wide-spaced eyes that glittered with unnatural brightness in the firelight. The corporal's glance went down to the heavy mountain boots, which his prisoner wore tightly laced over the tucked-in bottoms of his trousers. The boots were wet with melting snow.

He nodded grimly. "Why did you kill Constable Graves?" he asked.

The man turned his head in surly defiance, and refused to answer.

"Who are you?"

The stranger breathed harshly through his open mouth, but still maintained his stubborn silence.

"Very well," said Dexter. "It's your privilege not to commit yourself. But I warn you of the facts to be submitted to the Minister of Justice. Young Graves murdered--thirty caliber bullet through the back of his head. Thirty caliber case in the snow. Queer pattern hobnails leading here--tracks that match those wet boots you're wearing." He glanced sharply about him, and stepped suddenly into the corner and picked up a rifle that was leaning against the wall. "Thirty caliber," he observed, and then threw down the lever to sniff at the breach. "Fired recently, and not yet cleaned," he added, and thrust the weapon behind the door, out of harm's way. "All complete! Not to mention the personal fact that you fired at sight, with murderous intent, when Corporal Dexter strolled into your doorway."

From the moment he had entered the cabin, Dexter had kept the corner of a wary eye on the shaggy-haired individual by the fireplace. The man had scrambled up from his cooking pot when the door banged open, but after that he had remained standing uncertainly on his stumpy legs without venturing to join in the hostilities. Now for the first time the corporal turned to look squarely upon his unkempt bearded countenance. And with the meeting glance the officer's eyelids flickered suddenly in pleased surprise.

Here, at least, was someone he knew without asking introductions. In the travel-stained man with the untidy whiskers, he recognized one of the fugitives whom he had been following across the ranges from Crooked Forks. "Well now!" he ejaculated. "Jess Mudgett!"

"Yes, sir," muttered the other, with a furtive, hangdog lowering of the head.

"Warn you also," asserted the corporal crisply. "You and 'Phonse Doucet assaulted and almost killed the trader at Crooked Forks. He foolishly tried to make you pay the last year's account, I understand. We needn't go into that now. This new matter is more 

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