these creeping, leaping tongues. Nor
must _he_ have any scruples or qualms as to how he gained his ends. He
too must be merciless, and if necessary, strike down the innocent in
order to reach the guilty.

As he watched certain knowledge reached him of life and death. The
conclusion slowly came to him that just blind killing was not enough.
For all he knew death might bring instant forgetfulness--and thus not
constitute in itself a satisfactory measure of vengeance. The _fear_ of
death was a reality and a torment: for all he knew, the thing itself
might be a change for the better. It might be that, suddenly hurled out
of this world of three dimensions, his enemies would have no knowledge
nor carry no memories of the hand that struck them down. There could be
no satisfaction in this. To murder from ambush might be a measure of
expedience, but never one of self-gratification. When Ben struck he
wanted them to know who was their enemy, and for what crime they were
laid low.

The best way of all, of course, was to strike indirectly at them,
perhaps through some one they loved. Soon, perhaps, he would see the
way.

He went to his blankets, but sleep did not come to him. The wolf stood
on guard. Beatrice Neilson had fallen into happy dreams long since, but
there was further wakefulness in Hiram Melville's newer cabin, farther
up-creek. Ray Brent and Chan Heminway still sat over their cups, the
fiery liquid running riot in their veins, but slumber did not come
easily to-night. And when Beatrice was asleep, Neilson stole down the
moonlit moose trail and joined his men.

"I've brought news," he began, when the door had closed out the stars
and the breath of the night. Chan, his small eyes glazed from strong
drink, staggered to his feet to offer his chair to his chief. Brent,
however, was in no mood for servility to-night. He had done man's work
in the early evening; and his triumph and his new-found sense of power
had not yet died in his body. Perhaps he had learned the way to all
success. There was a curious sullen defiance in the blearing gaze over
his glass.

"What's your news?" Ray's voice harshened, possessing a certain quality
of grim levity. "I guess old Hiram's brother hasn't come to life again,
has he?"

It was a significant thing that both Chan and Neilson looked oppressed
and uneasy at the words. Like all men of low moral status they were
secretly superstitious, and these boasting words crept unpleasantly
und