The young men were very angry, and very fierce. And the white man offered them council and advice. He showed them how they could trap Allan Mowbray and kill him. And Louis Creal would help them.
This the young men did on the banks of the river, led by Louis Creal.
But the old villain was careful to explain that now, now, at last—of course since the ruin of their prospects through the destruction of their sources of supply—all the Bell River tribe was sorry that Allan Mowbray had been killed. They understood that he was not a traitor. It was the others who were traitors. Allan Mowbray was killed because they wanted all the yellow dust themselves, and he, Thunder-Cloud, personally, as well as the young men, was very glad that they had both been found out by the Indians. They were very, very bad men who had wanted Kars and his people killed, too, but fortunately the Indians had found out that Kars was a good man, and a friend of the Indian, and so it was the desire of all to live in peace. In fact the Indian would be very pleased to trade yellow dust with him.
As the old chief vanished in the region of the Indian workings Kars turned back to his camp. For some moments he surveyed the scene with serious eyes. It was all over. Already the persistent energy of Abe Dodds was making itself apparent. The pumps had been restarted. The sluices were awash, and gangs were starting to demolish the embankments of auriferous pay dirt. The armed camp was vanishing before the breath of peace, and the change brought him a measure of relief he remained wholly unaware of.
It had been a desperate time while it had lasted. A desperateness quite unrealized until it was over, and complete victory had been achieved. And, curiously enough, by far his most anxious time had been the safe return from his raid on Louis Creal's store, with his prisoners. Peigan Charley had been unfailing. The Indian had reached the camp and found it secure. There had been no attack in his absence. He had explained the situation in his own lurid but limited language to Abe Dodds, and the assistance needed had been promptly forthcoming.
The whole enterprise, the capture of the prisoners, the burning of Louis Creal's store, had been carried out without the Indian's obtaining an inkling of that which was going forward. And unquestionably it was due largely to this absolute secrecy in the operation that the present peace offer had been so promptly forthcoming.
But in the midst of his triumph Kars had little enough rejoicing. He had been shocked—shocked beyond words. And the shock left a haunting memory which dominated every other feeling. It was Murray McTavish's share in the villainies of the sombre river.
It was incredible—almost. But the worst feature of the whole thing lay in the man's callous display. This murderer, this murderer of her father, this man who was her father's friend, had dared to contemplate marriage with Jessie. He had asked her to marry him while the memory of his crime must still have been haunting, almost before the red blood of his victim had dried upon his ruthless hands. It was unspeakable.
The smiling, genial Murray. The man of bristling energy and apparent good-will. The man who had assumed the protection of the women-folk left defenceless by his own crime—a murderer. The horror of it all left Kars consumed by a cold fury more terrible than any passion he had ever known. With his whole soul he demanded justice. With his whole soul he was resolved that justice should be done.
He remembered so many things now. He remembered the shipment of arms with which, he had assured Bill, he believed Murray intended to wipe out the Bell River scourge. And he remembered Bill's doubtful acceptance of it. Now he knew from bitter experience the meaning of that shipment. It was the murder of himself. The massacre of his "outfit." An added crime to leave Murray free to wallow in his gold lust. Free to possess himself of Jessie Mowbray. He wondered how long Louis Creal would have survived had Murray achieved his purpose.