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POPULAR NATURE STORIES
BY
CHAS. G. D. ROBERTS

PUBLISHED BY
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

THE HOUSE IN THE WATER
KINGS IN EXILE
THE SECRET TRAILS
THE LEDGE ON BALD FACE

I

THE LEDGE ON BALD FACE

The Ledge on Bald Face

That one stark naked side of the mountain which gave it its name of OldBald Face fronted full south. Scorched by sun and scourged by stormthroughout the centuries, it was bleached to an ashen pallor thatgleamed startlingly across the leagues of sombre, green-purplewilderness outspread below. From the base of the tremendous bald steepstretched off the interminable leagues of cedar swamp, only to betraversed in dry weather or in frost. All the region behind themountain face was an impenetrable jumble of gorges, pinnacles, andchasms, with black woods clinging in crevice and ravine and strugglingup desperately towards the light.

In the time of spring and autumn floods, when the cedar swamps wereimpenetrable to all save mink, otter, and musk-rat, the only way fromthe western plateau to the group of lakes that formed the source of theOttanoonsis, on the east, was by a high, nerve-testing trail across thewind-swept brow of Old Bald Face. The trail followed a curious ledge,sometimes wide enough to have accommodated an ox-wagon, at other timesso narrow and so perilous that even the sure-eyed caribou went warilyin traversing it.

The only inhabitants of Bald Face were the eagles, three pairs of them,who had their nests, widely separated from each other in haughtyisolation, on jutting shoulders and pinnacles accessible to no onewithout wings. Though the ledge-path at its highest point was farabove the nests, and commanded a clear view of one of them, the eagleshad learned to know that those who traversed the pass were nottroubling themselves about eagles' nests. They had also observedanother thing—of interest to them only because their keen eyes andsuspicious brains were wont to note and consider everything that camewithin their purview—and that was that the scanty traffic by the passhad its more or less regular times and seasons. In seasons of droughtor hard frost it vanished altogether. In seasons of flood it increasedthe longer the floods lasted. And whenever there was any passing atall, the movement was from east to west in the morning, from west toeast in the afternoon. This fact may have been due to some sort ofdimly recognized convention among the wild kindreds, arrived at in somesubtle way to avoid unnecessary—and necessarilydeadly—misunderstanding and struggle. For the creatures of the wildseldom fight for fighting's sake. They fight for food, or, in themating season, they fight in order that the best and strongest maycarry off the prizes. But mere purposeless risk and slaughter theyinstinctively strive to avoid. The airy ledge across Bald Face was nota place where the boldest of the wild kindred—the bear or thebull-moose, to say nothing of lesser champions—would wilfully invitethe doubtful combat. If, therefore, it had been somehow arrived atthat there should be no disastrous meetings, no face-to-face strugglesfor the right of way, at a spot where dreadful death was inevitable forone or both of the combatants, that would have been in no wayinconsistent with the accepted laws and customs of the wilderness. Onthe other hand, it is possible that this alternate easterly andwesterly drift of the wild creatures—a scanty affair enough at best oftimes—across the front of Bald Face was determined in the first place,on clear days, by their desire not to have the sun in their eyes inmaking the difficult passage, and afterwards hardened into custom. Itwas certainly better to have the sun behind one in treading theknife-edge pass above the eagles. Joe Peddler found it troublesomeenough, that strong, searching glare from the unclouded sun of earlymorning full in his eyes, as he worked over toward the Ottanoonsislakes. He had never attempted the crossing of Old Bald Face before,and he had always regarded with some scorn the stories told by Indiansof the perils of that passage. But already, though he had accomplishedbut a small portion of his journey and was still far from the worst ofthe pass, he had been forced to the conclusion that report had notexaggerated the difficulties of his venture. However, he was steady ofhead and sure of foot, and the higher he went in that exquisitelyclear, crisp air, the more pleased he felt with himself. His greatlungs drank deep of the tonic wind which surged against himrhythmically, and seemed to him to come unbroken from the outermostedges of the world. His eyes widened and filled themselves, even ashis lungs, with the ample panorama that unfolded before them. Heimagined—for the woodsman, dwelling so much alone, is apt to indulgesome strange imaginings—that he could feel his very spirit enlarging,as if to take full measure of these splendid breadths of sunlit,wind-washed space.

Presently, with a pleasant thrill, he observed that just ahead of himthe ledge went round an abrupt shoulder of the rockface at a pointwhere there was a practically sheer drop of many hundreds of feet intowhat appeared a feather-soft carpet of treetops. He looked shrewdly tothe security of his footing as he approached, and also to theroughnesses of the rock above the ledge, in case a sudden violent gustshould chance to assail him just at the turn. He felt that at such aspot it would be so easy—indeed, quite natural—to be whisked off bythe sportive wind, whirled out into space, and dropped into that greencarpet so far below. In his flexible oil-tanned "larrigans" of thickcow-hide, Peddler moved noiselessly as a wild-cat, even over the barestone of the ledge. He was like a grey shadow drifting slowly acrossthe bleached face of the precipice. As he drew near the bend of thetrail, of which not more than eight or ten paces were now visible tohim, he felt every nerve grow tense with exhilarating expectation.Yet, even so, what happened was the utterly unexpected.

Around the bend before him, stepping daintily on her fine hooves, camea young doe. She completely blocked the trail just on that dizzy edge.

Peddler stopped short, tried to squeeze himself to the rock like alimpet, and clutched with fingers of iron at a tiny projection.

The doe, for one second, seemed petrified with amazement. It wascontrary to all tradition that she should be confronted on that trail.Then, her amazement instantly dissolving into sheer madness of panic,she wheeled about violently to flee. But there was no room for evenher lithe body to make the turn. The inexorable rock-face bounced heroff, and with an agonized bleat, legs sprawling and great eyes startingfrom their sockets, she went sailing down into the abyss.

With a heart thumping in sympathy, Peddler leaned outward and followedthat dreadful flight, till she reached that treacherously soft-lookingcarpet of treetops and was engulfed by it. A muffled crash came up toPeddler's ears.

"Poor leetle beggar!" he muttered. "I wish't I hadn't scared her so.But I'd a sight rather it was her than me!"

Peddler's exhilaration was now considerably damped. He creptcautiously to the dizzy turn of the ledge and peered around. Thethought upon which his brain dwelt with unpleasant insistence was thatif it had been a surly old bull-moose or a bear which had confrontedhim so unexpectedly, instead of that nervous little doe, he might nowbe lying beneath that deceitful green carpet in a state of dilapidationwhich he did not care to contemplate.

Beyond the turn the trail was clear to his view for perhaps a couple ofhundred yards. It climbed steeply through a deep re-entrant, a mightyperpendicular corrugation of the rock-face, and then disappeared againaround another jutting bastion. He hurried on rather feverishly, notliking that second interruption to his view, and regretting, for thefirst time, that he had no weapon with him but his long hunting-knife.He had left his rifle behind him as a useless burden to his climbing.No game was now in season, no skins in condition to be worth theshooting, and he had food enough for the journey in his light pack. Hehad not contemplated the possibility of any beast, even bear orbull-moose, daring to face him, because he knew that, except inmating-time, the boldest of them would give a man wide berth. But, ashe now reflected, here on this narrow ledge even a buck or a lynx wouldbecome dangerous, finding itself suddenly at bay.

The steepness of the rise in the trail at this point almost drovePeddler to helping himself with his hands. As he neared the next turn,he was surprised to note, far out to his right, a soaring eagle,perhaps a hundred feet below him. He was surprised, too, by the factthat the eagle was paying no attention to him whatever, in spite of hisinvasion of the great bird's aerial domain. Instinctively he inferredthat the eagle's nest must be in some quite inaccessible spot at safedistance from the ledge. He paused to observe from above, and thusfairly near at hand, the slow flapping of those wide wings, as theyemployed the wind to serve the majesty of their flight. While he wasstudying this, another deduction from the bird's indifference to hispresence flashed upon his mind. There must be a fairly abundanttraffic of the wild creatures across this pass, or the eagle would notbe so indifferent to his presence. At this thought he lost hisinterest in problems of flight, and hurried forward again, anxious tosee what might be beyond the next turn of the trail.

His curiosity was gratified all too abruptly for his satisfaction. Hereached the turn, craned his head around it, and came face to face withan immense black bear.

The bear was not a dozen feet away. At sight of Peddler's gaunt darkface and sharp blue eyes appearing thus abruptly and without visiblesupport around the rock, he shrank back upon his haunches with astartled "Woof!"

As for Peddler, he was equally startled, but he had too much discretionand self-control to show it. Never moving a muscle, and keeping hisbody out of sight so that his face seemed to be suspended in mid-air,he held the great beast's eyes with a calm, unwinking gaze.

The bear was plainly disconcerted. After a few seconds he glanced backover his shoulder, and seemed to contemplate a strategic movement tothe rear. As the ledge at this point was sufficiently wide for him toturn with due care, Peddler expected now to see him do so. But whatPeddler did not know was that dim but cogent "law of the ledge," whichforbade all those who travelled by it to turn and retrace their steps,or to pass in the wrong direction at the wrong time. He did not knowwhat the bear knew—namely, that if that perturbed beast should turn,he was sure to be met and opposed by other wayfarers, and thus to findhimself caught between two fires.

Watching steadily, Peddler was unpleasantly surprised to see theperturbation in the bear's eyes slowly change into a savageresentment—resentment at being baulked in his inalienable right to anunopposed passage over the ledge. To the bear's mind that grim,confronting face was a violation of the law which he himself obeyedloyally and without question. To be sure, it was the face of man, andtherefore to be dreaded. It was also mysterious, and therefore stillmore to be dreaded. But the sense of bitter injustice, with therealization that he was at bay and taken at a disadvantage, filled himwith a frightened rage which swamped all other emotion. Then he cameon.

His advance was slow and cautious by reason of the difficulty of thepath and his dread lest that staring, motionless face should pounceupon him just at the perilous turn and hurl him over the brink. ButPeddler knew that his bluff was called, and that his only chance was toavoid the encounter. He might have fled by the way he had come,knowing that he would have every advantage in speed on that narrowtrail. But before venturing up to the turn he had noted a number oflittle projections and crevices in the perpendicular wall above him.Clutching at them with fingers of steel and unerring toes, he swarmedupwards as nimbly as a climbing cat. He was a dozen feet up before thebear came crawling and peering around the turn.

Elated at having so well extricated himself from so dubious asituation, Peddler gazed down upon his opponent and laughed mockingly.The sound of that confident laughter from straight above his headseemed to daunt the bear and thoroughly damp his rage. He crouchedlow, and scurried past growling. As he hurried along the trail at arash pace, he kept casting anxious glances over his shoulder, as if hefeared the man were going to chase him. Peddler lowered himself fromhis friendly perch and continued his journey, cursing himself more thanever for having been such a fool as not to bring his rifle.

In the course of the next half-hour he gained the highest point of theledge, which here was so broken and precarious that he had littleattention to spare for the unparalleled sweep and splendour of theview. He was conscious, however, all the time, of the whirling eagles,now far below him, and his veins thrilled with intense exhilaration.His apprehensions had all vanished under the stimulus of that tonicatmosphere. He was on the constant watch, however, scanning not onlythe trail ahead—which was now never visible for more than a hundredyards or so at a time—and also the face of the rock above him, to seeif it could be scaled in an emergency.

He had no expectation of an emergency, because he knew nothing of thelaw of the ledge. Having already met a doe and a bear, he naturallyinferred that he would not be likely to meet any other of the elusivekindreds of the wild, even in a whole week of forest faring. The shyand wary beasts are not given to thrusting themselves upon man'sdangerous notice, and it was hard enough to find them, with all hiswoodcraft, even when he was out to look for them. He was, therefore,so surprised that he could hardly believe his eyes when, on roundinganother corrugation of the rock-face, he saw another bear coming tomeet him.

"Gee!" muttered Peddler to himself. "Who's been lettin' loose themenagerie? Or hev I got the nightmare, mebbe?"

The bear was about fifty yards distant—a smaller one than itspredecessor, and much younger also, as was obvious to Peddler'sinitiated eye by the trim glossiness of its coat. It halted theinstant it caught sight of Peddler. But Peddler, for his part, keptright on, without showing the least sign of hesitation or surprise.This bear, surely, would give way before him. The beast hesitated,however. It was manifestly afraid of the man. It backed a few paces,whimpering in a worried fashion, then stopped, staring up the rock-wallabove it, as if seeking escape in that impossible direction.

"If ye're so skeered o' me as ye look," demanded Peddler, in a crispvoice, "why don't ye turn an' vamoose, 'stead o' backin' an' fillin'that way? Ye can't git up that there rock, 'less ye're a fly!"

The ledge at that point was a comparatively wide and easy path, and thebear at length, as if decided by the easy confidence of Peddler'stones, turned and retreated. But it went off with such reluctance,whimpering anxiously the while, that Peddler was forced to theconclusion there must be something coming up the trail which it wasdreading to meet. At this idea Peddler was delighted, and hurried onas closely as possible at the retreating animal's heels. The bear, hereflected, would serve him as an excellent advance guard, protectinghim perfectly from surprise, and perhaps, if necessary, clearing theway for him. He chuckled to himself as he realized the situation, andthe bear, catching the incomprehensible sound, glanced nervously overits shoulder and hastened its retreat as well as the difficulties ofthe path would allow.

The trail was now descending rapidly, though irregularly, towards theeastern plateau. The descent was broken by here and there a stretch ofcomparatively level going, here and there a sharp though brief rise,and at one point the ledge was cut across by a crevice some four feetin width. As a jump, of course, it was nothing to Peddler; but inspite of himself he took it with some trepidation, for the chasm lookedinfinitely deep, and the footing on the other side narrow andprecarious. The bear, however, had seemed to take it quite carelessly,almost in its stride, and Peddler, not to be outdone, assumed a similarindifference.

