Then it became more plain to him that even at the cost of his loyalty to his comrades he could not allow the woman he loved to suffer with the guilty. He knew her pride and that the blow would crush her, but again through all his pity for her a gust of rage shook him, and he ground the soft cedar-twigs viciously beneath his heel. He could not face the thought of the woman's humiliation. Everything must go, his pride, his faith, his vengeance, before that came about, and he stopped in his restless pacing and leaned against a pine as the conflicting emotions gave place to a quiet resolution. At last he could see the stars between the great branches high above him, and shivered a little as a chilly breeze sighed across the silent bush. Something in its stillness reacted upon him, and the last trace of his passion melted away. If he did wrong he alone would be responsible, and at least his enemy's daughter should not suffer.
Walking very slowly he went back to the hotel, and found Horton writing. He glanced at Alton curiously and then answered the unasked question.
"Yes," he said; "he's out on the trail now, and one would kind of wonder where it was taking him. Where have you been all this time, Harry?"
"How long have I been?" said Alton.
"Two hours, anyway. Well, you needn't tell me if you don't want to, but it's quite easy to see that something is worrying you."
Alton concealed his astonishment. "I've had things to think about," said he. "Wasn't there a paper you took from Damer?"
"Oh, yes," and Horton flung him several crumpled sheets across. "Nothing much to be made of that. It has been given him to send cipher telegrams with."
Alton glanced at the paper with apparently vague curiosity, but his brain was busy and he had a good memory.
"I think I'd let the folks in Vancouver have it," he said with a yawn. "Now I want a few hours' rest, because we're going back at sun up to restake the claim."
Horton looked thoughtful. "I'm not quite sure you could hold it. It hasn't been declared open."