“I wired Montreal,” Bat said sharply.

“Good.”

The lumberman turned again to his window, and Bull continued to regard the carpet which had no interest for him.  Both were weary, utterly weary in body as well as mind.

It was full, broad daylight now, with the low, northern sun gleaming athwart the scene which these men had so recently left.  They were conscious of the victory gained.  They rejoiced in the complete defeat of an enemy who had come so near to defeating all their plans.  But the cost appalled them.  They had both faced the play of machine guns.  They had seen their men fall to the scythe-like mowing of a cruel weapon of which its victims had no understanding.  Then, when the machine guns had been silenced, they had witnessed the rage with which these hard-living jacks had meted out their ideas of just punishment upon the murderers of their comrades.

The wanton inhumanity of the whole thing had sickened them both.  Both knew and were indifferent to the roughness of the fierce northland.  But the ordeal through which they had passed was something far beyond the darkest vision of conflict they had ever contemplated.

Neither had been present to witness the shooting of Father Adam.  But both had been there within minutes of the beginning of the battle which it had started.  From the power house Bat had discovered the thing happening, just as Bull had seen from the window of his office the leaping flames which had threatened the mill.  It had been largely due to their timely leadership that ultimate victory had been snatched.  But the work of it had been terrible.

Now they had returned to their quarters, their night’s work completed.  Down below comrade was attending to comrade in such fashion as lay to hand, and those beyond earthly aid were being disposed to their last rest.  Thus these men had been left free to succour the wounded creature whose timely lead had made possible the defeat that had been inflicted.

Bat had but one concern just now.  Father Adam.  The man whose secret he held.  The man who counted for everything in his rugged life.  He raised his blood-shot eyes to his companion’s face.

“If—­Father Adam—­passes, I’m done with Sachigo, Bull,” he declared almost desperately.  “It ’ud break me to death.  You can’t know the thing that feller means to me.  You know him for the sort of missioner all these folks guess he is.  That’s how he’d have you know him.  And it goes with me all the time.  But I know him just as he is.”

Bull nodded.  He made no reply.  He knew the lumberman was well-nigh beside himself, and he gazed back into the hot eyes and wondered.

But Bat had nothing more to say.  He even felt he had said more than he had any right to say.  So he turned again to the window.

A few moments later the door communicating with the house was unceremoniously thrust open.  The two men looked round.  It was a youngish man dressed in the overalls of an engineer who hurried in.  He was alert and full of business; a condition which he seemed to appreciate.