It was not long, however, before the enigma of the bear's reluctance toretrace its steps was solved. The bear, with Peddler some forty orfifty paces behind, was approaching one of those short steep riseswhich broke the general descent. From the other side of the rise camea series of heavy breathings and windy grunts.

"Moose, by gum!" exclaimed Peddler. "Now, I'd like to know if all thecritters hev took it into their heads to cross Old Bald Face to-day!"

The bear heard the gruntings also, and halted unhappily, glancing backat Peddler.

"Git on with it!" ordered Peddler sharply. And the bear, dreading manmore than moose, got on.

The next moment a long, dark, ominous head, with massive, overhanginglip and small angry eyes, appeared over the rise. Behind thisformidable head laboured up the mighty humped shoulders and then thewhole towering form of a moose-bull. Close behind him followed twoyoung cows and a yearling calf.

"Huh! I guess there's goin' to be some row!" muttered Peddler, andcast his eyes up the rock-face, to look for a point of refuge in casehis champion should get the worst of it.

At sight of the bear the two cows and the yearling halted, and stoodstaring, with big ears thrust forward anxiously, at the foe that barredtheir path. But the arrogant old bull kept straight on, though slowly,and with the wariness of the practised duellist. At this season of theyear his forehead wore no antlers, indeed, but in his great knife-edgedfore-hooves he possessed terrible weapons which he could wield withdeadly dexterity. Marking the confidence of his advance, Peddler grewsolicitous for his own champion, and stood motionless, dreading todistract the bear's attention.

But the bear, though frankly afraid to face man, whom he did notunderstand, had no such misgivings in regard to moose. He knew how tofight moose, and he had made more than one good meal, in his day, onmoose calf. He was game for the encounter. Reassured to see that theman was not coming any nearer, and possibly even sensing instinctivelythat the man was on his side in this matter, he crouched close againstthe rock and waited, with one huge paw upraised, like a boxer on guard,for the advancing bull to attack.

The bull drew near very slowly, and with his head held high as ifintending to ignore his opponent. Peddler, watching intently, feltsome surprise at this attitude, even though he knew that the deadliestweapon of a moose was its fore-hooves. He was wondering, indeed, ifthe majestic beast expected to press past the bear without a battle,and if the bear, on his part, would consent to this highly reasonablearrangement. Then like a flash, without the slightest warning, thebull whipped up one great hoof to the height of his shoulder and struckat his crouching adversary.

The blow was lightning swift, and with such power behind it that, hadit reached its mark, it would have settled the whole matter then andthere. But the bear's parry was equally swift. His mighty forearmfended the stroke so that it hissed down harmlessly past his head andclattered on the stone floor of the trail. At the same instant, beforethe bull could recover himself for another such pile-driving blow, thebear, who had been gathered up like a coiled spring, elongated his bodywith all the force of his gigantic hindquarters, thrusting himselfirresistibly between his adversary and the face of the rock, andheaving outwards.

These were tactics for which the great bull had no precedent in all hisprevious battles. He was thrown off his balance and shouldered cleanover the brink. By a terrific effort he turned, captured a footingupon the edge with his fore-hooves, and struggled frantically to draghimself up again upon the ledge. But the bear's paw struck him acrashing buffet straight between the wildly staring eyes. He fellbackwards, turning clean over, and went bouncing, in tremendoussprawling curves, down into the abyss.

Upon the defeat of their leader the two cows and the calf turnedinstantly—which the ledge at their point was wide enough topermit—and fled back down the trail at a pace which seemed to threatentheir own destruction. The bear followed more prudently, with noapparent thought of trying to overtake them. And Pedler kept on behindhim, taking care, however, after this exhibition of his champion'sprowess, not to press him too closely.

The fleeing herd soon disappeared from view. It seemed to haveeffectually cleared the trail before it, for the curious procession ofthe bear and Peddler encountered no further obstacles.

After about an hour the lower slopes of the mountain were reached. Theledge widened and presently broke up, with trails leading off here andthere among the foothills. At the first of these that appeared tooffer concealment the bear turned aside and vanished into a dense groveof spruce with a haste which seemed to Peddler highly amusing in abeast of such capacity and courage. He was well content, however, tobe so easily quit of his dangerous advance guard.

"A durn good thing for me," he mused, "that that there b'ar never gotup the nerve to call my bluff, or I might 'a' been layin' now wherethat onlucky old bull-moose is layin', with a lot o' flies crawlin'over me!"

And as he trudged along the now easy and ordinary trail, he registeredtwo discreet resolutions—first, that never again would he cross OldBald Face without his gun and his axe; and, second, that never againwould he cross Old Bald Face at all, unless he jolly well had to.

II

THE EAGLE

The Eagle

He sat upon the very topmost perch under the open-work dome of hisspacious and lofty cage. This perch was one of three or four loppedlimbs jutting from a dead tree-trunk erected in the centre of thecage—a perch far other than that great branch of thunder-blasted pine,out-thrust from the seaward-facing cliff, whereon he had been wont tosit in his own land across the ocean.

He sat with his snowy, gleaming, flat-crowned head drawn back betweenthe dark shoulders of his slightly uplifted wings. His black andyellow eyes, unwinking, bright and hard like glass, stared out fromunder his overhanging brows with a kind of darting and defiant inquiryquite unlike their customary expression of tameless despair. That dullworld outside the bars of his cage, that hated, gaping, inquisitiveworld which he had ever tried to ignore by staring at the sun or gazinginto the deeps of sky overhead, how it had changed since yesterday!The curious crowds, the gabbling voices were gone. Even the highbuildings of red brick or whitish-grey stone, beyond the iron palingsof the park, were going, toppling down with a slow, dizzy lurch, orleaping suddenly into the air with a roar and a huge belch of brown andorange smoke and scarlet flame. Here and there he saw men runningwildly. Here and there he saw other men lying quite still—sprawling,inert shapes an the close-cropped grass, or the white asphalted walks,or the tossed pavement of the street. He knew that these inert,sprawling shapes were men, and that the men were dead; and the sightfilled his exile heart with triumph. Men were his enemies, hisgaolers, his opponents, and now at last—he knew not how—he wastasting vengeance. The once smooth green turf around his cage wasbecoming pitted with strange yellow-brown holes. These holes, he hadnoticed, always appeared after a burst of terrific noise, and lividflame, and coloured smoke, followed by a shower of clods and pebbles,and hard fragments which sometimes flew right through his cage with avicious hum. There was a deadly force in these humming fragments. Heknew it, for his partner in captivity, a golden eagle of the Alps, hadbeen hit by one of them, and now lay dead on the littered floor belowhim, a mere heap of bloody feathers. Certain of the iron bars of thecage, too, had been struck and cut through, as neatly as his own hookedbeak would sever the paw of a rabbit.

The air was full of tremendous crashing, buffeting sounds and suddenfierce gusts, which forced him to tighten the iron grip of his talonsupon the perch. In the centre of the little park pond, some fifty feetfrom his cage, clustered a panic-stricken knot of eight or ten fancyducks and two pairs of red-billed coot, all that remained of the flockof water-birds which had formerly screamed and gabbled over the pool.This little cluster was in a state of perpetual ferment, those on theoutside struggling to get into the centre, those on the inside strivingto keep their places. From time to time one or two on the outer ringwould dive under and force their way up in the middle of the press,where they imagined themselves more secure. But presently they wouldfind themselves on the outside again, whereupon, in frantic haste, theywould repeat the manoeuvre. The piercing glance of the eagle took inand dismissed this futile panic with immeasurable scorn. With likescorn, too, he noted the three gaunt cranes which had been wont tostalk so arrogantly among the lesser fowl and drive them from theirmeals. These once domineering birds were now standing huddled, theirdrooped heads close together, beneath a dense laurel thicket justbehind the cage, their long legs quaking at every explosion.

Amid all this destroying tumult and flying death the eagle had no fear.He was merely excited by it. If a fragment of shell sang past hishead, he never flinched, his level stare never even filmed or wavered.The roar and crash, indeed, and the monstrous buffetings of tormentedair, seemed to assuage the long ache of his home-sickness. Theyreminded him of the hurricane racing past his ancient pine, of thegiant waves shattering themselves with thunderous jar upon the cliffbelow. From time to time, as if his nerves were straining withirresistible exultation, he would lift himself to his full height, halfspread his wings, stretch forward his gleaming white neck, and giveutterance to a short, strident, yelping cry. Then he would settle backupon his perch again, and resume his fierce contemplation of the ruinthat was falling on the city.

Suddenly an eleven-inch shell dropped straight in the centre of thepool and exploded on the concrete bottom which underlay the mud. Halfthe pool went up in the colossal eruption of blown flame and steam andsmoke. Even here on his perch the eagle found himself spattered anddrenched. When the shrunken surface of the pool had closed again overthe awful vortex, and the smoke had drifted off to join itself to thedark cloud which hung over the city, the little flock of ducks and cootwas nowhere to be seen. It simply was not. But a bleeding fragment offlesh, with some purple-and-chestnut feathers clinging to it, lay uponthe bottom of the cage. This morsel caught the eagle's eye. He hadbeen forgotten for the past two days—the old one-legged keeper of thecages having vanished—and he was ravenous with hunger. He hopped downbriskly to the floor, grabbed the morsel, and gulped it. Then helooked around hopefully for more. There were no more such opportunetit-bits within the cage, but just outside he saw the half of a bigcarp, which had been torn in twain by a caprice of the explosion andtossed up here upon the grass. This was just such a morsel as he wascraving. He thrust one great talon out between the bars and clutchedat the prize. But it was beyond his reach. Disappointed, he tried theother claw, balancing himself on one leg with widespread wings.Stretch and struggle as he would, it was all in vain. The fish lay toofar off. Then he tried reaching through the bars with his head. Heelongated his neck till he almost thought he was a heron, and till hisgreat beak was snapping hungrily within an inch or two of the prize.But not a hair's-breadth closer could he get. At last, in a cold fury,he gave it up, and drew back, and shook himself to rearrange the muchdishevelled feathers of his neck.

Just at this moment, while he was still on the floor of the cage, ahigh-velocity shell came by. With its flat trajectory it passed justoverhead, swept the dome of the cage clean out of existence, andwhizzed onwards to explode, with a curious grunting crash, somehundreds of yards beyond. The eagle looked up and gazed for someseconds before realizing that his prison was no longer a prison. Thepath was clear above him to the free spaces of the air. But he was inno unseemly haste. His eye measured accurately the width of the exit,and saw that it was awkwardly narrow for his great spread of wing. Hecould not essay it directly from the ground, his quarters being toostraitened for free flight. Hopping upwards from limb to limb of theroosting-tree, he regained the topmost perch, and found that, thoughsplit by a stray splinter of the cage, it was still able to bear hisweight. From this point he sprang straight upwards, with one beat ofhis wings. But the wing-tips struck violently against each side of theopening, and he was thrown back with such force that only by a furiousflopping and struggle could he regain his footing on the perch.

After this unexpected rebuff he sat quiet for perhaps half a minute,staring fixedly at the exit. He was not going to fail again throughmisjudgment. The straight top of the roosting-tree extended for aboutthree feet above his perch, but this extension being of no use to him,he had never paid any heed to it hitherto. Now, however, he marked itwith new interest. It was close below the hole in the roof. Heflopped up to it, balanced himself for a second, and once more sprangfor the opening, but this time with a short, convulsive beat of wingsonly half spread. The leap carried him almost through, but not farenough for him to get another stroke of his wings. Clutching outwildly with stretched talons, he succeeded in catching the end of abroken bar. Desperately he clung to it, resisting the natural impulseto help himself by flapping his wings. Reaching out with his beak, hegripped another bar, and so steadied himself till he could gain afoothold with both talons. Then slowly, like a dog getting over awall, he dragged himself forth, and stood at last free on the outerside of the bars which had been so long his prison.

But the first thing he thought of was not freedom. It was fish. Forperhaps a dozen seconds he gazed about him majestically, and scannedwith calm the toppling and crashing world. Then spreading his splendidwings to their fullest extent, with no longer any fear of them strikingagainst iron bars, he dropped down to the grass beside the cage andclutched the body of the slain carp. He was no more than just in time,for a second later a pair of mink, released from their captivity inperhaps the same way as he had been, came gliding furtively around thebase of the cage, intent upon the same booty. He turned his head overhis shoulder and gave them one look, then fell to tearing and gulpinghis meal as unconcernedly as if the two savage little beasts had beenfield mice. The mink stopped short, flashed white fangs at him in asoundless snarl of hate, and whipped about to forage in some moreauspicious direction.

When the eagle had finished his meal—which took him, indeed, scarcelymore time than takes to tell of it—he wiped his great beakmeticulously on the turf. While he was doing so, a shell burst so nearhim that he was half smothered in dry earth. Indignantly he shookhimself, hopped a pace or two aside, ruffled up his feathers, andproceeded to make his toilet as scrupulously as if no shells or suddendeath were within a thousand miles of him.

