Joel Mazarine did not take the trail to Tralee immediately after he found his wagon and horses in the shed of the Methodist Meeting House.  As he drove through the main street of Askatoon again, his lawyer ­Burlingame’s rival ­waved a hand towards him in greeting.  An idea suddenly possessed the old man, and he stopped the horses and beckoned.

“Get in and come to your office with me,” he said to the lawyer.  “There’s some business to do right off.”

The unpopularity of a client in no way affects a lawyer.  Indeed, the most notorious criminal is the greatest legal advertisement, and the fortunate part of the business is that no lawyer is ever identified with the morals, crimes or virtues of his client, yet has particular advantage from his crimes.  So it was that Mazarine’s lawyer enjoyed the public attention given to his drive through the town with Mazarine.  He could hear this man say, “Hello, what’s up!” or another remark that the Law and the Gospel were out for war.

Just as they were about to enter the office, however, Jonas Billings, who had a faculty for being everywhere at the interesting moment, said, so as to be heard by Mazarine and his lawyer, and all others standing near.

“Goin’ to leave his property away from his wife!  Makin’ a new will ­eh?  That’s it, stamp on a girl when she’s down!  When you can’t win the woman, keep the cash.  Woe is me, Willy, but the wild one rageth!”

Jonas’ drawling, nasal, high-pitched sarcasm reached Mazarine’s ears and stung him.  He lurched round, and with beady eyes blinking with malice, said roughly:  “The fool is known by his folly.”

“You don’t need to label yourself, Mr. Mazarine,” retorted Jonas with a grin.

The crowd laughed in approval.  The loose lower lip of the Master of Tralee quivered.  The leviathan was being tortured by the little sharks.

Presently the door of the lawyer’s office slammed on the street, and Mazarine proceeded to make a new will, which should leave everything away from Louise.  After he had slowly dictated the terms of the will, with a glutinous solemnity he said: 

“There; that’s what comes of breaking the laws of God and man.  That’s what a woman loses who doesn’t do her duty by the man that can give her everything, and that’s give her everything, while she plays the Jezebel.”

“I’ll complete this for you, and you can sign it now,” remarked the lawyer evasively, not without shrinking; “but it won’t stand as it is, or as you want it to stand, because Mrs. Mazarine has her legal claims in spite of it!  She’s got a wife’s dower-rights according to the law.  That’s one-third of your property.  It’s the law of the land, and you can’t sign it away from her, Mr. Mazarine.”

The old man’s face darkened still more; his crooked fingers twisted in his beard.

“I see you forgot that,” added the lawyer.  “There’s only one way to dispossess her, and that’s to put her through Divorce ­if you think you can.  Of course this document’ll stand as far as it goes, and it’s perfectly legal, but it isn’t what you intend, and she’d get her one-third in spite of it.”

“I’ll come back to-morrow,” said the old man, rising to his feet.  “You make it out, and I’ll come back and sign it to-morrow.  I’ll make a sure thing of so much, anyway.  The divorce’ll settle the rest.  You have it ready at noon to-morrow, and you can start divorce proceedings to-morrow too.  There’s plenty of evidence.  She run away from me to go to him.  She stayed with him a whole night on the prairie.  I want the divorce, and I can get the evidence.  Everybody knows.  This is the Lord’s business, and I mean to see it through.  Shame has come to the house of a servant of the Lord, and there must be purging.  In the days of David she would have been stoned to death, and not so far back as that, either.”

A moment afterwards he was gone, slamming the door behind him.  His blood was up-a turgid, angry flood almost bursting his veins.  He now made his way to the house of the Methodist minister.  There he announced that if he was disciplined at Quarterly Meeting, as was talked about in the streets, he would go to law against every class-leader for defamation of character.

By the time this was done the evening was well advanced.  He did not leave Askatoon until the moment which coincided with that in which Orlando left Nolan Doyle’s garden and took the trail to Slow Down Ranch.  Orlando would strike the trail from Askatoon to Tralee at a point where another trail also joined.

Mazarine drove fast through the town, as though eager to put it behind him, but when he reached the trail on the prairie he slackened his pace, and drove steadily homewards, lost in the darkest reflections he had ever known; and that was saying much.  The reins lay loose in his fingers, and he became so absorbed that he was conscious of nothing save movement.

