And Kalman went his way to meet his Gethsemane in the Night Hawk ravine, till morning found him on his face under the trees, with his victory still in the balance. The hereditary instincts of Slavic blood cried out for vengeance. The passionate loyalty of his heart to the memory of his mother and to his father cried out for vengeance. His own wrongs cried out for vengeance, and against these cries there stood that single word, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do."
Before a week was gone old Portnoff came hot foot to Brown to report that early that morning Rosenblatt had ridden off in the direction of the Fort, where was the Government Land Office.
"It is something about the mine. He was in good spirits. He offered me something good on his return. If this were only Russia!" said the old Nihilist.
"Yes, yes," growled his friend Malkarski, in his deep voice, "we should soon do for him."
"Left this morning?" said Brown. "How long ago?"
"Two hours."
Brown thought quickly. What could it mean? Was it possible the registration had been neglected? Knowing French's easy-going methods of doing business, he knew it to be quite possible. French was still away in his tie camp. Kalman was ten miles off at the mine. It was too great a chance to take.
"Throw the saddle on my horse, Portnoff," he cried. "I must ride to the Fort."
"It would be good to kill this man," said old Malkarski quietly.
"What are you saying?" cried Brown in horror. "Be off with you."