of justice. They had fought with the fury of men who battle for
life, and had grown to hate the lines of Stillman's vacillating
face, the bluster of the district-attorney, and the smirking
confidence of the clerks, for it seemed that they all worked
mechanically, like toys, at the dictates of Alec McNamara. At
last, when they had ceased, beaten and exhausted, they were too
confused with technical phrases to grasp anything except the fact
that relief was denied them; that their claims were to be worked
by the receiver; and, as a crowning defeat, they learned that the
Judge would move his court to St. Michael's and hear no cases
until he returned, a month later.

Meanwhile, McNamara hired every idle man he could lay hand upon,
and ripped the placers open with double shifts. Every day a stream
of yellow dust poured into the bank and was locked in his vaults,
while those mine-owners who attempted to witness the clean-ups
were ejected from their claims. The politician had worked with
incredible swiftness and system, and a fortnight after landing he
had made good his boast to Struve, and was in charge of every good
claim in the district, the owners were ousted, their appeals
argued and denied, and the court gone for thirty days, leaving him
a clear field for his operations. He felt a contempt for most of
his victims, who were slow-witted Swedes, grasping neither the
purport nor the magnitude of his operation, and as to those
litigants who were discerning enough to see its enormity, he
trusted to his organization to thwart them.

The two partners had come to feel that they were beating against a
wall, and had also come squarely to face the proposition that they
were without funds wherewith to continue their battle. It was