The toilet completed to his satisfaction, he took a little flapping runand rose into the air. He flew straight for the highest point withinhis view, which chanced to be the slender, soaring spire of a churchsomewhere about the centre of the city. As he mounted on a long slant,he came into the level where most of the shells were travelling, fortheir objective was not the little park with its "Zoo," but a line offortifications some distance beyond. Above, below, around him streamedthe terrible projectiles, whinnying or whistling, shrieking or roaring,each according to its calibre and its type. It seemed a miracle thathe should come through that zone unscathed; but his vision was sopowerful and all-embracing, his judgment of speed and distance soinstantaneous and unerring, that he was able to avoid, without apparenteffort, all but the smallest and least visible shells, and theselatter, by the favour of Fate, did not come his way. He was moreannoyed, indeed, by certain volleys of debris which occasionallyspouted up at him with a disagreeable noise, and by the evil-smellingsmoke clouds, which came volleying about him without any reason that hecould discern. He flapped up to a higher level to escape theseannoyances, and so found himself above the track of the shells. Thenhe made for the church spire, and perched himself upon the tip of thegreat weather-vane. It was exactly what he wanted—a lofty observationpost from which to view the country round about before deciding inwhich direction he would journey.

From this high post he noticed that, while he was well above one zoneof shells, there was still another zone of them screaming far overhead.These projectiles of the upper strata of air were travelling in theopposite direction. He marked that they came from a crowded line ofsmoke-bursts and blinding flashes just beyond the boundary of the city.He decided that, upon resuming his journey, he would fly at the presentlevel, and so avoid traversing again either of the zones of death.

Much to his disappointment, he found that his present observation postdid not give him as wide a view as he had hoped for. The city of hiscaptivity, he now saw, was set upon the loop of a silver stream in thecentre of a saucer-like valley. In every direction his view waslimited by low, encircling hills. Along one sector of thiscircuit—that from which the shells of the lower stratum seemed to himto be issuing—the hill-rim and the slopes below it were fringed withvomiting smoke-clouds and biting spurts of fire. This did not,however, influence in the least his choice of the direction in which tojourney. Instinct, little by little, as he sat there on the slowlyveering vane, was deciding that point for him. His gaze was fixingitself more and more towards the north, or, rather, the north-west; forsomething seemed to whisper in his heart that there was where he wouldfind the wild solitudes which he longed for. The rugged andmist-wreathed peaks of Scotland or North Wales, though he knew themnot, were calling to him in his new-found freedom.

The call, however, was not yet strong enough to be determining, so,having well fed and being beyond measure content with his liberty, helingered on his skyey perch and watched the crash of the opposingbombardments. The quarter of the town immediately beneath him had sofar suffered little from the shells, and the church showed no signs ofdamage except for one gaping hole in the roof. But along the line ofthe fortifications there seemed to be but one gigantic boiling of smokeand flames, with continual spouting fountains of debris. Thisinexplicable turmoil held his interest for a few moments. Then, whilehe was wondering what it all meant, an eleven-inch shell struck thechurch spire squarely about thirty feet below him.

The explosion almost stunned him. The tip of the spire—with theweather-cock, and the eagle still clinging to it—went rocketingstraight up into the air amid a stifling cloud of black smoke, whilethe rest of the structure, down to a dozen feet below the point ofimpact, was blown to the four winds. Half stunned though he was, theamazed bird kept his wits about him, and clutched firmly to his flyingperch till it reached the end of its flight and turned to fall. Thenhe spread his wings wide and let go. The erratic mass of wood andmetal dropped away, and left him floating, half-blinded, in the heartof the smoke-cloud. A couple of violent wing-beats, however, carriedhim clear of the cloud; and at once he shaped his course upwards, assteeply as he could mount, smitten with a sudden desire for the calmand the solitude which were associated in his memory with the uppermostdeeps of air.

The fire from the city batteries had just now slackened for a little,and the great bird's progress carried him through the higher shell zonewithout mishap. In a minute or two he was far above those strangeflocks which flew so straight and swift, and made such incomprehensiblenoises in their flight. Presently, too, he was above the smoke, thevery last wisps of it having thinned off into the clear, dry air. Henow began to find that he had come once more into his own peculiarrealm, the realm of the upper sky, so high that, as he thought, noother living creature could approach him. He arrested his ascent, andbegan to circle slowly on still wings, surveying the earth.

But now he received, for the first time, a shock. Hitherto the mostastounding happenings had failed to startle him, but now a pang ofsomething very like fear shot through his stout heart. A little tosouthward of the city he saw a vast pale-yellow elongated form risingswiftly, without any visible effort, straight into the sky. Had heever seen a sausage, he would have thought that this yellow monster wasshaped like one. Certain fine cords descended from it, reaching allthe way to the earth, and below its middle hung a basket, with a man init. It rose to a height some hundreds of feet beyond the level onwhich the eagle had been feeling himself supreme. Then it came torest, and hung there, swaying slowly in the mild wind.

His apprehension speedily giving way to injured pride, the eagle flewupwards, in short, steep spirals, as fast as his wings could drive him.Not till he could once more look down upon the fat back of theglistening yellow monster did he regain his mood of unruffled calm.But he regained it only to have it stripped from him, a minute later,with tenfold lack of ceremony. For far above him—so high that evenhis undaunted wings would never venture thither—he heard a fierce andterrible humming sound. He saw something like a colossal bird—orrather, it was more suggestive of a dragonfly than a bird—speedingtowards him with never a single beat of its vast, pale wings. Itsspeed was appalling. The eagle was afraid, but not with any foolishpanic. He knew that even as a sparrow would be to him, so would he beto this unheard-of sovereign of the skies. Therefore it was possiblethe sovereign of the skies would ignore him and seek a more worthyopponent. Yes, it was heading towards the giant sausage. And thesausage, plainly, had no stomach for the encounter. It seemed toshrink suddenly; and with sickening lurches it began to descend, as ifstrong hands were tugging upon the cords which anchored it to earth.The eagle winged off modestly to one side, but not far enough to missanything of the stupendous encounter which he felt was coming. Here,at last, were events of a strangeness and a terror to move even hiscool spirit out of its indifference.

Now the giant insect was near enough for the eagle to mark that it hadeyes on the under-sides of its wings—immense, round, coloured eyes ofred and white and blue. Its shattering hum shook the eagle's nerves,steady and seasoned though they were. Slanting slightly downwards, itdarted straight toward the sausage, which was now wallowing fatly inits convulsive efforts to descend. At the same time the eagle caughtsight of another of the giant birds, or insects, somewhat different inshape and colour from the first, darting up from the oppositedirection. Was it, too, he wondered, coming to attack the terrifiedsausage, or to defend it?

Before he could find an answer to this exciting question, the firstmonster had arrived directly above the sausage and was circling over itat some height, glaring down upon it with those great staring eyes ofits wings. Something struck the sausage fairly in the back.Instantly, with a tremendous windy roar, the sausage vanished in asheet of flame. The monster far above it rocked and plunged in theuprush of tormented air, the waves of which reached even to where theeagle hung poised, and forced him to flap violently in order to keephis balance against them.

A few moments later the second monster arrived. The eagle saw at oncethat the two were enemies. The first dived headlong at the second,spitting fire, with a loud and dreadful rap-rap-rapping noise, from itsstrange blunt muzzle. The two circled around each other, and over andunder each other, at a speed which made even the eagle dizzy withamazement; and he saw that it was something more deadly than fire whichspurted from their blunt snouts; for every now and then small things,which travelled too fast for him to see, twanged past him with avicious note which he knew for the voice of death. He edged discreetlyfarther away. Evidently this battle of the giants was dangerous tospectators. His curiosity was beginning to get sated. He was on thepoint of leaving the danger area altogether, when the dreadful duelcame suddenly to an end. He saw the second monster plunge drunkenly,in wild, ungoverned lurches, and then drop head first, down, down,down, straight as a stone, till it crashed into the earth and instantlyburst into flame. He saw the great still eyes of the victor staringdown inscrutably upon the wreck of its foe. Then he saw it whirlsharply—tilting its rigid wings at so steep an angle that it almostseemed about to overturn—and dart away again in the direction fromwhich it had come. He saw the reason for this swift departure. Aflock of six more monsters, of the breed of the one just slain, camesweeping up from the south to take vengeance for their comrade's defeat.

The eagle had no mind to await them. He had had enough of wonders, andthe call in his heart had suddenly grown clear and intelligible.Mounting still upward till he felt the air growing thin beneath hiswing-beats, he headed northwards as fast as he could fly. He had nomore interest now in the amazing panorama which unrolled beneath him,in the thundering and screaming flights of shell which sped past in thelower strata of the air. He was intent only upon gaining the wildsolitudes of which he dreamed. He marked others of the monsters whichhe so dreaded, journeying sometimes alone, sometimes in flocks, butalways with the same implacable directness of flight, always with thatangry and menacing hum which, of all the sounds he had ever heard,alone had power to shake his bold heart. He noticed that sometimes thesky all about these monsters would be filled with sudden bursts offleecy cloud, looking soft as wool; and once he saw one of theseapparently harmless clouds burst full on the nose of one of themonsters, which instantly flew apart and went hurtling down to earth inrevolving fragments. But he was no longer curious. He gave them allas wide a berth as possible, and sped on, without delaying to notetheir triumphs or their defeats.

At last the earth grew green again below him. The monsters, the smoke,the shells, the flames, the thunders, were gradually left behind, andfar ahead at last he saw the sea, flashing gold and sapphire beneaththe summer sun. Soon—for he flew swiftly—it was almost beneath him.His heart exulted at the sight. Then across that stretch of gleamingtide he saw a dim line of cliffs—white cliffs, such cliffs as hedesired.

But at this point, when he was so near his goal, that Fate which hadalways loved to juggle with him decided to show him a new one of hertricks. Two more monsters appeared, diving steeply from the blue abovehim. One was pursuing the other. Quite near him the pursuer overtookits quarry, and the two spat fire at each other with that stridentrap-rap-rapping sound which he so disliked. He swerved as wide aspossible from the path of their terrible combat, and paid no heed toits outcome. But, as he fled, something struck him near the tip of hisleft wing.

The shock went through him like a needle of ice or fire, and hedropped, leaving a little cloud of feathers in the air above to settleslowly after him. He turned once completely over as he fell. Butpresently; with terrific effort, he succeeded in regaining a partialbalance. He could no longer fully support himself, still less continuehis direct flight; but he managed to keep on an even keel and to delayhis fall. He knew that to drop into the sea below him was certaindeath. But he had marked that the sea was dotted with peculiar-lookingships—long, narrow, dark ships—which travelled furiously, vomitingblack smoke and carrying a white mass of foam in their teeth,Supporting himself, with the last ounce of his strength, till one ofthese rushing ships was just about to pass below him, he let himselfdrop, and landed sprawling on the deck.

Half stunned though he was, he recovered himself almost instantly,clawed up to his feet, steadied himself with one outstretched wingagainst the pitching of the deck, and defied, with hard, undaunted eyeand threatening beak, a tall figure in blue, white-capped andgold-braided, which stood smiling down upon him.

"By Jove," exclaimed Sub-Lieutenant James Smith, "here's luck: UncleSam's own chicken, which he's sent us as a mascot till his ships canget over and take a hand in the game with us: Delighted to see you, oldbird: You've come to the right spot, you have, and we'll do the best wecan to make you comfortable."

III

COCK-CROW

Cock-Crow

He was a splendid bird, a thoroughbred "Black-breasted Red" game-cock,his gorgeous plumage hard as mail, silken with perfect condition, andglowing like a flame against the darkness of the spruce forest. Hissnaky head—the comb and wattles had been trimmed close, after the modelaid down for his aristocratic kind—was sharp and keen, like a livingspearpoint. His eyes were fierce and piercing, ready ever to meet thegaze of bird, or beast, or man himself with the unwinking challenge oftheir full, arrogant stare. Perched upon a stump a few yards from therailway line, he turned that bold stare now, with an air of unperturbedsuperciliousness, upon the wreck of the big freight-car from which hehad just escaped. He had escaped by a miracle, but little effect hadthat upon his bold and confident spirit. The ramshackle, overladenfreight train, labouring up the too-steep gradient, had broken in two,thanks to a defective coupler, near the top of the incline a mile and ahalf away. The rear cars—heavy box-cars—had, of course, run back,gathering a terrific momentum as they went. The rear brakeman, hisbrakes failing to hold, had discreetly jumped before the speed becametoo great. At the foot of the incline a sharp curve had proved toomuch for the runaways to negotiate. With a screech of tortured metalthey had jumped the track and gone crashing down the high embankment.One car, landing on a granite boulder, had split apart like a cleftmelon. The light crate in which our game-cock, a pedigree bird, wasbeing carried to a fancier in the nearest town, some three score milesaway, had survived by its very lightness. But its door had beensnapped open. The cock walked out deliberately, uttered a long, lowkrr-rr-ee of ironic comment upon the disturbance, hopped delicatelyover the tangle of boxes and crates and agricultural implements, andflew to the top of the nearest stump. There he shook himself, hisplumage being disarrayed, though his spirit was not. He flapped hiswings. Then, eyeing the wreckage keenly, he gave a shrill, triumphantcrow, which rang through the early morning stillness of the forest likea challenge. He felt that the smashed car, so lately his prison, was afoe which he had vanquished by his own unaided prowess. His pride wasnot altogether unnatural.

The place where he stood, preening the red glory of his plumage, was inthe very heart of the wilderness. The only human habitation within adozen miles in either direction was a section-man's shanty, guarding asiding and a rusty water tank. The woods—mostly spruce in thatregion, with patches of birch and poplar—had been gone over by thelumbermen some five years before, and still showed the ravages of theinsatiable axe. Their narrow "tote-roads," now deeply mossed andpartly overgrown by small scrub, traversed the lonely spaces in everydirection. One of these roads led straight back into the wildernessfrom the railway—almost from the stump whereon the red cock had hisperch.

The cock had no particular liking for the neighbourhood of theaccident, and when his fierce, inquiring eye fell upon this road, hedecided to investigate, hoping it might lead him to some flock of hisown kind, over whom he would, as a matter of course, promptly establishhis domination. That there would be other cocks there, already incharge, only added to his zest for the adventure. He was raising hiswings to hop down from his perch, when a wide-winged shadow passed overhim, and he checked himself, glancing upwards sharply.