The heart of Black Brian, the King, of whom Patsy Kernaghan told his mythical story in Nolan Doyle’s garden, had never housed more repulsive thoughts than were in Mazarine’s heart in this unfortunate hour of his own making.  No single feeling of kindness was in his spirit.  He heard nothing, was conscious of nothing, save his own grim, fantastic imaginings.

A jealousy and hatred as terrible as ever possessed a man were on him.  An egregious self-will, a dreadful spirit of unholy old age in him, was turned hatefully upon the youth long since gone from himself ­the youth which, in its wild, innocent ardours, had brought two young people together, one of them his own captive for years.

The peace of the prairie, the shining, infant moon, the kindly darkness, were all at variance with the soul of the man, whose only possession was what money could buy; and what money had bought in the way of human flesh and blood, beauty and sweet youth he had not been able to hold.  To his mind, what was the good of having riches and power, if you could not also have love, licence and the loot of the conqueror!

He had wrestled with the Lord in prayer; he had been a class-leader and a lay-preacher; he had exhorted and denounced; he had pleaded and proscribed; yet never in all his days of professed religion had a heart for others really moved Joel Mazarine.

He had given now and then of gold and silver, because of the glow of mind which the upraised hands of admiration brought him, mistaking it for the real thing; but his life had been barren because it had not emptied itself for others, at any time, or anywhere.

He had been a professed Christian, not because of Olivet, but because of Sinai.  It was the stormy authority of the sword of the Lord of Gideon of the Old Testament which had drawn him into the fold of religion.  It was some strain of heredity, his upbringing, the life into which he was born, pious, pedantic and preposterously prayerful, which had made him a professional Christian, as he was a professional farmer, rancher and money-maker.  For such a man there never could be peace.

In his own world of wanton inhumanity, oblivious of all except his torturing thoughts, he did not know that, as he neared the Cross Trails on his way homewards, something shadowy, stooping, sprang up from the roadside and slip-slopped after his wagon ­slip-slopped ­slip-slopped ­catching the thud of the horses’ hoofs, and making its footsteps coincide.

All at once the shadowy figure swung itself up softly and remained for an instant, half-kneeling, in the body of the wagon.  Then suddenly, noiselessly, it rose up, leaned over the absorbed Joel Mazarine, and with long, hooked, steely fingers caught the throat of the Master of Tralee under the grayish beard.  They clenched there with a power like that of three men; for this was the kind of grip which, far away in the country of the Yang-tse-kiang, Li Choo had learned in the days when he had made youth a thing to be remembered.

No convulsive effort on the part of the victim could loosen that terrible grip; but the horses, responding to the first jerk of the reins following the attack, stood still, while a human soul was being wrenched out of the world behind them.

No word was spoken.  From the moment the fingers clutched his throat Joel Mazarine could not speak, and Li Choo did his swift work in grim and ghastly silence.

It did not take long.  When the vain struggles had ceased and the fingers were loosened, Li Choo’s tongue clucked in his mouth, once, twice, thrice; and that was all.  It was a ghastly sort of mirth, and it had in it a multitude of things.  Among them was vengeance and wild justice, and the thing that comes down through innumerable years in the Oriental mind ­that the East is greater than the West; that now and then the East must prove itself against the West with all the cruelty of the world’s prime.

For a moment Li Choo stood and looked at the motionless figure, with the head fallen on the breast; then he put the reins carefully in the hands of the dead man, placed the fallen hat on his head, climbed down from the wagon, patted a horse as he slip-slopped by, and disappeared towards Tralee into the night, leaving what was left of Joel Mazarine in his wagon at the crossing of the trails.

As Li Choo stole swiftly away, he met two other figures, silent and shadowy, and somehow strangely unreal, like his own.  After a moment’s whisperings, they all three turned their faces again towards Tralee.

Once they stopped and listened.  There was the sound of wagons.  One was coming from the north ­that is, from the direction of Tralee; the other was coming from the south-east-that is, Nolan Doyle’s ranch.

Li Choo’s tongue clucked in his mouth; then he made an exclamation in Chinese, at which the others clucked also, and then they moved on again.