the stories of the long arm of the Law--that arm which reaches for
two thousand miles from Athabasca Landing to the polar sea, the
arm Of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.

And of these it is the story of Jim Kent we are going to tell, of
Jim Kent and of Marette, that wonderful little goddess of the
Valley of Silent Men, in whose veins there must have run the blood
of fighting men--and of ancient queens. A story of the days before
the railroad came.





CHAPTER I


In the mind of James Grenfell Kent, sergeant in the Royal
Northwest Mounted Police, there remained no shadow of a doubt. He
knew that he was dying. He had implicit faith in Cardigan, his
surgeon friend, and Cardigan had told him that what was left of
his life would be measured out in hours--perhaps in minutes or
seconds. It was an unusual case. There was one chance in fifty
that he might live two or three days, but there was no chance at
all that he would live more than three. The end might come with
any breath he drew into his lungs. That was the pathological
history of the thing, as far as medical and surgical science knew
of cases similar to his own.

Personally, Kent did not feel like a dying man. His vision and his