walked forward and held

up his hand for silence.

A hush full of surprise--surprise affecting none more than

Welland--fell on the crowd. The man was not Lancaster. It was

Spirit-of-Iron.

This was an unanticipated change in the programme. In a corner below

the platform Nita Oswald, seeking the 'scoop' of her life, made her

pencil fly over her notebook.

To the crowd, this man seemed to have arisen from the grave. They

knew how close to death he had recently been. And his face was

ghastly, while his clothes hung on him. It was evident that he was

making a tremendous effort in attending the meeting at all. Grudging

admiration seized them. They loved courage. Moreover, the man's

personality was already gripping them, making them his.

To Hector, this was the supreme moment of his life, to which he had

looked forward for months. He felt that everything depended on him

in this crisis. If ever he had swayed men, cowed men, he must sway

and cow them now, though he drooped with fatigue.

He had not forgotten the assassin. That unknown devil lurked always

at the back of his mind. But he had passed the stage when he really

cared whether the shot was fired or not, so long as he could master

this immense mob--so immense that it seemed illimitable.

Fortunately, he did not feel as if he faced this immensity, this

monster stretching away and away into the darkness, alone. He

felt--a wonderful feeling--that the strength of all Canada, for whom

he was enduring this thing, was behind him, helping him to dominate,

trusting him, looking to him--and behind Canada, the Empire----

So in the silence, he began. He had a strange sensation that someone

else, far mightier than he, was speaking.

"Men, you are here tonight, believing yourselves victims of a corrupt

administration, to present a petition to the Lieutenant-Governor,

which, among other things, calls for a general clean-up, for Mr.

Lancaster's resignation and for a transference of the power held by

the Dominion Government to yourselves. This is the programme. I

want to tell you that most of you have been deceived."

Welland felt a sudden chill. The crowd stirred, muttering, with an

occasional shout of angry dissent--stirred and was still again.

"Now, it is not my purpose tonight to dispute the arguments of those

among you who are sincere. I will show you in a moment, however,

that even your petition will prove unnecessary. What I do want to

remind you of is that my duty here is to maintain the authority of

the Dominion Government. And I am going to do it!"

The crowd waited sullenly. The determined ring in that last sentence

stirred them.

"Many of you are foreigners, born under tyrannous governments, hating

all constituted authority. The Canadian Government is a government

of the people. It is not tyrannous. The Government of the British

Empire, as a whole, is the same. Yet, when you come under the

British Flag, instead of appreciating all this, you will listen to

anyone who asks you to tear it down. Such an act is an act against

yourselves--not against a tyrant, as you believe. The people, of

whom the Queen is Sovereign, put me here to keep that Flag flying.

And I'm going to keep it there!"

Jeers swept up to him. But the great mass of the crowd still waited.

"This isn't a defiance. I'm merely warning you not to do anything

you regret. I want you to act like sensible men.

"Now, let me tell you the truth. A big element among you is out, not

for constitutional change, but revolution!"

A weird sigh, a long-drawn intaking of breath, ran over the great

throng, expressive of stunned surprise and a sense of being trapped.

As for Welland, his feelings beggar description. Hector was speaking

very rapidly now, driving home his facts, beating down all opposition.

"It's the truth. I have all the proofs. That element is out for

revolution--possibly bloody revolution. They want to establish a

republic--the Black Elk Republic!"

The bomb was thrown--with extraordinary effect.

"Listen! You've been absolutely fooled! Your leaders have led you

into a trap. There's an inner ring in this conspiracy. As soon as

the revolution had taken place and the present authorities were

overthrown, that ring--a ring of the worst desperadoes on earth, many

the sweepings of Prospect--was to establish a dictatorship. Those of

you who don't know this would have known it very soon. Those who do,

even these leaders themselves, would have found themselves one day

with heads in a noose. You want the proofs? You don't. You know

it's true."

Welland had grown cold.

"Those of you in the know thought I was asleep. A certain individual

who ran the whole thing"--Welland half arose, a mad impulse to run

away upon him; but Hector did not betray him--"he thought so, too.

