The best way of all, of course, was to strike indirectly at them, perhaps through some one they loved.  Soon, perhaps, he would see the way.

He went to his blankets, but sleep did not come to him.  The wolf stood on guard.  Beatrice Neilson had fallen into happy dreams long since, but there was further wakefulness in Hiram Melville’s newer cabin, farther up-creek.  Ray Brent and Chan Heminway still sat over their cups, the fiery liquid running riot in their veins, but slumber did not come easily to-night.  And when Beatrice was asleep, Neilson stole down the moonlit moose trail and joined his men.

“I’ve brought news,” he began, when the door had closed out the stars and the breath of the night.  Chan, his small eyes glazed from strong drink, staggered to his feet to offer his chair to his chief.  Brent, however, was in no mood for servility to-night.  He had done man’s work in the early evening; and his triumph and his new-found sense of power had not yet died in his body.  Perhaps he had learned the way to all success.  There was a curious sullen defiance in the blearing gaze over his glass.

“What’s your news?” Ray’s voice harshened, possessing a certain quality of grim levity.  “I guess old Hiram’s brother hasn’t come to life again, has he?”

It was a significant thing that both Chan and Neilson looked oppressed and uneasy at the words.  Like all men of low moral status they were secretly superstitious, and these boasting words crept unpleasantly under their skins.  It is never a good thing to taunt the dead!  Ray had spoken sheerly to frighten and shock them, thus revealing his own fearlessness and strength; yet his voice rang louder than he had meant.  He had no desire for it to carry into the silver mystery of the night.

“The less you say about Hiram’s brother the better,” Neilson answered sternly.  “We’ve thrashed it out once to-night.”  He straightened as he read the insolence, the gathering insubordination in the other’s contemptuous glance; and his voice lacked its old ring of power when he spoke again.  “Jumpin’ claims is one thing and murder is another.”

Ray, spurred on by the false strength of wickedness, drunk with his new sense of power, was already feeling the first surge of deadly anger in his veins.  “I suppose if you had been doin’ it, you’d let that old whelp take back this claim, worth a quarter million if it’s worth a cent.  Not if I know it.  It was the only way—­and the safe way too.”

“Safe!  What if by a thousandth chance some one would blunder on to that body you left in the brush?  What if some sergeant of mounted police would say to his man, ‘Go get Ray Brent!’ Where would you be then?  You’ve always been a murderer at heart, Brent—­but some time you’ll slip up—­”

“Only a fool slips up.  Don’t think I didn’t figure on everything.  As you say, there’s not one chance in a thousand any one will ever find him.  If they do, there wouldn’t be any kind of a case.  Likely the old man hasn’t got a friend or relation on earth.  I’ve searched his pockets—­there’s nothing to tell who he is.  We’ll have our claim recorded soon, and it would be easy to make him out the claim-jumper rather than us—­”