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 in Spokane, about a week earlier, lawyer Alec Wynn had paid a late call on Martin Wedekind.

"Well, Alec," asked the latter, anxiously, "how's it coming on?"

"Punk. Pretty damned punk, I am afraid that Tom Graves has not a leg to stand on."

"Oh, well, Alec, you're a lawyer, a professional pessimist. You're paid to look at the hopeless side of life, you know."

"No, Martin. It looks bad. Honest, it does! Have a peep at this!" He opened his leather case and took out a sheet of foolscap, sealed with the arms of the Dominion of Canada. "An affidavit, executed in regular form, attesting and swearing to 'Old Man' Truex's death. Signed by the coroner of Crow's Nest Pass, and by three witnesses!"

"Who are the witnesses? Let's see!"

Alec Wynn pointed at the scrawling signatures.

"John Good"

"The fellow who keeps that ramshackle hotel and bar at the Crow’s Nest?"

"Yes, Martin. The same."

"He's a bad actor. Used to be a cattle rustler in the old days before the Royal Northwestern cleaned up the land."

The lawyer inclined his head.