What are the facts? I have secret agents everywhere, known only to

myself. One of them, in Prospect, brought me the first inkling of

the plot. Unfortunately, he was shot before he could get more

information. But others worked for me. What they couldn't discover,

I guessed. I knew that gangsters were smuggling themselves through

the pass; and that arms were being smuggled in, too. In fact, I let

many of them through, so that those at the bottom of the plot

wouldn't smell a rat. You've been told, by special speakers, a pack

of lies. Mr. Lancaster and I, over a month ago, took steps to show

you that they were lies. We knew that the telegraph lines were being

tapped, but we kept on sending ordinary messages through, so that

your leaders wouldn't know that. We knew that even the mails weren't

safe. So we sent a special runner to our office in Prospect, with

two messages to be forwarded and he brought the answers back. The

first message was to the Dominion Government, the second to the

Government of the United States, through the Dominion Government.

They dealt with the situation and they secured answers which show how

you've been duped. In this one, the Dominion Government pledges

itself to a clean-up, through Mr. Lancaster, and to grant you wider

powers than you have had hitherto. In that one, the American

Government assures us that, contrary to what you've been told, it

will on no account support any attempt to wrest Black Elk from

Canada!"

There was absolute silence. Hector held the letters up.

"Look at them. If you think they're forgeries, let your

representatives examine them! But wait--there is something else in

this letter from Ottawa. The Government is sending ten thousand

troops up here to crush any revolt. We asked for them. They're on

their way. That's what you've been led into!

"And the situation--now? I've stripped all my posts and detachments.

Nearly all my officers and men arrived here secretly last night.

They are now standing to arms with four machine-guns, at the

barracks. There are also there a thousand loyal citizens of this

Territory, all armed and under my orders. Half an hour ago, raids

were made on the places where the would-be leaders of the

revolt--Greasy Jones and his cut-throats--were hiding. Greasy Jones

was shot dead by Inspector Cranbrook, after the gangster had wounded

him. The rest are behind the bars. We also captured documents,

stamps, flags and so on, giving conclusive evidence of what was

coming. And we know that many of you are armed.

"That's all I have to say. This thing can't succeed. The Americans

will not support it. Troops are on the way to back us up. The men

who planned it are in our hands. Your grievances have been adjusted.

We are fully armed and prepared to stand by the Flag to the last.

What I say goes. Now, boys, take my advice and go home."

There he ended.

The effect of this dramatic and totally unexpected exposure of the

whole plot and of Adair's preparations was indescribable. Even

Lancaster was speechless--Hector had confided in him only what was

absolutely necessary. Welland, unable to grasp the situation, was

stunned. As for the crowd, it was paralysed. Hector had impressed

them from the first. His final disclosures completed their

stupefaction. Suddenly they saw the revolution with the bottom

knocked out and remembered that this man was called 'Spirit-of-Iron.'

Hector sensed the change immediately and knew that he had triumphed.

All his past life, his early training, his development, had been

leading up to this crisis--this crisis which involved not only

himself and his own welfare, as other crises had done, but also a

great national issue, the defeat, not only of his own enemy, but the

enemy of his country. In a moment he saw that Destiny had given him

victory in this last grim battle. His part was done.

But the assassin had not yet played his part. He had been instructed

to fire as soon as the Superintendent ceased speaking. To him the

change in the state of affairs involved no change. Through the

strange silence came the crash of a rifle fired from somewhere on the

outskirts of the great crowd--fired while Hector was still at the

edge of the platform. Then Nita Oswald's voice, shrieking, clear and

high:

"They've killed him! They've killed him!"

VI

Nugget City,

B.E.T.,

Today's Date.

To The Officer Commanding,

N.W.M.P.

Black Elk Territory.

Sir:

I have the honour to enclose a report just received from Sergeant

Kellett, in charge of the post on Hopeful Pass. I have the honour to

be, sir,

Your obedient servant,

J. G. Gemmell, Inspector, N.W.M.P.

_Enclosure._

Hopeful Pass Detachment,

B. E, T.

Today's Date.

Officer Commanding,

N.W.M.P.

Nugget City,

B.E.T.

Sir:

With reference to the attempt to establish a revolutionary Government

in this Territory, I have the honour to report as follows:

The nine-day blizzard following the night of the meeting at Discovery

City tied up all traffic through this pass. Nevertheless, patrols

were constantly maintained. Three snow-bound men were rescued, one

man destitute taken in and one man, found snowed up, with dogs dead,

was brought into the post dying from exhaustion and exposure.

On being revived, the latter individual made a confession bearing on

the shooting at Discovery, copy of which is enclosed. However

unreliable it may seem, this man was apparently of sound mind when he

made this confession.

