it has hung there."

"As I placed it ten years ago," he said.

They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: "Marcey had no
one,--Sergeant Laforce a mother."

"It killed his mother," she whispered, looking into the white sunlight.
She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees near
the Fort.

"His mother died," she added again, quietly. "It killed her--the gaol for
him!"

"An eye for an eye," he responded.

"Do you think that evens John Marcey's death?" she sighed.

"As far as Marcey's concerned," he answered. "Laforce has his own
reckoning besides."

"It was not a murder," she urged.

"It was a fair fight," he replied firmly, "and Laforce shot straight." He
was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter still hung
there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered the
song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabled Savior
of the North.

"Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol--