Quade's status had interested Aldous from the beginning. He had discovered
that Quade and Culver Rann, his partner at Tête Jaune, were forces to be
reckoned with even by the "powers" along the line of rail. They were the
two chiefs of the "underground," the men who controlled the most dangerous
element from Miette to Fort George. He had once seen Culver Rann, a quiet,
keen-eyed, immaculately groomed man of forty--the cleverest scoundrel that
had ever drifted into the Canadian west. He had been told that Rann was
really the brain of the combination, and that the two had picked up a
quarter of a million in various ways. But it was Quade with whom he had to
deal now, and he began to thank Stevens for his warning. He was filled with
a sense of relief when he reached his cabin and found it as he had left
it. He always made a carbon copy of his work. This copy he now put into a
waterproof tin box, and the box he concealed under a log a short distance
back in the bush.

"Now go ahead, Quade," he laughed to himself, a curious, almost exultant
ring in his voice. "I haven't had any real excitement for so long I can't
remember, and if you start the fun there's going to _be_ fun!"

He returned to his birds, perched himself behind a bush at the river's
edge, and began skinning them. He had almost finished when he heard hoarse
shouts from up the river. From his position he could see the stream a
hundred yards below the ford. Stevens had driven in his horses. He could
see them breasting the first sweep of the current, their heads held high,
struggling for the opposite shore. He rose, dropped his birds, and stared.

"Good God, what a fool!" he gasped.

He saw the tragedy almost before it had begun. Still three hundred yards