A foraging hawk had just flown overhead. The hawk had never beforeseen a bird like the bright figure standing on the stump, and he pausedin his flight, hanging for a moment on motionless wing to scrutinizethe strange apparition. But he was hungry, and he considered himselfmore than a match for anything in feathers except the eagle, thegoshawk, and the great horned owl. His hesitation was but for asecond, and, with a sudden mighty thrust of his wide wings, he swoopeddown upon this novel victim.

The big hawk was accustomed to seeing every quarry he stooped at cowerparalysed with terror or scurry for shelter in wild panic. But, to hissurprise, this infatuated bird on the stump stood awaiting him, withwings half lifted, neck feathers raised in defiant ruff, and one eyecocked upwards warily. He was so surprised, in fact, that at adistance of some dozen or fifteen feet he wavered and paused in hisdownward rush. But it was surprise only, fear having small place inhis wild, marauding heart. In the next second he swooped again andstruck downwards at his quarry with savage, steel-hard talons.

He struck but empty air. At exactly the right fraction of the instantthe cock had leapt upwards on his powerful wings, lightly as athistle-seed, but swift as if shot from a catapult. He passed straightover his terrible assailant's back. In passing he struck downwardswith his spurs, which were nearly three inches long, straight, andtapered almost to a needle-point. One of these deadly weapons foundits mark, as luck would have it, fair in the joint of the hawk'sshoulder, putting the wing clean out of action.

The marauder turned completely over and fell in a wild flutter to theground, the cock, at the same time, alighting gracefully six or eightfeet away and wheeling like a flash to meet a second attack. The hawk,recovering with splendid nerve from the amazing shock of his overthrow,braced himself upright on his tail by the aid of the one soundwing—the other wing trailing helplessly—and faced his strangeadversary with open beak and one clutching talon uplifted.

The cock, fighting after the manner of his kind, rushed in to within acouple of feet of his foe and there paused, balanced for the nextstroke or parry, legs slightly apart, wings lightly raised, neckfeathers ruffed straight out, beak lowered and presented like a rapierpoint. Seeing that his opponent made no demonstration, but simplywaited, watching him with eyes as hard and bright and dauntless as hisown, he tried to provoke him to a second attack. With scornfulinsolence he dropped his guard and pecked at a twig or a grass blade,jerking the unconsidered morsel aside and presenting his point againwith lightning swiftness.

The insult, however, was lost upon the hawk, who had no knowledge ofthe cock's duelling code. He simply waited, motionless as the stumpbeside him.

The cock, perceiving that taunt and insolence were wasted, now began tocircle warily toward the left, as if to take his opponent in the flank.The hawk at once shifted front to face him. But this was the side ofhis disabled wing. The sprawling member would not move, would not getout of the way. In the effort to manage it, he partly lost hisprecarious balance. The cock saw his advantage instantly. He dashedin like a feathered and flaming thunderbolt, leaping upwards andstriking downwards with his destroying heels. The hawk was hurled overbackwards, with one spur through his throat, the other through hislungs. As he fell he dragged his conqueror down with him, and oneconvulsive but blindly-clutching talon ripped away a strip of flesh andfeathers from the victor's thigh. There was a moment's flapping, a fewdelicate red feathers floated off upon the morning air, then the hawklay quite still, and the red cock, stepping haughtily off the body ofhis foe, crowed long and shrill, three times, as if challenging anyother champions of the wilderness to come and dare a like fate.

For a few minutes he stood waiting and listening for an answer to hischallenge. As no answer came, he turned, without deigning to glance athis slain foe, and stalked off, stepping daintily, up the old wood-roadand into the depths of the forest. To the raw, red gash in his thighhe paid no heed whatever.

Having no inkling of the fact that the wilderness, silent and desertedthough it seemed, was full of hostile eyes and unknown perils, he tookno care at all for the secrecy of his going. Indeed, had he strivenfor concealment, his brilliant colouring, so out of key with the forestgloom, would have made it almost impossible. Nevertheless, hiskeenness of sight and hearing, his practised and unsleeping vigilanceas protector of his flock, stood him in good stead, and made up for hislack of wilderness lore. It was with an intense interest andcuriosity, rather than with any apprehension, that his bold eyesquestioned everything on either side of his path through the darkspruce woods. Sometimes he would stop to peck the bright vermilionbunches of the pigeon-berry, which here and there starred the hillocksbeside the road. But no matter how interesting he found the novel anddelicious fare, his vigilance never relaxed. It was, indeed, almostautomatic. The idea lurking in his subconscious processes was probablythat he might at any moment be seen by some doughty rival of his ownkind, and challenged to the great game of mortal combat. But whateverthe object of his watchfulness, it served him as well against theunknown as it could have done against expected foes.

Presently he came to a spot where an old, half-rotted stump had beentorn apart by a bear hunting for wood-ants. The raw earth about theup-torn roots tempted the wanderer to scratch for grubs. Finding a fatwhite morsel, much too dainty to be devoured alone, he stood over itand began to callkt-kt-kt, kt-kt-kt, kt-kt-kt, in his most alluringtones, hoping that some coy young hen would come stealing out of theunderbrush in response to his gallant invitation. There was no suchresponse; but as he peered about hopefully, he caught sight of asinister, reddish-yellow shape creeping towards him behind the shelterof a withe-wood bush. He gulped down the fat grub, and stood warilyeyeing the approach of this new foe.

It looked to him like a sharp-nosed, bushy-tailed yellow dog—a verysavage and active one. He was not afraid, but he knew himself no matchfor a thoroughly ferocious dog of that size. This one, it was clear,had evil designs upon him. He half crouched, with wings loosed andevery muscle tense for the spring.

The next instant the fox pounced at him, darting through the greenedges of the withe-wood bush with most disconcerting suddenness. Thecock sprang into the air, but only just in time, for the fox, leapingup nimbly at him with snapping jaws, captured a mouthful of glossy failfeathers. The cock alighted on a branch overhead, some seven or eightfeet from the ground, whipped around, stretched his neck downwards, andeyed his assailant with a glassy stare. "Kr-rr-rr-eee?" he murmuredsoftly, as if in sarcastic interrogation. The fox, exasperated at hisfailure, and hating, above all beasts, to be made a fool of, glancedaround to see if there were any spectators. Then, with an air ofelaborate indifference, he pawed a feather from the corner of his mouthand trotted away as if he had just remembered something.

He had not gone above thirty yards or so, when the cock flew down againto the exact spot where he had been scratching. He pretended to pickup another grub, all the time keeping an eye on the retiring foe. Hecrowed with studied insolence; but the fox, although that long andshrill defiance must have seemed a startling novelty, gave no sign ofhaving heard it. The cock crowed again, with the same lack of result.He kept on crowing until the fox was out of sight. Then he returnedcoolly to his scratching. When he had satisfied his appetite for fatwhite grubs, he flew up again to his safe perch and fell to preeninghis feathers. Five minutes later the fox reappeared, creeping up withinfinite stealth from quite another direction. The cock, however,detected his approach at once, and proclaimed the fact with anothermocking crow. Disgusted and abashed, the fox turned in his tracks andcrept away to stalk some less sophisticated quarry.

The wanderer, for all his fearlessness, was wise. He suspected thatthe vicious yellow dog with the bushy tail might return yet again tothe charge. For a time, therefore, he sat on his perch, digesting hismeal and studying with keen, inquisitive eyes his strange surroundings.After ten minutes or so of stillness and emptiness, the forest began tocome alive. He saw a pair of black-and-white woodpeckers running upand down the trunk of a half-dead tree, and listened with tenseinterest to their loud rat-tat-tattings. He watched the shy wood-micecome out from their snug holes under the tree-roots, and play aboutwith timorous gaiety and light rustlings among the dead leaves. Hescrutinized with appraising care a big brown rabbit which came boundingin a leisurely fashion down the tote-road and sat up on itshindquarters near the stump, staring about with its mild, bulging eyes,and waving its long ears this way and that, to question every minutestwilderness sound; and he decided that the rabbit, for all its bulk andapparent vigour of limb, would not be a dangerous opponent. In fact,he thought of hopping down from his perch and putting the big innocentto flight, just to compensate himself for having had to flee from thefox.

But while he was meditating this venture, the rabbit went suddenlyleaping off at a tremendous pace, evidently in great alarm. A fewseconds later a slim little light-brownish creature, with short legs,long, sinuous body, short, triangular head, and cruel eyes that glowedlike fire, came into view, following hard upon the rabbit's trail. Itwas nothing like half the rabbit's size, but the interested watcher onthe branch overhead understood at once the rabbit's terror. He hadnever seen a weasel before, but he knew that the sinuous little beastwith the eyes of death would be as dangerous almost as the fox. Henoted that here was another enemy to look out for—to be avoided, ifpossible, to be fought with the utmost wariness if fighting should beforced upon him.

Not long after the weasel had vanished, the cock grew tired of waiting,and restless to renew the quest for the flock on which his dreams wereset. He started by flying from tree to tree, still keeping along thecourse of the tote-road. But after he had covered perhaps a half-milein this laborious fashion, he gave it up and hopped down again into theroad. Here he went now with new caution, but with the same oldarrogance of eye and bearing. He went quickly, however, for the gloomof the spruce wood had grown oppressive to him, and he wanted openfields and the unrestricted sun.

He had not gone far when he caught sight of a curious-looking animaladvancing slowly down the path to meet him. It was nearly as big asthe rabbit, but low on the legs; and instead of leaping along, itcrawled with a certain heavy deliberation. Its colour was a dingy,greyish black-and-white, and its short black head was crowned with whatlooked like a heavy iron-grey pompadour brushed well back. The cockstood still, eyeing its approach suspiciously. It did not look capableof any very swift demonstration, but he was on his guard.

When it had come within three or four yards of him, he said"Kr-rr-rr-eee!" sharply, just to see what it would do, at the sametime lowering his snaky head and ruffing out his neck feathers inchallenge. The stranger seemed then to notice him for the first time,and instantly, to the cock's vast surprise, it enlarged itself to fullytwice its previous size. Its fur, which was now seen to be quillsrather than fur, stood up straight on end all over its head and body,and the quills were two or three inches in length. At this amazingspectacle the cock involuntarily backed away several paces. Thestranger came straight on, however, without hastening his deliberatesteps one jot. The cock waited, maintaining his attitude of challenge,till not more than three or four feet separated him from theincomprehensible apparition. Then he sprang lightly over it and turnedin a flash, expecting the stranger to turn also and again confront him.The stranger, however, did nothing of the kind, but simply continuedstolidly on his way, not even troubling to look round. Such stoliditywas more than the cock could understand, having never encountered aporcupine before. He stared after it for some moments. Then he crowedscornfully, turned about, and resumed his lonely quest.

A little farther on, to his great delight, he came out into a smallclearing with a log cabin in the centre of it. A house! It wasassociated in his mind with an admiring, devoted flock of hens, andrivals to be ignominiously routed, and harmless necessary humans whosebusiness it was to supply unlimited food. He rushed forward eagerly,careless as to whether he should encounter love or war.

Alas, the cabin was deserted! Even to his inexperienced eye it waslong deserted. The door hung on one hinge, half open; the one smallwindow had no glass in it. Untrodden weeds grew among the rottingchips up to and across the threshold. The roof—a rough affair ofpoles and bark—sagged in the middle, just ready to fall in at thesmallest provocation. A red squirrel, his tail carried jauntily overhis back, sat on the topmost peak of it and shrilled high derision atthe wanderer as he approached.

The cock was acquainted with squirrels, and thought less than nothingof them. Ignoring the loud chatter, he tip-toed around the cabin,dejected but still inquisitive. Returning at length to the doorway, hepeered in, craning his neck and uttering a lowkr-rr. Finally, withhead held high, he stalked in. The place was empty, save for a longbench with a broken leg and a joint of rust-eaten stove-pipe. Alongtwo of the walls ran a double tier of bunks, in which the lumbermen hadformerly slept. The cock stalked all around the place, prying in everycorner and murmuring softly to himself. At last he flew up to thehighest bunk, perched upon the edge of it, flapped his wings, andcrowed repeatedly, as if announcing to the wilderness at large that hehad taken possession. This ceremony accomplished, he flew down again,stalked out into the sunlight, and fell to scratching among the chipswith an air of assured possession. And all the while the red squirrelkept on hurling shrill, unheeded abuse at him, resenting him as anintruder in the wilds.

Whenever the cock found a particularly choice grub or worm or beetle,he would hold it aloft in his beak, then lay it down and call loudlykt-kt-kt-kt-kt-kt, as if hoping thus to lure some flock of hens tothe fair domain which he had seized. He had now dropped his quest, andwas trusting that his subjects would come to him. That afternoon hisvaliant calls caught the ear of a weasel—possibly the very one whichhe had seen in the morning trailing the panic-stricken rabbit. Theweasel came rushing upon him at once, too ferocious in its blood-lustfor any such emotions as surprise or curiosity, and expecting an easyconquest. The cock saw it coming, and knew well the danger. But hewas now on his own ground, responsible for the protection of animaginary flock. He faced the peril unwavering. Fortunately for him,the weasel had no idea whatever of a fighting-cock's method of warfare.When the cock evaded the deadly rush by leaping straight at it and overit, instead of dodging aside or turning tail, the weasel was nonplussedfor just a fraction of a second, and stood snarling. In that instantof hesitation the cock's keen spur struck it fairly behind the ear, anddrove clean into the brain. The murderous little beast stiffened out,rolled gently over upon its side, and lay there with the soundlesssnarl fixed upon its half-opened jaws. Surprised at such an easyvictory, the cock spurred the carcase again, just to make sure of it.Then he kicked it to one side, crowed, of course, and stared aroundwistfully for some appreciation of his triumph. He could not know withwhat changed eyes the squirrel—who feared weasels more than anythingelse on earth—was now regarding him.

