At Point Fullerton, one thousand miles straight north of civilization, Sergeant William MacVeigh was writing his semi-annual report to the Commissioner of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police at Regina. His cold-stiffened fingers wrote with the stub end of a pencil the last words of his report: "I beg to say that I have made every effort to run down Scottie Deane, the murderer. I have not given up hope of finding him, but I believe that he has gone from my territory and is probably now somewhere within the limits of the Fort Churchill patrol. We have hunted the country for three hundred miles south along the shore of Hudson's Bay to Eskimo Point, and as far north as Wagner Inlet. Within three months we have made three patrols west of the Bay, unraveling sixteen hundred miles without finding our man or word of him. I respectfully advise a close watch of the patrols south of the Barren Lands." "There!" said MacVeigh aloud, straightening his hunched shoulders with a groan of relief. "It's done."