“An’ Ferguson was no jay-throated songster,” some one spoke up from the crowd.

O’Brien betrayed indecision.

“Ain’t a man got a right to his artistic feelin’s?” Arizona Jack demanded.  “I gave Ferguson warnin’.  It was violatin’ my own nature to go on listening to his little birds.  Why, there’s music sharps that fine-strung an’ keyed-up they’d kill for heaps less’n I did.  I’m willin’ to pay for havin’ artistic feelin’s.  I can take my medicine an’ lick the spoon, but three days’ grub is drawin’ it a shade fine, that’s all, an’ I hereby register my kick.  Go on with the funeral.”

O’Brien was still wavering.  He glanced inquiringly at Mucluc Charley.

“I should say, Judge, that three days’ grub was a mite severe,” the latter suggested; “but you’re runnin’ the show.  When we elected you judge of this here trial court, we agreed to abide by your decisions, an’ we’ve done it, too, b’gosh, an’ we’re goin’ to keep on doin’ it.”

“Mebbe I’ve been a trifle harsh, Jack,” O’Brien said apologetically—­“I’m that worked up over those killings; an’ I’m willing to make it a week’s grub.”  He cleared his throat magisterially and looked briskly about him.  “And now we might as well get along and finish up the business.  The boat’s ready.  You go and get the grub, Leclaire.  We’ll settle for it afterward.”

Arizona Jack looked grateful, and, muttering something about “damned little birds,” stepped aboard the open boat that rubbed restlessly against the bank.  It was a large skiff, built of rough pine planks that had been sawed by hand from the standing timber of Lake Linderman, a few hundred miles above, at the foot of Chilcoot.  In the boat were a pair of oars and Arizona Jack’s blankets.  Leclaire brought the grub, tied up in a flour-sack, and put it on board.  As he did so, he whispered—­“I gave you good measure, Jack.  You done it with provocation.”

“Cast her off!” Arizona Jack cried.

Somebody untied the painter and threw it in.  The current gripped the boat and whirled it away.  The murderer did not bother with the oars, contenting himself with sitting in the stern-sheets and rolling a cigarette.  Completing it, he struck a match and lighted up.  Those that watched on the bank could see the tiny puffs of smoke.  They remained on the bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bend half a mile below.  Justice had been done.

The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executed sentences without the delays that mark the softness of civilization.  There was no law on the Yukon save what they made for themselves.  They were compelled to make it for themselves.  It was in an early day that Red Cow flourished on the Yukon—­1887—­and the Klondike and its populous stampedes lay in the unguessed future.  The men of Red Cow did not even know whether their camp was situated in Alaska or in the North-west Territory, whether they drew breath under the stars and stripes or under the British flag.  No surveyor had ever happened along to give them their latitude and longitude.  Red Cow was situated somewhere along the Yukon, and that was sufficient for them.  So far as flags were concerned, they were beyond all jurisdiction.  So far as the law was concerned, they were in No-Man’s land.