The killing of so redoubtable an adversary as the weasel must havebecome known, in some mysterious fashion, for thenceforward no more ofthe small marauders of the forest ventured to challenge the newlordship of the clearing. For a week the cock ruled his solitudeunquestioned, very lonely, but sleeplessly alert, and ever hoping thatfollowers of his own kind would come to him from somewhere. In time,doubtless, his loneliness would have driven him forth again upon hisquest; but Fate had other things in store for him.

Late one afternoon a grizzled woodsman in grey homespun, and carrying abundle swung from the axe over his shoulder, came striding up to thecabin. The cock, pleased to see a human being once more, stalked forthfrom the cabin door to meet him. The woodsman was surprised at thesight of what he called a "reel barn-yard rooster" away off here in thewilds, but he was too tired and hungry to consider the questioncarefully. His first thought was that there would be a pleasantaddition to his supper of bacon and biscuits. He dropped his axe andbundle, and made a swift grab at the unsuspecting bird. The latterdodged cleverly, ruffed his neck feathers with an angrykr-rr-rr,hopped up, and spurred the offending hand severely.

The woodsman straightened himself up, taken by surprise, and sheepishlyshook the blood from his hand.

"Well, I'll be durned!" he muttered, eyeing the intrepid cock withadmiration. "You're some rooster, you are! I guess you're all right.Guess I deserved that, for thinkin' of wringin' the neck o' sech ahandsome an' gritty bird as you, an' me with plenty o' good bacon in mepack. Guess we'll call it square, eh?"

He felt in his pocket for some scraps of biscuits, and tossed them tothe cock, who picked them up greedily and then strutted around him,plainly begging for more. The biscuit was a delightful change after anunvarying diet of grubs and grass. Thereafter he followed his visitorabout like his shadow, not with servility, of course, but with acertain condescending arrogance which the woodsman found hugely amusing.

Just outside the cabin door the woodsman lit a fire to cook his eveningrasher and brew his tin of tea. The cock supped with him, stridingwith dignity to pick up the scraps which were thrown to him, and thenresuming his place at the other side of the fire. By the time the manwas done, dusk had fallen; and the cock, chuckling contentedly in histhroat, tip-toed into the cabin, flew up to the top bunk, and settledhimself on his perch for the night. He had always been taught toexpect benefits from men, and he felt that this big stranger who hadfed him so generously would find him a flock to preside over on themorrow.

After a long smoke beside his dying fire, till the moon came up abovethe ghostly solitude, the woodsman turned in to sleep in one of thelower bunks, opposite to where the cock was roosting. He had heaped anarmful of bracken and spruce branches into the bunk before spreadinghis blanket. And he slept very soundly.

Even the most experienced of woodsmen may make a slip at times. Thisone, this time, had forgotten to make quite sure that his fire was out.There was no wind when he went to bed, but soon afterwards a windarose, blowing steadily toward the cabin. It blew the darkened embersto a glow, and little, harmless-looking flames began eating their wayover the top layer of tinder-dry chips to the equally dry wall of thecabin.

The cock was awakened by a bright light in his eyes. A fiery glow,beyond the reddest of sunrises, was flooding the cabin. Long tonguesof flame were licking about the doorway. He crowed valiantly, to greetthis splendid, blazing dawn. He crowed again and yet again, because hewas anxious and disturbed. As a sunrise, this one did not act at allaccording to precedent.

The piercing notes aroused the man, who was sleeping heavily. In oneinstant he was out of his bunk and grabbing up his blanket and hispack. In the next he had plunged out through the flaming doorway, andthrown down his armful at a safe distance, cursing acidly at such adisturbance to the most comfortable rest he had enjoyed for a week.

From within the doomed cabin came once more the crow of the cock,shrilling dauntlessly above the crackle and venomous hiss of the flames.

"Gee whizz!" muttered the woodsman, or, rather, that may be taken asthe polite equivalent of his untrammelled backwoods expletive. "Thatthere red rooster's game. Ye can't leave a pardner like that to roast!"

With one arm shielding his face, he dashed in again, grabbed the cockby the legs, and darted forth once more into the sweet, chill air, nonethe worse except for frizzled eyelashes and an unceremonious trimmingof hair and beard. The cock, highly insulted, was flapping and peckingsavagely, but the man soon reduced him to impotence, if not submission,holding him under one elbow while he tied his armed heels together, andthen swaddling him securely in his coat.

"There," said he, "I guess we'll travel together from this out,pardner. Ye've sure saved my life; an' to think I had the notion, fora minnit, o' makin' a meal offen ye! I'll give ye a good home,anyways, an' I guess ye'll lick the socks offen every other rooster inthe whole blame Settlement!"

IV

THE MORNING OF THE SILVER FROST

The Morning of the Silver Frost

All night the big buck rabbit—he was really a hare, but thebackwoodsmen called him a rabbit—had been squatting on his form underthe dense branches of a young fir tree. The branches grew so low thattheir tips touched the snow all round him, giving him almost perfectshelter from the drift of the storm. The storm was one of icy rain,which everywhere froze instantly as it fell. All night it had beenbusy encasing the whole wilderness—every tree and bush and stump, andthe snow in every open meadow or patch of forest glade—in an armour ofice, thick and hard and glassy clear. And the rabbit, crouchingmotionless, save for an occasional forward thrust of his long,sensitive ears, had slept in unwonted security, knowing that none ofhis night-prowling foes would venture forth from their lairs on such anight.

At dawn the rain stopped. The cold deepened to a still intensity. Theclouds lifted along the eastern horizon, and a thin, icy flood ofsaffron and palest rose washed down across the glittering desolation.The wilderness was ablaze on the instant with elusive tongues andpoints of coloured light—jewelled flames, not of fire, but of frost.The world had become a palace of crystal and opal, a dream-palace thatwould vanish at a touch, a breath. And indeed, had a wind arisen thento breathe upon it roughly, the immeasurable crystal would haveshattered as swiftly as a dream, the too-rigid twigs and branches wouldhave snapped and clattered down in ruin.

The rabbit came out from under his little ice-clad fir tree, and, forall his caution, the brittle twigs broke about him as he emerged, andtinkled round him sharply. The thin, light sound was so loud upon thestillness that he gave a startled leap into the air, landing many feetaway from his refuge. He slipped and sprawled, recovered his foothold,and stood quivering, his great, prominent eyes trying to look in everydirection at once, his ears questioning anxiously to and fro, hisnostrils twitching for any hint of danger.

There was no sight, sound, or scent, however, to justify his alarm, andin a few seconds, growing bolder, he remembered that he was hungry.Close by he noticed the tips of a little birch sapling sticking upabove the snow. These birch-tips, in winter, were his favourite food.He hopped toward them, going circumspectly over the slippery surface,and sat up on his hindquarters to nibble at them. To his intensesurprise and disappointment, each twig and aromatic bud was sealedaway, inaccessible, though clearly visible, under a quarter inch ofice. Twig after twig he investigated with his inquiring, sensitivecleft nostrils, which met everywhere the same chill reception. Roundand round the tantalizing branch he hopped, unable to make out thesituation. At last, thoroughly disgusted, he turned his back on thetreacherous birch bush and made for another, some fifty yards down theglade.

As he reached it he stopped short, suddenly rigid, his head half turnedover his shoulder, every muscle gathered like a spring wound up toextreme tension. His bulging eyes had caught a movement somewherebehind him, beyond the clump of twigs which he had just left. Only fora second did he remain thus rigid. Then the spring was loosed. With afrantic bound he went over and through the top of the bush. Theshattered and scattered crystals rang sharply on the shiningsnow-crust. And he sped away in panic terror among the silent trees.

From behind the glassy twigs emerged another form, snow-white like thefleeting rabbit, and sped in pursuit—not so swiftly, indeed, as therabbit, but with an air of implacable purpose that made the quarry seemalready doomed. The pursuer was much smaller than his intended victim,very low on the legs, long-bodied, slender, and sinuous, and he movedas if all compacted of whipcord muscle. The grace of his long,deliberate bounds was indescribable. His head was triangular in shape,the ears small and close-set, the black-tipped muzzle sharply pointed,with the thin, black lips upcurled to show the white fangs; and theeyes glowed red with blood-lust. Small as it was, there was somethingterrible about the tiny beast, and its pursuit seemed as inevitable asFate. At each bound its steel-hard claws scratched sharply on thecrystal casing of the snow, and here and there an icicle from a snappedtwig went ringing silverly across the gleaming surface.

For perhaps fifty yards the weasel followed straight upon the rabbit'strack. Then he swerved to the right. He had lost sight of his quarry.But he knew its habits in flight. He knew it would run in a circle,and he took a chord of that circle, so as to head the fugitive off. Heknew he might have to repeat this manoeuvre several times, but he hadno doubts as to the result. In a second or two he also had disappearedamong the azure shadows and pink-and-saffron gleams of the ice-cladforest.

For several minutes the glade was empty, still as death, with thebitter but delicate glories of the winter dawn flooding ever moreradiantly across it. On a sudden the rabbit appeared again, this timeat the opposite side of the glade. He was running irresolutely now,with little aimless leaps to this side and to that, and his leaps wereshort and lifeless, as if his nerve-power were getting paralysed.About the middle of the glade he seemed to give up altogether, as ifconquered by sheer panic. He stopped, hesitated, wheeled round, andcrouched flat upon the naked snow, trembling violently, and staring,with eyes that started from his head, at the point in the woods whichhe had just emerged from.

A second later the grim pursuer appeared. He saw his victim awaitinghim, but he did not hurry his pace by a hair's-breadth. With the sameterrible deliberation he approached. Only his jaws opened, his longfangs glistened bare; a blood-red globule of light glowed redder at theback of his eyes.

One more of those inexorable bounds, and he would have been at hisvictim's throat. The rabbit screamed.

At that instant, with a hissing sound, a dark shadow dropped out of theair. It struck the rabbit. He was enveloped in a dreadful flapping ofwings. Iron talons, that clutched and bit like the jaws of a trap,seized him by the back. He felt himself partly lifted from the snow.He screamed again. But now he struggled convulsively, no longersubmissive to his doom, the hypnotic spell cast upon him by the weaselbeing broken by the shock of the great hawk's unexpected attack.

But the weasel was not of the stuff or temper to let his prey besnatched thus from his jaws. Cruel and wanton assassin though he was,ever rejoicing to kill for the lust of killing long after his hungerwas satisfied, he had the courage of a wounded buffalo. A mere dartingsilver of white, he sprang straight into the blinding confusion ofthose great wings.

He secured a hold just under one wing, where the armour of feathers wasthinnest, and began to gnaw inwards with his keen fangs. With astartled cry, the hawk freed her talons from the rabbit's back andclutched frantically at her assailant. The rabbit, writhing out fromunder the struggle, went leaping off into cover, bleeding copiously,but carrying no fatal hurt. He had recovered his wits, and had no idlecuriosity as to how the battle between his enemies would turn out.

The hawk, for all her great strength and the crushing superiority ofher weapons, had a serious disadvantage of position. The weasel,maintaining his deadly grip and working inwards like a bull-dog, hadhunched up his lithe little body so that she could not reach it withher talons. She tore furiously at his back with her rending beak, butthe amazingly tough, rubbery muscles resisted even that weapon to acertain degree. At last, securing a grip with her beak upon heradversary's thigh, she managed to pull the curled-up body out almoststraight, and so secured a grip upon it with one set of talons.

That grip was crushing, irresistible, but it was too far back to beimmediately fatal. The weasel's lithe body lengthened out under theagonizing stress of it, but it could not pull his jaws from their grip.They continued inexorably their task of gnawing inwards, ever inwards,seeking a vital spot.

The struggle went on in silence, as far as the voices of bothcombatants were concerned. But the beating of the hawk's wingsresounded on the glassy-hard surface of the snow. As the struggleshifted ground, those flapping wings came suddenly in contact with abush, whose iced twigs were brittle as glass and glittering like theprisms of a great crystal candelabrum. There was a shrill crash and athin, ringing clatter as the twigs shattered off and spun flying acrossthe crust.

The sound carried far through the still iridescent spaces of thewilderness. It reached the ears of a foraging fox, who was tiptoeingwith dainty care over the slippery crust. He turned hopefully toinvestigate, trusting to get a needed breakfast out of somefellow-marauder's difficulties. At the edge of the glade he paused,peering through a bush of crystal fire to size up the situation beforecommitting himself to the venture.

Desperately preoccupied though she was, the hawk's all-seeing eyesdetected the red outlines of the fox through the bush. With a franticbeating of her wings she lifted herself from the snow. The fox dartedupon her with a lightning rush and a shattering of icicles. He wasjust too late. The great bird was already in the air, carrying herdeadly burden with her. The fox leapt straight upwards, hoping to pullher down, but his clashing jaws just failed to reach her talons.Labouring heavily in her flight, she made off, striving to gain atree-top, where she might perch and once more give her attention to thegnawing torment which clung beneath her wing.

The fox, being wise, and seeing that the hawk was in extremest straits,ran on beneath her as she flew, gazing upwards expectantly.

The weasel, meanwhile, with that deadly concentration of purpose whichcharacterizes his tribe, paid no heed to the fact that he wasjourneying through the air. And he knew nothing of what was going onbelow. His flaming eyes were buried in his foe's feathers, his jawswere steadily working inwards toward her vitals.

