deliberately and walked ahead in the direction of the cabin. In front of the door he paused, every sense alert. No sound issued from within; nor could he see even a faint glimmer of light. Somewhere inside, Rat MacGregor—true to his name—skulked in the dark—and his wife with him.

The faint outline of a block of wood, lying in the snow at his feet, drew his attention. Acting upon a sudden angry impulse, he stooped forward, picked it up, and raised it high above his head. It catapulted from his powerful arms, striking the window with a resounding crash. A woman screamed. Her terrified cry rang out through the deep hush that ensued and, accompanying its last wailing note, MacGregor’s guns spoke—two fiery flashes, not unlike the red tongue of a serpent—darting out into the gloom.

Shoulders hunched, Rand struck the door with a furious impact, and the bolts gave way. As he fell forward into the room, one hand clutched his gun. Again MacGregor fired; this time wildly, foolishly, for the flash of his revolver indicated only too well his position, and Rand had him almost before the sound of the other’s weapon had become smothered in the deep stillness of the room.

CHAPTER II
THE PRICE OF FOLLY

MacGregor’s resistance had cost him his life. Ten minutes later, in the flickering glow of a wax candle, the mounted policeman looked down at the prone and lifeless form.

“Well,” he said, turning suddenly upon the girl, a rather pretty French half-breed, “where is the money?”

The half-breed grunted and looked sarcastically, indignantly at Rand.

“No have money. No take money. Why you keel my man?” she wailed tearfully. “Mounted police! Bah!”

“Easy,” cautioned Rand. “Where’s that money?” He drew up to his full height. “Better answer me quickly now or I’ll take you along too.”

“No money,” insisted the girl. “He no catch ’em money that time. Beeg prospector wake up. No chance then. My man he come away.”

“Rot!” declared the policeman. “Your man killed Dewberry. Robbed him. Nobody else.”

“Leesen!” MacGregor’s wife plucked at his sleeve. “You think wrong this time. You make heem beeg mistake. My man no rob, no keel—nothing! I prove you find no money here. My man heem try rob, but no get nothing. Otherwise, we go south—Edmonton. No can go without money.”

Although Rand was certain that the half-breed lied, a careful and painstaking search of the premises failed to reveal the hiding place of Dewberry’s gold. Baffled, he was forced on the day following to place the girl under arrest and set out for detachment headquarters, two hundred miles away. There he filled in his report, turned the prisoner over to Inspector Cameron for further questioning.

But to no avail. Invariably the same answer, repeated over and over again:

“My man heem no rob, no keel. No take beeg prospector’s money. Mounted police! Bah!”

From that point it became a baffling case indeed. Corporal Rand, to whom it had been assigned, still believed, in the months that followed, that MacGregor had committed the murder. But where was the money and the poke? Did the girl really know where Dewberry’s gold was? If the theft had actually been committed by MacGregor, why had he broken precedent and remained in the North.

At Frischette’s stopping-place, two miles east of the Big Smoky River, Rand heard again Fontaine’s story of the drugged drink, together with such other information as the two Frenchmen could supply. Both were of the opinion that MacGregor, and no one else, had planned and executed the crime. Frischette’s voice came droning in his ears:

“Zat girl she know well enough where money ees. Not crazy zat girl; ver’ clever, ver’ clever.” His low chuckling laugh gradually grew boisterous. “What you think, Corporal, zat girl foolish enough to tell ze mounted police ever’thing. Mebbe after while she go south too.”

Preoccupied as he was, Rand caught the significance of that last statement.

“Are you going south, Frischette?”

The Frenchman nodded.

“Yesterday I sell my beezness. I haf done ver’ well here, corporal.” Then his voice sank to a confidential whisper. “In ze las’ two, tree, four year I make much money—ver’ much money. Now you wish me ze good luck, corporal.”

“Good luck,” said Rand, his brow wrinkling. “Yes. By the way, whom did you sell to?”

Frischette hesitated, his little eyes gleaming queerly.

“I no sell exactly. I haf too much already—too much money. Fontaine ees a good boy, monsieur. You understand—a good boy. He learn queek. He deserve much from me. For a few hundred I sell heem my beeg beezness.”

Still thinking deeply, Corporal Rand walked outside and sat on a rough bench in the warm spring sun. Why had MacGregor failed to go south if he had really robbed Dewberry of his gold. Men with money travelled south invariably. There was no other rule. It had seldom been broken. Why, Frischette himself, who had made a lot of money during his stay in the North, now contemplated going south to spend it.

With a sudden exclamation, Rand jumped to his feet. No! The rule had never been broken. MacGregor probably killed, but he never robbed Dewberry. He wondered if the man who had robbed Dewberry was inside.

“Frischette,” said the mounted policeman a moment later, “I wish to ask a favor of you.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You are going south?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“How soon?”

“In ver’ few days, corporal. Why you ask.”

“Because I may need your help. I am going to ask you to remain here for a while. I shall ask you to stay here until I have recovered Dewberry’s gold.”

Rand watched the other closely. The eyes of the road-house keeper narrowed slightly—but that was all.

“Et ees as you say, monsieur.”

Then Frischette turned and walked back into the kitchen.

CHAPTER III
THREE NEW RECRUITS

One bright spring morning Corporal Rand arrived at Fort Good Faith. It was somewhat off his regular route, but he had a purpose in mind. There were three young men there he very much wished to see. One of them was Dick Kent, the second, Sandy MacClaren, a nephew of the factor, and the third, a young Indian, named Toma. On many occasions previously the three boys had given unsparingly of their services. The police needed their help now.

Working on the Dewberry case, Corporal Rand had suddenly remembered about the boys and had decided to call upon them for assistance. They could help him in clearing up the mystery. All three were unknown to Frischette. They might be able to secure valuable information he couldn’t obtain himself. So, immediately after his arrival, he summoned the three boys and made known his plans.

“I would suggest,” he concluded, “that the three of you, masquerading as young prospectors, drop into Frischette’s place and remain there several days on some pretext or other. You can say that you’re waiting for supplies, coming in by pack-train from Fort Good Faith. Cultivate Frischette’s acquaintance. Make friends with Fontaine, the half-breed boy in his service. See how much information you can pick up about Dewberry and ‘Rat’ MacGregor.”

“But do you really believe,” Dick asked, “that Frischette knows any more about the murder than he has already given out to you?”

“I’m not sure.”