He stated that for the past eight months he had been employed on

secret service work for the Officer Commanding this Territory, whose

agents are known only to himself. In the course of his duties, he

discovered that Mr. Steven Molyneux, M.P., was hand-in-glove with the

gangster, the late Greasy Jones, planning the overthrow of the

Government. In Prospect, he gained Jones' confidence and entered

Black Elk Territory at about the same time. At noon on the day of

the meeting, Greasy Jones informed him that he wished him to assume a

post covering the platform and shoot Superintendent Adair. From

previous information, he had already deducted that Mr. Molyneux's

motive in plotting revolution was to harm Superintendent Adair; and

certain statements made by Jones at this time convinced him that Mr.

Molyneux had suggested the assassination to Jones. He agreed to do

the shooting, but, knowing that Mr. Molyneux would be on the

platform, resolved to shoot Mr. Molyneux instead. He therefore

occupied a window commanding the platform, having dogs and sled ready

for flight, and fired the shot at the time arranged, but at Mr.

Molyneux instead of Superintendent Adair, with, as you know, deadly

effect. In the confusion, he escaped, his intention being to get

through the pass to Prospect and so away.

He stated that his motive in killing Mr. Molyneux was to repay

Superintendent Adair, who had given him a chance years ago, when

everyone was against him. He considered that a man who would plot

such an underhand blow as Molyneux's was not fit to live anyway, and

thanked God that he had killed him.

The man expired a short time after making his confession.

He gave the name of Augustus J. Perkins.

I would repeat that, incredible as his accusation against Mr.

Molyneux may seem, he was of apparently sound mind when he made it.

The corpse is in a temporary morgue, awaiting burial in the spring.

I have the honour to be, sir,

Your obedient servant,

R. S. Kellett, Sergeant, N.W.M.P.

Hector was at work on his account of the attempted revolution, for

despatch to the Commissioner. For the last time, before enclosing

it, he read Sergeant Kellett's report, carefully and deliberately.

Then he thought deeply over Welland's part in the affair and

especially of the last words of his enemy, gasped into Hector's ear

as he lay dying on the platform, shot through the lungs:

"Adair--if you remember who I really am--for God's sake don't betray

me!"

Here, in writing his report, he had a glorious opportunity of paying

the dead man back in his own coin--of telling the world that Steven

Molyneux was really Joseph Welland, ex-criminal; and that the man to

whom the people had entrusted great power had misused it in an

attempt to bring about revolution within the Dominion. No good

purpose would be served--but revenge is sweet. In his hands alone

rested the dead man's honour. He alone possessed the facts.

He turned back to the report--to the paragraph which the Prime

Minister himself was to read in Parliament a few months later, in

moving a vote of thanks to Superintendent Adair:

'Referring to the attached report from Sergeant Kellett, although the

man Perkins actually had acted as one of my agents, there is no

evidence to support the statement that he did the shooting, nor to

show that the late Mr. Molyneux was concerned in the revolutionary

plot. I think this should be sufficient to clear Mr. Molyneux's

reputation. Despite Sergeant Kellett's view, I am of the opinion

that Perkins was not of sound mind when he made his statement.'

So might Molyneux's reputation be preserved, at no expense to Perkins.

A few words more completed the report. The door opened softly.

Frances came in.

"Dare I intrude----" she whispered, "now?"

He was up in a moment, with much of his old vigour and a swiftness

that showed him rapidly recovering from his illness of a fortnight

before.

"Yes," he answered her, smiling. "Duty first,--but I've finished at

last. What is it?"

"I thought I'd come and tell you something, Hector--a splendid

surprise. Dr. Quick told it me in confidence and really, though

it's a shame to give it away, I'm so proud that I just can't keep it

to myself any longer."

"Oh?" He was holding her hands now, towering over her and smiling

down quietly upon her with his steel-grey eyes. "What is the

surprise?"

"Hector, dear--when Mr. Northcote's tied the knot--tomorrow--there's

going to be a huge reception. Everyone will be there--almost all the

would-be revolutionists--blind fools, they understand you now--Oh,

and lots of others! And they're to present you with an address and a

wonderful gift--there'll be thousands of them--Hector! Isn't it

glorious?"

"I don't want their presents, Frances--when I have you. I just

did--what it was my duty to do. It's _you_ I want!"

He lifted her lips to his. She ran a hand tenderly over the grey

hair.

"'Your duty--that's all!'--'You only want me!' Hector, that's so

like you," she whispered. "That is you--my splendid Spirit-of-Iron!"

THE END