Just at the edge of the glade, immediately over the top of a branchyyoung paper-birch which shot a million coloured points of light in thesunrise, the end came. The fangs of the weasel met in the hawk'swildly throbbing heart. With a choking burst of scarlet blood itstopped.

Stone dead, the great marauder of the air crashed down through the slimbirch-top, with a great scattering of gleams and crystals. Withwide-sprawled wings she thudded down upon the snow-crust, almost underthe fox's complacent jaws. The weasel's venomous head, covered withblood, emerged triumphant from the mass of feathers.

As the victor writhed free, the fox, pouncing upon him with a carelessair, seized him by the neck, snapped it neatly, and tossed the long,limp body, aside upon the snow. He had no use for the rank, stringymeat of the weasel when better fare was at hand. Then he drew the hawkclose to the trunk of the young birch, and lay down to make a leisurelybreakfast.

V

JIM, THE BACKWOODS POLICE DOG

How Woolly Billy Came to Brine's Rip

Jim's mother was a big cross-bred bitch, half Newfoundland and halfbloodhound, belonging to Black Saunders, one of the hands at theBrine's Rip Mills. As the mills were always busy, Saunders was alwaysbusy, and it was no place for a dog to be around, among the screechingsaws, the thumping, wet logs, and the spurting sawdust. So the bigbitch, with fiery energy thrilling her veins and sinews and therestraint of a master's hand seldom exercised upon her, practically ranwild.

Hunting on her own account in the deep wilderness which surroundedBrine's Rip Settlement, she became a deadly menace to every wild thingless formidable than a bear or a bull moose, till at last, in the earlyprime of her adventurous career, she was shot by an angry game wardenfor her depredations among the deer and the young caribou.

Jim's father was a splendid and pedigreed specimen of the old Englishsheep-dog. From a litter of puppies of this uncommon parentage, TugBlackstock, the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, chose out the onethat seemed to him the likeliest, paid Black Saunders a sovereign forhim, and named him Jim. To Tug Blackstock, for some unfathomed reason,the name of "Jim" stood for self-contained efficiency.

It was efficiency, in chief, that Tug Blackstock, as Deputy Sheriff,was after. He had been reading, in a stray magazine with torn coverand much-thumbed pages, an account of the wonderful doings of thetrained police-dogs of Paris. The story had fired his imagination andexcited his envy.

There was a lawless element in some of the outlying corners ofNipsiwaska County, with a larger element of yet more audaciouslawlessness beyond the county line from which to recruit. Throughoutthe wide and mostly wilderness expanse of Nipsiwaska County theresponsibility for law and order rested almost solely upon theshoulders of Tug Blackstock. His chief, the Sheriff, a prosperousshopkeeper who owed his appointment to his political pull, knew littleand thought less of the duties of his office.

As soon as Jim was old enough to have an interest beyond his breakfastand the worrying of his rag ball, Tug Blackstock set about histraining. It was a matter that could not be hurried. Tug had muchwork to do and Jim, as behoved a growing puppy, had a deal of play toget through in the course of each twenty-four hours. Then so hard wasthe learning, so easy, alas! the forgetting. Tug Blackstock was kindto all creatures but timber thieves and other evil-doers of likekidney. He was patient, with the long patience of the forest. But hehad a will like the granite of old Bald Face.

Jim was quick of wit, willing to learn, intent to please his master.But it was hard for him to concentrate. It was hard to keep his mindoff cats, and squirrels, the worrying of old boots, and other doggishfrivolities. Hence, at times, some painful misunderstandings betweenteacher and pupil. In the main, however, the education of Jimprogressed to a marvel.

They were a pair, indeed, to strike the most stolid imagination, letalone the sensitive, brooding, watchful imagination of the backwoods.Tug Blackstock was a tall, spare figure of a man, narrow of hip, deepof chest, with something of a stoop to his mighty shoulders, and hishead thrust forward as if in ceaseless scrutiny of the unseen. Hishair, worn somewhat short and pushed straight back, was faintlygrizzled. His face, tanned and lean, was markedly wide at the eyes,with a big, well-modelled nose, a long, obstinate jaw, and a wide mouthwhimsically uptwisted at one corner.

Except on the trail—and even then he usually carried a razor in hispack—he was always clean-shaven, just because he didn't like the curlof his beard. His jacket, shirt, and trousers were of browny-greyhomespun, of much the same hue as his soft slouch hat, all asinconspicuous as possible. But at his throat, loosely knotted underhis wide-rolling shirt collar, he wore usually an ample silkhandkerchief of vivid green spattered with big yellow spots, likedandelions in a young June meadow.

As for Jim, at first glance he might almost have been taken for a slim,young black bear rather than a dog. The shaggy coat bequeathed to himby his sheep-dog sire gave to his legs and to his hindquarters anappearance of massiveness that was almost clumsy. But under this denseblack fleece his lines were fine and clean-drawn as a bull-terrier's.

The hair about his eyes grew so long and thick that, if left to itself,it would have seriously interfered with his vision. This his mastercould not think of permitting, so the riotous hair was trimmed downseverely, till Jim's large, sagacious eyes gazed out unimpeded fromferocious, brush-like rims of stubby fur about half an inch in length.

For some ten miles above the long, white, furrowed race of Brine's Rip,where Blue Forks Brook flows in, the main stream of the Ottanoonsis isa succession of mad rapids and toothed ledges and treacherous,channel-splitting shoals. These ten miles are a trial of nerve andwater-craft for the best canoists on the river. In the spring, whenthe river was in freshet and the freed logs were racing, battering, andjamming, the whole reach was such a death-trap for the stream-driversthat it had come to be known as Dead Man's Run.

Now, in high summer, when the stream was shrunken in its channel andthe sunshine lay golden over the roaring, creamy chutes and the dancingshallows, the place looked less perilous. But it was full of snaresand hidden teeth. It was no place for the canoist, however expert withpole and paddle, unless he knew how to read the water unerringly formany yards ahead. It is this reading of the water, this instantaneoussolving of the hieroglyphics of foam and surge and swirl and glassylunge, that makes the skilled runner of the rapids.

A light birch-bark canoe, with a man in the stern and a small child inthe bow, was approaching the head of the rapids, which were hidden fromthe paddler's view by a high, densely-wooded bend of the shore. Thecanoe leapt forward swiftly on the smooth, quiet current, under thestrong drive of the paddle.

The paddler was a tall, big-limbed man, with fair hair fringing outunder his tweed cap, and a face burnt red rather than tanned by theweather. He was dressed roughly but well, and not as a woodsman, andhe had a subtle air of being foreign to the backwoods. He knew how tohandle his paddle, however, the prow of his craft keeping true thoughhis strokes were slow and powerful.

The child who sat facing him on a cushion in the bow was a little boyof four or five years, in a short scarlet jacket and blue knickers.His fat, bare legs were covered with fly-bites and scratches, his babyface of the tenderest cream and pink, his round, interested eyes asblue as periwinkle blossoms. But the most conspicuous thing about himwas his hair. He was bareheaded—his little cap lying in the bottom ofthe canoe among the luggage—and the hair, as white as tow, stood outlike a fleece all over his head, enmeshing the sunlight in its silkentangle.

When the canoe shot round the bend, the roar of the rapids smotesuddenly upon the voyagers' ears. The child turned his bright headinquiringly, but from his low place could see nothing to explain thenoise. His father, however, sitting up on the hinder bar of the canoe,could see a menacing white line of tossing crests, aflash in thesunlight, stretching from shore to shore. Backing water vigorously tocheck his headway, he stood up to get a better view and choose his waythrough the surge.

The stranger was master of his paddle, but he had had no adequateexperience in running rapids. Such light and unobstructed rips as hehad gone through had merely sufficed to make him regard lightly themenace confronting him. He had heard of the perils of Dead Man's Run,but that, of course, meant in time of freshet, when even the mildeststreams are liable to go mad and run amuck. This was the season ofdead low water, and it was hard for him to imagine there could beanything really to fear from this lively but shrunken stream. He wasstrong, clear-eyed, steady of nerve, and he anticipated no greattrouble in getting through.

As the light craft dipped into the turmoil; jumping as if buffeted frombelow, and the wave-tops slapped in on either side of the bow, thelittle lad gave a cry of fear.

"Sit tight, boy. Don't be afraid," said the father, peering ahead withintent, narrowed eyes and surging fiercely on his blade to avoid aboiling rock just below the first chute. As he swept past in safety helaughed in triumph, for the passage had been close and exciting, andthe conquest of a mad rapid is one of the thrilling things in life, andworth going far for. His laugh reassured the child, who laughed also,but cowered low in the canoe and stared over the gunwale with wide eyesof awe.

But already the canoe was darting down toward a line of black rockssmothered in foam. The man paddled desperately to gain the othershore, where there seemed to be a clear passage. Slanting sharplyacross the great current, surging with short terrific strokes upon hissturdy maple blade, his teeth set and his breath coming in grunts, hewas swept on downward, sideways toward the rocks, with appalling speed.But he made the passage, swept the bow around, and raced through,shaving the rock so narrowly that his heart paused and the sweat jumpedout suddenly cold on his forehead.

Immediately afterwards the current swept him to mid-stream. Just herethe channel was straight and clear of rocks, and though the rips wereheavy the man had a few minutes' respite, with little to do but holdhis course.

With a stab at the heart he realized now into what peril he had broughthis baby. Eagerly he looked for a chance to land, but on neither sidecould he make shore with any chance of escaping shipwreck. A woodsman,expert with the canoe-pole, might have managed it, but the stranger hadneither pole nor skill to handle one. He was in the grip of the wildcurrent and could only race on, trusting to master each new emergencyas it should hurl itself upon him.

Presently the little one took alarm again at his father's stern-setmouth and preoccupied eyes. The man had just time to shout once more,"Don't be afraid, son. Dad'll take care of you," when the canoe wasonce more in a yelling chaos of chutes and ledges. And now there wasno respite. Unable to read the signs of the water, he was full uponeach new peril before he recognized it, and only his great muscularstrength and instant decision saved them.

Again and again they barely, by a hair's-breadth, slipped through thejaws of death, and it seemed to the man that the gnashing ledges ravedand yelled behind him at each miracle of escape. Then hissingwave-crests cut themselves off and leapt over the racing gunwale, tillhe feared the canoe would be swamped. Once they scraped so savagelythat he thought the bottom was surely ripped from the canoe. But stillhe won onward, mile after roaring mile, his will fighting doggedly tokeep his eyesight from growing hopelessly confused with the hellish,sliding dazzle and riot of waters.

But at last the fiend of the flood, having played with its prey longenough, laid bare its claws and struck. The bow of the canoe, inswerving from one foam-curtained rock, grounded heavily upon another.In an instant the little craft was swung broadside on, and hung there.The waves piled upon her in a yelling pack. She was smothered down,and rolled over helplessly.

As they shot out into the torrent the man, with a terrible cry, sprangtoward the bow, striving to reach his son. He succeeded in catchingthe little one, with one hand, by the back of the scarlet jacket. Thenext moment he went under and the jacket came off over the child'shead. A whimsical cross-current dragged the little boy twenty feet offto one side, and shot him into a shallow side channel.

When the man came to the surface again his eyes were shut, his facestark white, his legs and arms flung about aimlessly as weeds; but fastin his unconscious grip he held the little red jacket. The canoe, itsside stove in, and full of water, was hurrying off down the rapid amida fleet of paddles, cushions, blankets, boxes, and bundles. The bodyof the man, heavy and inert and sprawling, followed more slowly. Thewaves rolled it over and trampled it down, shouldered it up again, andsnatched it away viciously whenever it showed an inclination to hangitself up on some projecting ledge. It was long since they had hadsuch a victim on whom to glut their rancour.

The child, meanwhile, after being rolled through the laughing shallowsof the side channel and playfully buffeted into a half-drownedunconsciousness, was stranded on a sand spit some eight or ten yardsfrom the right-hand shore. There he lay, half in the water, half outof it, the silken white floss of his hair all plastered down to hishead, the rippled current tugging at his scratched and bitten legs.

The unclouded sun shone down warmly upon his face, slowly bringing backthe rose to his baby lips, and a small, paper-blue butterfly hoveredover his head for a few seconds, as if puzzled to make out what kind ofbeing he was.

The sand spit which had given the helpless little one refuge was closeto the shore, but separated from it by a deep and turbulent current. Afew minutes after the blue butterfly had flickered away across thefoam, a large black bear came noiselessly forth from the fir woods anddown to the water's edge. He gazed searchingly up and down the riverto see if there were any other human creatures in sight, then stretchedhis savage black muzzle out over the water toward the sand spit, eyeingand sniffing at the little unconscious figure there in the sun. Hecould not make out whether it was dead or only asleep. In either casehe wanted it. He stepped into the foaming edge of the sluice, andstood there whimpering with disappointed appetite, daunted by the snakyvehemence of the current.

Presently, as the warmth of the flooding sun crept into his veins, thechild stirred, and opened his blue eyes. He sat up, noticed he wassitting in the water, crawled to a dry spot, and snuggled down into thehot sand. For the moment he was too dazed to realize where he was.Then, as the life pulsed back into his veins, he remembered how hisfather's hand had caught him by the jacket just as he went plunginginto the awful waves. Now, the jacket was gone. His father was gone,too.

"Daddy! Daddee-ee!" he wailed. And at the sound of that wailing cry,so unmistakably the cry of a youngling for its parent, the bear drewback discreetly behind a bush, and glanced uneasily up and down thestream to see if the parent would come in answer to the appeal. He hada wholesome respect for the grown-up man creature of either sex, andwas ready to retire on the approach of one.

