“Who are the we?” I asked.

“Oh,” was the answer, “the Count and old Victor Chauvet and me.  Do you know, I think the Count is the one to be really sorry for.  Dave Walsh never did know that she was false to him.  And she does not suffer.  Her darkness is merciful to her.”

I lay silently under the blankets for the space of a minute.

“Is the Count still in the country?” I asked.

But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew Lon McFane was asleep.

THE PASSING OF MARCUS O’BRIEN

“It is the judgment of this court that you vamose the camp . . . in the customary way, sir, in the customary way.”

Judge Marcus O’Brien was absent-minded, and Mucluc Charley nudged him in the ribs.  Marcus O’Brien cleared his throat and went on—­

“Weighing the gravity of the offence, sir, and the extenuating circumstances, it is the opinion of this court, and its verdict, that you be outfitted with three days’ grub.  That will do, I think.”

Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon.  It was a swollen, chocolate flood, running a mile wide and nobody knew how deep.  The earth-bank on which he stood was ordinarily a dozen feet above the water, but the river was now growling at the top of the bank, devouring, instant by instant, tiny portions of the top-standing soil.  These portions went into the gaping mouths of the endless army of brown swirls and vanished away.  Several inches more, and Red Cow would be flooded.

“It won’t do,” Arizona Jack said bitterly.  “Three days’ grub ain’t enough.”

“There was Manchester,” Marcus O’Brien replied gravely.  “He didn’t get any grub.”

“And they found his remains grounded on the Lower River an’ half eaten by huskies,” was Arizona Jack’s retort.  “And his killin’ was without provocation.  Joe Deeves never did nothin’, never warbled once, an’ jes’ because his stomach was out of order, Manchester ups an’ plugs him.  You ain’t givin’ me a square deal, O’Brien, I tell you that straight.  Give me a week’s grub, and I play even to win out.  Three days’ grub, an’ I cash in.”

“What for did you kill Ferguson?” O’Brien demanded.  “I haven’t any patience for these unprovoked killings.  And they’ve got to stop.  Red Cow’s none so populous.  It’s a good camp, and there never used to be any killings.  Now they’re epidemic.  I’m sorry for you, Jack, but you’ve got to be made an example of.  Ferguson didn’t provoke enough for a killing.”

“Provoke!” Arizona Jack snorted.  “I tell you, O’Brien, you don’t savve.  You ain’t got no artistic sensibilities.  What for did I kill Ferguson?  What for did Ferguson sing ‘Then I wisht I was a little bird’?  That’s what I want to know.  Answer me that.  What for did he sing ’little bird, little bird’?  One little bird was enough.  I could a-stood one little bird.  But no, he must sing two little birds.  I gave ’m a chanst.  I went to him almighty polite and requested him kindly to discard one little bird.  I pleaded with him.  There was witnesses that testified to that.