himself in that queer fashion on the balls and
toes of his feet. But no sooner was Dupont up than Reese Beaudin was in
again, with the swiftness of a cat, and they could hear the blows, like
solid shots, and Dupont's arms waved like tree-tops, and a second time
he was off the platform.

He was staggering when he rose. The blood ran in streams from his mouth
and nose. His beard dripped with it. His yellow teeth were caved in.

This time he did not leap upon the platform--he clambered back to it,
and the hooded stranger gave him a lift which a few minutes before
Dupont would have resented as an insult.

"Ah, it has come," said the stranger to Delesse.

"He is the best close-in fighter in all--"

He did not finish.

"I could kill you now--kill you with a single blow," said Reese Beaudin
in a moment when the giant stood swaying. "But there is a greater
punishment in store for you, and so I shall let you live!"

And now Reese Beaudin was facing that part of the crowd where the woman
he loved was standing. He was breathing deeply. But he was not winded.
His eyes were black as night, his hair wind-blown. He looked straight
over the heads between him and she whom Dupont had stolen from him.

Reese Beaudin raised his arms, and where there had been a murmur of
voices there was now silence.

For the first time the stranger threw back his hood. He was unbuttoning
his heavy coat.

And Joe Delesse, looking up, saw that Reese Beaudin was making a mighty
effort to quiet a strange excitement within his breast. And then there
was a rending of cloth and of buttons and of pins as in one swift
movement he tore the shirt from his own breast--exposing to the eyes of
Lac Bain blood-red in the glow of the winter sun, the crimson badge of
the Royal Northwest Mounted Police!

And above the gasp that swept the multitude, above the strange cry of
the woman, his voice rose:

"I am Reese Beaudin, the Yellow-back. I am Reese Beaudin, who ran away.
I am Reese Beaudin,--Sergeant in His Majesty's Royal Northwest Mounted
Police, and in the name of the law I arrest Jacques Dupont for the
murder of Francois Bedore, who was killed on his trap-line five years
ago! Fitzgerald--"

The hooded stranger leaped upon the platform. His heavy coat fell off.
Tall and grim he stood in the scarlet jacket of the Police. Steel
clinked in his hands. And Jacques Dupont, terror in his heart, was
trying to see as he groped to his knees. The steel snapped over