But no one came. The child began to sob softly, in a lonesome,frightened, suppressed way. In a minute or two, however, he stoppedthis, and rose to his feet, and began repeating over and over theshrill wail of "Daddy, Daddee-ee, Daddee-ee!" At the same time hepeered about him in every direction, almost hopefully, as if he thoughthis father must be hiding somewhere near, to jump out presently for agame of bo-peep with him.

His baby eyes were keen. They did not find his father, but they foundthe bear, its great black head staring at him from behind a bush.

His cries stopped on the instant, in the middle of a syllable, frozenin his throat with terror. He cowered down again upon the sand, andstared, speechless, at the awful apparition. The bear, realizing thatthe little one's cries had brought no succour, came out from its hidingconfidently, and down to the shore, and straight out into the watertill the current began to drag too savagely at its legs. Here itstopped, grumbling and baffled.

The little one, unable any longer to endure the dreadful sight, backedto the extreme edge of the sand, covered his face with his hands, andfell to whimpering piteously, an unceasing, hopeless, monotonous littlecry, as vague and inarticulate as the wind.

The bear, convinced at length that the sluice just here was too strongfor to cross, drew back to the shore reluctantly, It moved slowlyup-stream some forty or fifty yards, looking for a feasible crossing.Disappointed in this direction, it then explored the water's edge for alittle distance down stream, but with a like result. But it would notgive up. Up and down, up and down, it continued to patrol the shorewith hungry obstinacy. And the piteous whimpering of the little figurethat cowered, with hidden face upon the sand spit, gradually died away.That white fleece of silken locks, dried in the sun and blown by thewarm breeze, stood out once more in its radiance on the lonely littleslumbering head.

III

Tug Blackstock sat on a log, smoking and musing, on the shore of thatwide, eddying pool, full of slow swirls and spent foam clusters, inwhich the tumbling riot of Brine's Rip came to a rest. From the millsbehind him screeched the untiring saws. Outstretched at his feet layJim, indolently snapping at flies. The men of the village were busy inthe mills, the women in their cottages, the children in their schools;and the stretch of rough shore gave Tug Blackstock the solitude whichhe loved.

Down through the last race of the rapids came a canoe paddle, and beganrevolving slowly in the eddies. Blackstock pointed it out to Jim, andsent him in after it. The dog swam for it gaily, grabbed it by the topso that it could trail at his side, and brought it to his master'sfeet. It was a good paddle, of clean bird's-eye maple and Melicitepattern, and Tug Blackstock wondered who could have been so careless asto lose it. Carelessness is a vice regarded with small leniency in thebackwoods.

A few minutes later down the rapids came wallowing a water-loggedbirch-canoe. The other things which had started out with it, thecushions and blankets and bundles, had got themselves tangled in therocks and left behind.

At sight of the wrecked canoe, Tug Blackstock rose to his feet. Hebegan to suspect another of the tragedies of Dead Man's Run. But whatriver-man would come to grief in the Run at this stage of the water?Blackstock turned to an old dug-out which lay hauled up on the shore,ran it down into the water and paddled out to salvage the wreckedcanoe. He towed it to shore, emptied it, and scrutinized it. Hethought he knew every canoe on the river, but this one was a strangerto him. It had evidently been brought across the Portage from the eastcoast. Then he found, burnt into the inside of the gunwale near thebow, the letters J.C.M.W.

"The Englishman," he muttered. "He's let the canoe git away from himat the head of the Run, likely, when he's gone ashore. He'd never havetried to shoot the Run alone, an' him with no experience of rapids."

But he was uneasy. He decided that he would get his own canoe and poleup through the rapids, just to satisfy himself.

Tug Blackstock's canoe, a strong and swift "Fredericton" of polishedcanvas, built on the lines of a racing birch, was kept under cover inhis wood shed at the end of the village street. He shouldered it,carrying it over his head with the mid bar across his shoulders, andbore it down to the water's edge. Then he went back and fetched histwo canoe poles and his paddles.

Waving Jim into the bow, he was just about to push off when hisnarrowed eyes caught sight of something else rolling and threshinghelplessly down the rapid. Only too well he saw what it was. His facepale with concern, he thrust the canoe violently up into the tail ofthe rapid, just in time to catch the blindly sprawling shape before itcould sink to the depths of the pool. Tenderly he lifted it out uponthe shore. It was battered almost out of recognition, but he knew it.

"Poor devil! Poor devil!" he muttered sorrowfully. "He was a man allright, but he didn't understand rapids for shucks!"

Then he noticed that in the dead man's right hand was clutched a tinychild's jacket. He understood—he saw the whole scene, and he sworecompassionately under his breath, as he unloosed the rigid fingers.Alive or dead, the little one must be found at once.

He called Jim sharply, and showed him the soaked red jacket. Jimsniffed at it, but the wearer's scent was long ago soaked out of it.He looked it over, and pawed it, wagging his tail doubtfully. He couldsee it was a small child's jacket, but what was he expected to do withit?

After a few moments, Tug Blackstock patted the jacket vigorously, andthen waved his arm up-stream.

"Go, find him, Jim!" he ordered. Jim, hanging upon each word andgesture, comprehended instantly. He was to find the owner of thelittle jacket—a child—somewhere up the river. With a series of eageryelps—which meant that he would do all that living dog could do—hestarted up the shore, on the full run.

By this time the mill whistles had blown, the screaming of the saws hadstopped, the men, powdered with yellow sawdust, were streaming out fromthe wide doors. They flocked down to the water.

In hurried words Blackstock explained the situation. Then he steppedonce more into his canoe, snatched his long, steel-shod pole, andthrust his prow up into the wild current, leaving the dead man to thecare of the coroner and the village authorities. Before he had battledhis way more than a few hundred yards upwards through the ragingsmother, two more canoes, with expert polers standing poised in themlike statues, had pushed out to follow him in his search.

The rest of the crowd picked up the body and bore it away reverently tothe court-room, with sympathetic women weeping beside it.

Racing along the open edge of the river where it was possible, tearingfiercely through thicket and underbrush where rapids or rocks made theriver's edge impassable, the great black dog panted onwards with thesweat dripping from jaws and tongue. Whenever he was forced away fromthe river, he would return to it at every fifty yards or so, and scaneach rock, shoal or sand spit with keen, sagacious eyes. He had beentold to search the river—that was the plain interpretation of the wetjacket and of Tug Blackstock's gesture—so he wasted no time upon thewoods and the undergrowth.

At last he caught sight of the little fluffy-headed figure huddled uponthe sand spit far across the river. He stopped, stared intently, andthen burst into loud, ecstatic barkings as an announcement that hissearch had been successful. But the noise did not carry across thetumult of the ledge, and the little one slept on, exhausted by histerror and his grief.

It was not only the sleeping child that Jim saw. He saw the bear, andhis barking broke into shrill yelps of alarm and appeal. He could notsee that the sluice between the sand spit and the bank was an effectivebarrier, and he was frantic with anxiety lest the bear should attackthe little one before he could come to the rescue.

His experienced eye told him in a moment that the river was impassablefor him at this point. He dashed on up-stream for another couple ofhundred yards, and then, where a breadth of comparatively slack waterbeneath a long ledge extended more than half-way across, he plunged in,undaunted by the clamour and the jumping, boiling foam.

Swimming mightily, he gained a point directly above the sand spit.Then, fighting every inch of the way to get across the terrific draftof the main current, he was swept downward at a tremendous speed. Buthe had carried out his plan. He gained the shallow side channel,splashed down it, and darted up the sand spit with a menacing growl atthe bear across the sluice.

At the sound of that harsh growl close to his ears the little one wokeup and raised his head. Seeing Jim, big and black and dripping, hethought it was the bear. With a piercing scream he once more hid hisface in his hands, rigid with horror. Puzzled at this reception, Jimfell to licking his hands and his ears extravagantly, and whining andthrusting a coaxing wet nose under his arms.

At last the little fellow began to realize that these were not theactions of a foe. Timidly he lowered his hands from his face, andlooked around. Why, there was the bear, on the other side of thewater, tremendous and terrible, but just where he had been this ever solong. This creature that was making such a fuss over him was plainly adog—a kind, good dog, who was fond of little boys.

With a sigh of inexpressible relief his terror slipped from him. Heflung his arms about Jim's shaggy neck and buried his face in the wetfur. And Jim, his heart swelling with pride, stood up and barkedfuriously across at the bear.

Tug Blackstock, standing in the stern of his canoe, plied his pole withrenewed effort. Reaching the spit he strode forward, snatched thechild up in his arms, and passed his great hand tenderly through thatwonderful shock of whitey-gold silken curls. His eyes were moist, buthis voice was hearty and gay, as if this meeting were the most ordinarything in the world.

"Daddy left me here," answered the child, his lip beginning to quiver."Where's he gone to?"

"Oh," replied Tug Blackstock hurriedly, "yer dad was called away rathersudden, an' he sent me an' Jim, here, to look after you till he gitsback. An' we'll do it, too, Woolly Billy; don't you fret."

II. The Book Agent and the Buckskin Belt

A big-framed, jaunty man with black side-whiskers, a long black frockcoat, and a square, flat case of shiny black leather strapped upon hisback, stepped into the Corner Store at Brine's Rip Mills.

He said: "Hullo, boys! Hot day!" in a big voice that was intentionallyhearty, ran his bulging eyes appraisingly over every one present, thentook off his wide-brimmed felt hat and mopped his glistening foreheadwith a big red and white handkerchief. Receiving a more or lesshospitable chorus of grunts and "hullos" in response, he seated himselfon a keg of nails, removed the leather case from his back, and askedfor ginger beer, which he drank noisily from the bottle.

"Name of Byles," said he at length, introducing himself with a sweepingnod. "Hot tramp in from Cribb's Ridge. Thirsty, you bet. Never drinknothing stronger'n ginger pop or soft cider. Have a round o' pop onme, boys. A1 pop this o' yours, mister. A dozen more bottles, please,for these gentlemen."

He looked around the circle with an air at once assured and persuasive.And the taciturn woodsmen, not wholly at ease under such suddencordiality from a stranger, but too polite to rebuff him, muttered"Thank ye, kindly," or "Here's how," as they threw back their heads andpoured the weak stuff down their gaunt and hairy throats.

It was a slack time at Brine's Rip, the mills having shut down thatmorning because the river was so low that there were no more logsrunning. The shrieking saws being silent for a little, there wasnothing for the mill hands to do but loaf and smoke. The hot air washeavily scented with the smell of fresh sawdust mixed with the stronghoney-perfume of the flowering buckwheat fields beyond the village.The buzzing of flies in the windows of the store was like a finearabesque of sound against the ceaseless, muffled thunder of the rapids.

The dozen men gathered here at Zeb Smith's store—which was, in effect,the village club—found it hard to rouse themselves to a conversationaleffort in any way worthy the advances of the confident stranger. Theyall smoked a little harder than usual, and looked on with courteous butnoncommittal interest while he proceeded to unstrap his shiny blackleather case.

In his stiff and sombre garb, so unsuited to the backwoods trails, thestranger had much the look of one of those itinerant preachers whosometimes busy themselves with the cure of souls in the remoterbackwoods settlements. But his eye and his address were rather thoseof a shrewd and pushing commercial traveller.

Tug Blackstock, the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, felt a vagueantagonism toward him, chiefly on the ground that his speech andbearing did not seem to consort with his habiliments. He rather likeda man to look what he was or be what he looked, and he did not likeblack side whiskers and long hair. This antagonism, however, he feltto be unreasonable. The man had evidently had a long and tiring tramp,and was entitled to a somewhat friendlier reception than he was getting.

Swinging his long legs against the counter, on which he sat between apile of printed calicoes and a box of bright pink fancy soap, TugBlackstock reached behind him and possessed himself of a box of long,black cigars. Having selected one critically for himself, he profferedthe box to the stranger.

"I never touch the weed, thank you kindly just the same," said he."But I've nothing agin it. It goes agin my system, that's all. Ifit's all the same to you, I'll take a bite o' cheese an' a cracker'stead o' the cigar."

"Sartain," agreed Blackstock, jumping down to fetch the edibles frombehind the counter. Like most of the regular customers, he knew thestore and its contents almost as well as Zeb Smith himself.

During the last few minutes an immense, rough-haired black dog had beensniffing the stranger over with suspicious minuteness. The stranger atfirst paid no attention whatever, though it was an ordeal that manymight have shrunk from. At last, seeming to notice the animal for thefirst time, he recognized his presence by indifferently laying his handupon his neck. Instead of instantly drawing off with a resentfulgrowl, after his manner with strangers, the dog acknowledged the casualcaress by a slight wag of the tail, and then, after a few moments,turned away amicably and lay down.

"If Jim finds him all right," thought Blackstock to himself, "ther'can't be much wrong with him, though I can't say I take to him myself."And he weighed off a much bigger piece of cheese than he had at firstintended to offer, marking down his indebtedness on a slate whichserved the proprietor as a sort of day-book. The stranger fell todevouring it with an eagerness which showed that his lunch must havebeen of the lightest.

"Ye was sayin' as how ye'd jest come up from Cribb's Ridge?" put in along-legged, heavy-shouldered man who was sprawling on a cracker boxbehind the door. He had short sandy hair, rapidly thinning, eyes of acold grey, set rather close together, and a face that suggested a crossbetween a fox and a fish-hawk. He was somewhat conspicuous among hisfellows by the trimness of his dress, his shirt being of dark blueflannel with a rolled-up collar and a scarlet knotted kerchief, whilethe rest of the mill hands wore collarless shirts of grey homespun,with no thought of neckerchiefs.

