Some one knocked, and he opened the door to admit the Bronco Kid and Helen.

“Wait a minute, old man,” said the Kid.  “I’m here as a friend.”  The gambler handled himself with difficulty, offering in explanation: 

“I’m all sewed up in bandages of one kind or another.”

“He ought to be in bed now, but he wouldn’t let me come alone, and I could not wait,” the girl supplemented, while her eyes avoided Glenister’s in strange hesitation.

“He wouldn’t let you.  I don’t understand.”

“I’m her brother,” announced the Bronco Kid.  “I’ve known it for a long time, but I—­I—­well, you understand I couldn’t let her know.  All I can say is, I’ve gambled square till the night I played you, and I was as mad as a dervish then, blaming you for the talk I’d heard.  Last night I learned by chance about Struve and Helen and got to the road-house in time to save her.  I’m sorry I didn’t kill him.”  His long white fingers writhed about the arm of his chair at the memory.

“Isn’t he dead?” Glenister inquired.

“No.  The doctors have brought him in and he’ll get well.  He’s like half the men in Alaska—­here because the sheriffs back home couldn’t shoot straight.  There’s something else.  I’m not a good talker, but give me time and I’ll manage it so you’ll understand.  I tried to keep Helen from coming on this errand, but she said it was the square thing and she knows better than I. It’s about those papers she brought in last spring.  She was afraid you might consider her a party to the deal, but you don’t, do you?” He glared belligerently, and Roy replied, with fervor: 

“Certainly not.  Go on.”

“Well, she learned the other day that those documents told the whole story and contained enough proof to break up this conspiracy and convict the Judge and McNamara and all the rest, but Struve kept the bundle in his safe and wouldn’t give it up without a price.  That’s why she went away with him—­She thought it was right, and—­that’s all.  But it seems Wheaton had succeeded in another way.  Now, I’m coming to the point.  The Judge and McNamara are arrested for contempt of court and they’re as good as convicted; you have recovered your mine, and these men are disgraced.  They will go to jail—­”

“Yes, for six months, perhaps,” broke in the other, hotly, “but what does that amount to?  There never was a bolder crime consummated nor one more cruelly unjust.  They robbed a realm and pillaged its people, they defiled a court and made Justice a wanton, they jailed good men and sent others to ruin; and for this they are to suffer—­how?  By a paltry fine or a short imprisonment, perhaps, by an ephemeral disgrace and the loss of their stolen goods.  Contempt of court is the accusation, but you might as well convict a murderer for breach of the peace.  We’ve thrown them off, it’s true, and they won’t trouble us again, but they’ll never have to answer for their real infamy.  That will go unpunished while their lawyers quibble over technicalities and rules of court.  I guess it’s true that there isn’t any law of God or man north of Fifty-three; but if there is justice south of that mark, those people will answer for conspiracy and go to the penitentiary.”