r . . . for
thim that's died doin' their juty! . . . 'Tis th' Peace, Sorr--th' Peace
everlastin' . . . for Hornsby an' Wade. They were good men. . . ."

Yorke bent down and, drawing back a fold of the blanket, exposed two
still white faces. In the centre of Hornsby's forehead all beheld
Gully's terrible sign-manual. Wade had been shot through the throat.

"Hornsby!" gasped Yorke brokenly, "poor old Gus Hornsby!" . . . He
turned a tired, drawn face up to Slavin's. "He was with us in the Yukon,
Burke. Remember how we used to rag him when he first came to us as a
cheechaco buck? But the poor beggar never used to get sore over it . . .
always seemed sort of . . . patient . . . and happy . . . no matter how
we joshed him. . . ."

Gently he replaced the blanket, stared stupidly a moment at the grim,
haggard face of his sergeant, then he burst out crying and wandered away
from the sad scene.

CHAPTER XV

That very night, while gentle sleep
The people's eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
"THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM"

Slowly the memorable June day had drawn to a close, and now darkness had
set in and the moon shone brightly down upon the old detachment of
Davidsburg. It had been a strenuous day for Inspector Kilbride and his
subordinates, as many details of the eventful case had to be arranged ere
they could leave with their prisoner on the night's train for the Post.

The inspector's first care, naturally, had been the slow and careful
conveyance of the wounded men (Redmond included)--and the dead--down to
the special train which still awaited them on the Davidsburg siding. The
bulk of the party departed with them, the officer retaining Slavin,
Yorke, and McSporran. A coroner's inquest, held that afternoon upon the
remains of the unfortunate hobo, Drinkwater, had resulted in a verdict of
"wilful murder" being returned against Ruthven Gully. Two days later, at
the Post, similar verdicts were rendered in the cases of poor Hornsby and
Wade.

Throughout the day Gully had remained in a sort of sullen, brooding
stupor. But now, with the coming of night, he seemed to grow
restless--pacing within the narrow confines of his cell like unto a
trapped wolf, his leg-shackles clanking at every turn. Seated outside
the barred door, McSporran maintained a cl