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Updated: May 10, 2025
What pitiful pictures are projected into the calm of the star-set skies from the wretched turmoil of fevered brains! "I must come to Sefton first!" It was Drennen's last thought that night. His first thought in the dim dawn was: "I must come to Sefton first!" In the thick darkness half way between midnight and the first glimmer of the new day Drennen awoke.
But that had not been all. A man named Kootanie George with another man wearing the uniform of the Royal Northwest Mounted had followed them. These had all gone by the beaten trail; Drennen saw that if he came before Kootanie George and Max to the four he sought he must take his chances with the short cut. The next night they camped at the upper end of the fourth of the string of little lakes.
The word sped about the room, whispered, booming loudly, creating a sudden tense eagerness. Men shoved at one another, craning necks, to peer at the thing which Drennen so coolly had disclosed. Gold! Nuggets that were, in the parlance of the camp, "rotten" with gold.
And even in the night, once Sothern sent for her. Drennen had called for her; had grown violent when she was denied to him and would not be quieted when Sothern sought to reason with him. So Ygerne, dressing hurriedly, her sweater about her, came. "Why do you come to me that way?" Drennen had lifted himself upon his elbow, calling out angrily. "What do you mean?" she asked wondering.
The door at Marquette's was thrown open and half a dozen men rushed out into the road. The girl felt Drennen's arm relax, the right arm about her shoulders. With a quick movement she slipped free of it. "Who shot?" called one of the men. "What's wrong?" Ygerne, two paces from Drennen's side, answered very quietly, her coolness amazing him. "I fired. It was a wager with Mr. Drennen.
After that Drennen, grown as still as the rocks about him, listened and made no sound. He had caught the words from Max: ". . . a man named Drennen; an embezzler. Not a common name, is it? I've a notion that this David Drennen is the son of that John Harper Drennen." Drennen, listening, got nothing from this, but stood still, frowning and wondering.
But, for a thousandth time, a vague rumour had come to Drennen that those whom he sought had pushed on here ahead of him and methodically he was running down each rumour. Perhaps not a hundred men in a hundred years had come here before them. The forests, tall and black and filled with gloom, were about them everywhere.
But Drennen, being in no mood for sleep, missed his pipe. Coming back toward the fire a little later it happened that he approached behind the two men's backs and in the thick shadows. It happened, too, that they were very deep in their own thoughts and conversation and that they did not hear him until he had caught a part of their talk.
A harsh sob broke from him when he read the meaning that the three bleeding wounds spelled. He had seen men with their mortal wounds before. He knew that he might stop the outward flow of blood a little; that perhaps his father might live to see the sun come up. But he knew, and his father knew, that at last John Harper Drennen, good man or bad, was at last going to his reckoning.
And it, in turn, made of him another man. Worship must be unquestioning. It is builded upon utter faith. So Drennen, his slow words spoken to Ygerne, his love for her freed, as it were, from any restraint he had hitherto tried to put upon it, his whole being given over to it, came without question to believe in her.
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