“God pity you, Kalman.  And you call yourself a follower of Him who for His murderers prayed, ‘Father, forgive them.’” Then Brown’s voice grew stern.  “Kalman, you are not thinking clearly.  You must face this as a Christian man.  The issue is quite straight.  It is no longer between you and your enemy; it is between you and your Lord.  Are you prepared to-night to reject your Lord and cut yourself off from Him?  Listen.”  Brown took his Bible, and turning over the leaves, found the words, “’If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses’; and remember, these are the words of Him who forgave those who had done their worst on Him, blighting His dearest hopes, ruining His cause, breaking His heart.  Kalman, you dare not.”

And Kalman went his way to meet his Gethsemane in the Night Hawk ravine, till morning found him on his face under the trees, with his victory still in the balance.  The hereditary instincts of Slavic blood cried out for vengeance.  The passionate loyalty of his heart to the memory of his mother and to his father cried out for vengeance.  His own wrongs cried out for vengeance, and against these cries there stood that single word, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”

Before a week was gone old Portnoff came hot foot to Brown to report that early that morning Rosenblatt had ridden off in the direction of the Fort, where was the Government Land Office.

“It is something about the mine.  He was in good spirits.  He offered me something good on his return.  If this were only Russia!” said the old Nihilist.

“Yes, yes,” growled his friend Malkarski, in his deep voice, “we should soon do for him.”

“Left this morning?” said Brown.  “How long ago?”

“Two hours.”

Brown thought quickly.  What could it mean?  Was it possible the registration had been neglected?  Knowing French’s easy-going methods of doing business, he knew it to be quite possible.  French was still away in his tie camp.  Kalman was ten miles off at the mine.  It was too great a chance to take.

“Throw the saddle on my horse, Portnoff,” he cried. 
“I must ride to the Fort.”

“It would be good to kill this man,” said old Malkarski quietly.

“What are you saying?” cried Brown in horror.  “Be off with you.”

He made a few hurried preparations, sent word to Kalman, and departed.  He had forty miles before him, and his horse was none of the best.  Rosenblatt had two hours’ lead and was, doubtless, well mounted.  There was a chance, however, that he would take the journey by easy stages.  But a tail chase is a long chase, especially when cupidity and hate are spurring on the pursued.  Five hours’ hard riding brought Brown to the wide plain upon which stood the Fort.  As he entered upon the plain, he discovered his man a few miles before him.  At almost the same instant of his discovery, Rosenblatt became aware of his pursuer, and the last five miles were done at racing speed.  But Brown’s horse was spent, and when he arrived at the Land Office, it was to find that application had been made for one hundred and sixty acres of mining land, including both sides of the Night Hawk ravine.  Brown stared hard at the entry.