“I must leave to-night. It is hard to go, but you can handle the convalescent, and any day the new factor will be here. Our moccasin telegraph has carried word of the deaths of McAndrews, his wife and his clerk to the major posts. They no doubt have long since notified the company.
“Father, I am leaving to-night. I—” Morely paused. It was hard to lie looking in those kindly, loving eyes.
There was a crunch of webs on the snow outside. Some one stopped to remove his webs, then knocked at the cabin door. The old priest hurried to the door, threw it open.
The man in the doorway looked over the white head, directly into the eyes of Morely.
“We meet again,” said he. The voice fell curt, hard.
Morely looked from the barrel of the drawn gun into the eyes of Sergeant Hardy!
“I arrest you for the robbery of the mail. Up with your hands!” Sergeant Hardy’s curt voice broke the silence.
“Arrest—mail—wha’ you mean?” the old priest faltered.
He turned to Hardy. “Who are you?” he half whispered.
“I am Sergeant Hardy of the Mounted. I was with Jim King, the mail driver, when this man stopped us.” Hardy’s voice softened as he gazed into the stricken eyes of the old priest.