from Thorpe’s, and Philip saw that if he dealt out the justice he contemplated he had not a moment to lose.  He began to run, so quickly that he approached within a dozen paces of the man he was pursuing without being heard.  It was not until then that he made a discovery which stopped him.  The man ahead was not Thorpe.  Suddenly, looking beyond him, he saw a second figure pass slowly through the lighted door of the supply-house.  Even at that distance he recognized the gang-foreman.  He thrust his revolver under his coat and fell a little farther behind the man he had mistaken for Thorpe so that when the latter passed within the small circle of light that came from the supply-house windows he was fifty instead of a dozen paces away.  Something in the other’s manner, something strangely and potently familiar in his slim, lithe form, in the quick, half-running movement of his body, drew a sharp breath from Philip.  He was on the point of calling a name, but it died on his lips.  A moment more and the man passed through the door.  Philip was certain that it was Pierre Couchee who had followed Thorpe.

He was filled with a sudden fear as he ran toward the store.  He had scarcely crossed the threshold when a glance showed him Thorpe leaning upon a narrow counter, and Pierre close beside him.  He saw that the half-breed was speaking, and Thorpe drew himself erect.  Then, as quick as a flash, two things happened.  Thorpe’s hand went to his belt, Pierre’s sent a lightning gleam of steel back over his shoulder.  The terrible drive of the knife and the explosion of Thorpe’s revolver came in the same instant.  Thorpe crumpled back over the counter, clutching at his breast.  Pierre turned about, staggering, and saw Philip.  His eyes lighted up, and with a moaning cry he stretched out his arms as Philip sprang to him.  Above the sudden tumult of men’s feet and excited voices he gasped out Jeanne’s name.  Half a dozen men had crowded about them.  Through the ring burst MacDougall, a revolver in his hand.  Pierce had become a dead weight in Philip’s arms.

“Help me over to the cabin with him, Mac,” he said.  He looked around among the men.  It struck him as curious, even then, that he saw none of Thorpe’s gang.  “Is Thorpe done for?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” replied some one.

With an effort Pierre opened his eyes.

“Dead!” he breathed, and in that one word there was a tremble of joy and triumph.

“Take Thorpe over to his cabin,” commanded Philip, as he and MacDougall lifted Pierre between them.  “I will answer for this man.”

They could hear Pierre’s sobbing breath as they hurried across the open.  They laid him on Philip’s bunk and Pierre opened his eyes again.  He looked at Philip.

“M’sieur,” he whispered, “tell me—­quick—­if I must die!”

MacDougall had studied medicine and surgery before engineering, and took the place of camp physician.  Philip drew back while he ripped open the half-breed’s garments and bared his breast.  Then he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went.  Philip bent over Pierre.  Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man’s right breast.  Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained locket, fastened by a babiche string about his neck.