“But,” expostulated McTavish, “surely you do not counsel murder as a punishment for murder.”
“I counsel measures to fit needs. In this vast desolation, I am the law; I represent the inevitable result of a cause, the inexorable, never-failing punishment of a wrong. As my lieutenant, you also represent it. Charley Seguis should either be dead or a prisoner here.”
Donald did not answer. Theoretically, the factor was right; according to all the traditions of the Company, he spoke the truth. But he had evidently forgotten that even the Company he worshiped was made up of men, who were human and not omnipotent. Carried too far, his premises were unjust, ridiculous, and untenable. But of what good were arguments?
“Then, I have failed in my duty?” McTavish asked, wearily.
“Judge for yourself.”
“What are your next orders for me?”
“A hundred dollars fine and a month's confinement in the fort here.”
McTavish shrank back as though a blow had been aimed at him.
“You can't mean it, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he cried, passionately. “I have earned no such disgrace. Command anything but that; send me to the ends of the district; let me go back to Sturgeon Lake, and throw my life away there, if you must have it; send me to the loneliest trading-post in Keewatin, but don't disgrace me needlessly, unjustly.”
“I can only do what my conscience dictates,” said the factor coldly.