escaped across the mountains when the Mooseheads swept down the river. Came, also, Ick Far, from the village of the Yellow Knives, where he had lain in a heavy sleep while the hands of his huge silver watch crept twice around its dial.
The bodies of the Mooseheads were buried and the soldier-policemen shook warmly the hands of the Yellow Knives—and of Tex Gordon. Then, the prospectors returned to their diggings—and the Yellow Knives to their lodges beyond the divide.
"And, now," said Connie, as the officers sat around their camp-fire at the close of the gruesome day, "there is just one more thing to do. 'Soapy' White was at the bottom of all this. We've got him with the goods at last."
"He'll go to Stony Mountain fer seven hundred years!" growled McKeever.
"He'll be lucky if he ever sees Stony Mountain!" opined Rickey. But Ick Far said nothing, and continued to stare gloomily into the camp-fire's glowing coals.
Next morning the four officers stood beside the heap of ashes that had been the trading post of "Soapy" White. From a corner of the heap they
