The song was still sounding in Rouletta’s heart when she sat down at the faro-table, and all through the evening it seemed to her that the revelry round about was but an echo of her gladness.  Pierce was free, his name was clean.  Probably ere this the whole truth was known to the Mounted Police and by to-morrow it would be made public.

Moreover, he and ’Poleon were to be partners.  That generous woodsman, because of his affection for her, proposed to take the young fellow into his heart and make a man of him.  That was like him—­always giving much and taking little.  Well, she was ’Poleon’s sister.  Who could tell what might result from this new union of interests?  Of course, there was no pay out there on that mountain-crest, but hard work, honest poverty, an end of these demoralizing surroundings were bound to affect Pierce only for the better.  Rouletta blessed the name of Hilda Courteau, who had made this possible, and of ’Poleon Doret, too—­’Poleon of the great heart, who loved her so sincerely, so unselfishly.  He never failed her; he was a brother, truly—­the best, the cheeriest, the most loyal in the world.  Rouletta was amazed to realize what a part in her life the French Canadian had played.  His sincere affection was about the biggest thing that had come to her, so it seemed.

Occupied with such comforting thoughts, Rouletta failed to note that the evening had passed more quickly than usual and that it was after midnight.  When she did realize that fact, she wondered what could have detained Lucky Broad.  Promptness was a habit with him; he and Bridges usually reported at least a half-hour ahead of time.

She caught sight of the pair, finally, through the wide archway, and saw that they were surrounded by an excited crowd, a crowd that grew swiftly as some whisper, some intelligence, spread with electric rapidity through the barroom.  Yielding to a premonition that something was amiss, Rouletta asked the lookout to relieve her, and, rising, she hurried into the other hall.  Even before she had come within sound of Lucky’s voice the cause of the general excitement was made known to her.  It came in the form of an exclamation, a word or two snatched out of the air.  “Courteau!” “Dead!” “Shot—­back street—­body just found!”

Fiercely Rouletta fought her way through the press, an unvoiced question trembling upon her lips.  Broad turned at her first touch.

“Tough, ain’t it?” said he.  “Me and the Kid stumbled right over him—­kicked him out of the snow.  We thought he’d been froze.”

“We never dreamed he’d been shot till we got him clean down to the drug-store,” Bridges supplemented.  “Shot in the back, too.”

Questions were flying back and forth now.  Profiting by the confusion, Rouletta dragged Broad aside and queried, breathlessly: 

“Was he dead—­quite dead—?”

“Oh, sure!”

“Who—­shot him?” The question came with difficulty.  Lucky stared at his interrogator queerly, then he shrugged.