His trousers were of brown corduroy, and were held up by a broad beltof white dressed buckskin, elaborately decorated with Navajo designs inblack and red. He stuck to this adornment tenaciously as a sort ofinoffensive proclamation of the fact that he was not an ordinarybackwoods mill hand, but a wanderer, one who had travelled far, andtried his wits at many ventures in the wilder West.

"Right you are," assented the stranger, brushing some white crackercrumbs out of his black whiskers.

"I was jest a-wonderin'," went on Hawker, giving a hitch to theelaborate belt and leaning forward a little to spit out through thedoorway, "if ye've seed anything o' Jake Sanderson on the road."

"The boys are lookin' for him rather anxious," explained Blackstockwith a grin. "He brings the leetle fat roll that pays their wages hereat the mill, an' he's due some time to day."

"I seen him at Cribb's Ridge this morning," answered the stranger atlast. "Said he'd hurt his foot, or strained his knee, or something,an' would have to come on a bit slow. He'll be along some timeto-night, I guess. Didn't seem to me to have much wrong with him. No,ye can't have none o' that cheese. Go 'way an' lay down," he addedsuddenly to the great black dog, who had returned to his side and laidhis head on the stranger's knee.

A little boy in a scarlet jacket, with round eyes of china blue, and animmense mop of curly, fluffy, silky hair so palely flaxen as to bealmost white, came hopping and skipping into the store. He was greetedwith friendly grins, while several voices drawled, "Hullo, WoollyBilly!" He beamed cheerfully upon the whole company, with a specialgleam of intimate confidence for Tug Blackstock and the big black dog.Then he stepped up to the stranger's knee, and stood staring withrespectful admiration at those flowing jet-black side-whiskers.

The stranger in return looked with a cold curiosity at the child'ssingular hair. Neither children nor dogs had any particular appeal forhim, but that hair was certainly queer.

"No, he ain't," replied Tug Blackstock curtly. The dog, detecting anote of resentment in his master's voice, got up and stood beside thechild, and gazed about the circle with an air of anxious interrogation.Had any one been disagreeable to Woolly Billy? And if so, who?

But the little one was not in the least rebuffed by the stranger'sunresponsiveness.

"What's that?" he inquired, patting admiringly the stranger's shinyleather case.

"Ah, now ye're talkin'," said he enthusiastically, undoing the flap ofthe case. "It's a book, sonny. The greatest book, the mostinterestin' book, the most useful book—and next to the Bible themost high-toned, uplifting book that was ever written. Ye can't readyet, sonny, but this book has the loveliest pictures ye ever seen, andthe greatest lot of 'em for the money."

He drew reverently forth from the case a large, fat volume, boundsumptuously in embossed sky-blue imitation leather, lavishly gilt, andopened it upon his knees with a spacious gesture.

"There," he continued proudly. "It's called 'Mother, Home, andHeaven!' Ain't that a title for ye? Don't it show ye right off thekind of book it is? With this book by ye, ye don't need any other bookin the house at all, except maybe the almanack an' the Bible—an' thisbook has lots o' the best bits out of the Bible in it, scatteredthrough among the receipts an' things to keep it all wholesome an'upliftin'.

"It'll tell ye such useful things as how to get a cork out of a bottlewithout breakin' the bottle, when he haven't got a corkscrew, or whatto do when the baby's got croup, and there ain't a doctor this side ofTourdulac. An' it'll tell ye how to live, so as when things happenthat no medicines an' no doctors and no receipts—not even such greatreceipts as these here ones" (and he slapped his hand on the counter)"can help ye through—such as when a tree falls on to ye, or you tripand stumble on to the saws, or git drawn down under half-a-mile o'raft—then ye'll be ready to go right up aloft, an' no questions askedye at the Great White Gate.

"An' it has po'try in it, too, reel heart po'try, such as'll take yeback to the time when ye was all white an' innocent o' sin at yermother's knee, an' make ye wish ye was like that now. In fact, boys,this book I'm goin' to show ye, with your kind permission, is handierthan a pocket in a shirt, an' at the same time the blessed fragrance ofit is like a rose o' Sharon in the household. It's in three styles o'bindin', allreel handsome, but——"

"I want to look at another picture now," protested Woolly Billy. "I'mtired of this one of the angels sayin' their prayers."

His amazing shock of silver-gold curls was bent intently over the bookin the stranger's lap. The woodsmen, on the other hand, kept onsmoking with a far-off look, as if they heard not a word of the fluentharangue. They had a deep distrust and dread of this black-whiskeredstranger, now that he stood revealed as theMan-Wanting-to-Sell-Something. The majority of them would not evenglance in the direction of the gaudy book, lest by doing so they shouldfind themselves involved in some expensive and complicated obligation.

The stranger responded to Woolly Billy's appeal by shutting the bookfirmly. "There's lots more pictures purtier than that one, sonny,"said he. "But ye must ask yer dad to buy it fer ye. He won't regretit." And he passed the volume on to Hawker, who, having no dread ofbook-agents, began to turn over the leaves with a superior smile.

"Dad's gone away ever so far," answered Woolly Billy sadly. "It's anawfully pretty book." And he looked at Tug Blackstock appealingly.

"Look here, mister," drawled Blackstock, "I don't take much stockmyself in those kind of books, an' moreover (not meanin' no offence toyou), any man that's sellin' 'em has got to larn to do a sight o'lyin'. But as Woolly Billy here wants it so bad I'll take a copy, if'tain't too dear. All the same, it's only fair to warn ye that ye'llnot do much business in Brine's Rip, for there was a book agent herelast year as got about ha'f the folks in the village to sign a crookedcontract, and we was all stung bad. I'd advise ye to move on, an' notreally tackle Brine's Rip fer another year or so. Now, what's theprice?"

The stranger's face had fallen during this speech, but it brightened atthe concluding question.

"Six dollars, four dollars, an' two dollars an' a half, accordin' tostyle of bindin'," he answered, bringing out a handful of leaflets andorder forms and passing them round briskly. "An' ye don't need to paymore'n fifty cents down, an' sign this order, an' ye pay the balance ina month's time, when the books are delivered. I'll give ye my receiptfor the fifty cents, an' ye jest fill in this order accordin' to thebindin' ye choose. Let me advise ye, as a friend, to take the sixdollar one. It's the best value."

"Thanks jest the same," said Blackstock drily, pulling out his wallet,"but I guess Woolly Billy'd jest as soon have the two-fifty one. An'I'll pay ye the cash right now. No signin' orders fer me. Here's myname an' address."

"Right ye are," agreed the stranger cordially, pocketing the money andsigning the receipt. "Cash payments for me every time, if I could havemy way. Now, if some o' you other gentlemen will follow Mr.Blackstock's fine example, ye'll never regret it—an' neither will I."

"Come on, Woolly Billy. Come on, Jim," said Blackstock, stepping outinto the street with the child and the dog at his heels. "We'll begittin' along home, an' leave this gentleman to argy with the boys."

Jake Sanderson, with the pay for the mill-hands, did not arrive thatnight, nor yet the following morning. Along toward noon, however,there arrived a breathless stripling, white-faced and wild-eyed, withnews of him. The boy was young Stephens, son of Andy Stephens, thegame-warden. He and his father, coming up from Cribb's Ridge, hadfound the body of Sanderson lying half in a pool beside the road,covered with blood. Near at hand lay the bag, empty, slashed open witha bloody knife. Stephens had sent his boy on into the Settlement forhelp, while he himself had remained by the body, guarding it lest somepossible clue should be interfered with.

Swift as a grass fire, the shocking news spread through the village.An excited crowd gathered in front of the store, every one talking atonce, trying to question young Stephens. The Sheriff was away, down atFredericton for a holiday from his arduous duties. But nobody lamentedhis absence. It was his deputy they all turned to in such an emergency.

"Where's Tug Blackstock?" demanded half a dozen awed voices. And, asif in answer, the tall, lean figure of the Deputy Sheriff of NipsiwaskaCounty came striding in haste up the sawdusty road, with the big, blackdog crowding eagerly upon his heels.

The clamour of the crowd was hushed as Blackstock put a few questions,terse and pertinent, to the excited boy. The people of NipsiwaskaCounty in general had the profoundest confidence in their DeputySheriff. They believed that his shrewd brain and keen eye could find aclue to the most baffling of mysteries. Just now, however, his facewas like a mask of marble, and his eyes, sunk back into his head, werelike points of steel. The murdered man had been one of his bestfriends, a comrade and helper in many a hard enterprise.

"Come," said he to the lad, "we'll go an' see." And he started offdown the road at that long loose stride of his, which was swifter thana trot and much less tiring.

"Ye hain't asked no thin' yet about the Book Agent, Mister Byles, himas sold ye 'Mother, Home, an' Heaven.' Mebbe he could give us someinformation. He said as how he'd had some talk with poor old Jake."

Blackstock's lips curled slightly. He had not read the volublestranger as a likely highwayman in any circumstances, still less as oneto try issues with a man like Jake Sanderson. But the crowd, eager togive tongue on any kind of a scent, and instinctively hostile to a bookagent, seized greedily upon the suggestion.

"Where is he?" "Send for him." "Did anybody see him this mornin'?""Rout him out!" "Fetch him along!" The babel of voices started afresh.

"He's cleared out," cried a woman's shrill voice. It was the voice ofMrs. Stukeley, who kept the boarding-house. Every one else was silentto hear what she had to say.

"He quit my place jest about daylight this morning," continued thewoman virulently. She had not liked the stranger's black whiskers, norhis ministerial garb, nor his efforts to get a subscription out of her,and she was therefore ready to believe him guilty without furtherproof. "He seemed in a powerful hurry to git away, sayin' as how theArchangel Gabriel himself couldn't do business in this town."

Seeing the effect her words produced, and that even the usuallyimperturbable and disdainful Deputy Sheriff was impressed by them, shecould not refrain from embroidering her statement a little.

"Now ez I come to think of it," she went on, "I did notice as how heseemed kind of excited an' nervous like, so's he could hardly stop tofinish his breakfus'. But he took time to make me knock half-a-dollaroff his bill."

"Mac," said Blackstock sharply, turning to Red Angus MacDonald, thevillage constable, "you take two of the boys an' go after the BookAgent. Find him, an' fetch him back. But no funny business with him,mind you. We hain't got a spark of evidence agin him. We jest wanthim as a witness, mind."

The crowd's excitement was somewhat damped by this pronouncement, andHawker's exasperating voice was heard to drawl:

"Noevidence, hey? Ef that ain'tevidence, him skinnin' out thatway afore sun-up, I'd like to know what is!"

But to this and similar comments Tug Blackstock paid no heed whatever.He hurried on down the road toward the scene of the tragedy, his leanjaws working grimly upon a huge chew of tobacco, the big, black dog notnow at his heels but trotting a little way ahead and casting from oneside of the road to the other, nose to earth. The crowd came onbehind, but Blackstock waved them back.

"I don't want none o' ye to come within fifty paces of me, afore I tellye to," he announced with decision. "Keep well back, all of ye, orye'll mess up the tracks."

When he arrived at the place where the game-warden kept watch besidethe murdered man, Blackstock stood for a few moments in silence,looking down upon the body of his friend with stony face and broodingeyes. In spite of his grief, his practised observation took in thewhole scene to the minutest detail, and photographed it upon his memoryfor reference.

The body lay with face and shoulder and one leg and arm in a deep,stagnant pool by the roadside. The head was covered with black,clotted blood from a knife-wound in the neck. Close by, in the middleof the road, lay a stout leather satchel, gaping open, and quite empty.Two small memorandum books, one shut and the other with white leavesfluttering, lay near the bag. Though the roadway at this point was dryand hard, it bore some signs of a struggle, and toward the edge of thewater there were several little, dark, caked lumps of puddled dust.

Blackstock first examined the road minutely, all about the body, butthe examination, even to such a practised eye as his, yielded littleresult. The ground was too hard and dusty to receive any legibletrail, and, moreover, it had been carelessly over-trodden by thegame-warden and his son. But whether he found anything of interest ornot, Blackstock's grim, impassive face gave no sign.

At length he went over to the body, and lifted it gently. The coat andshirt were soaked with blood, and showed marks of a fierce struggle.Blackstock opened the shirt, and found the fatal wound, a knife-thrustwhich had been driven upwards between the ribs. He laid the body downagain, and at the same time picked up a piece of paper, crumpled andblood-stained, which had lain beneath it. He spread it open, and for amoment his brows contracted as if in surprise and doubt. It was one ofthe order forms for "Mother, Home and Heaven."

He folded it up and put it carefully between the leaves of thenote-book which he always carried in his pocket.

Stephens, who was close beside him, had caught a glimpse of the paper,and recognized it.

But Blackstock only shook his head slowly, and called the big blackdog, which had been waiting all this time in an attitude of keenexpectancy, with mouth open and tail gently wagging.

The dog sniffed the body all over, and then looked up at his master asif for further directions.

"What do you make of it?" he inquired when the dog had smelt it allover minutely.

Jim stood motionless, with ears and tail drooping, the picture ofirresolution and bewilderment.

Blackstock took out again the paper which he had just put away, andoffered it to the clog, who nosed it carefully, then looked at the deadbody beside the pool, and growled softly.

At once the dog ran up again to the body, and back to the open book.Then he fell to circling about the bag, nose to earth, seeking to pickup the elusive trail.

At this point the crowd from the village, unable longer to restraintheir eagerness, surged forward, led by Hawker, and closed in,effectually obliterating all trails. Jim growled angrily, showing hislong white teeth, and drew back beside the body as if to guard it.Blackstock stood watching his action with a brooding scrutiny.

"None o' yer business, Sam," replied the deputy, putting theblood-stained paper back into his pocket.

"I seen what it was," shouted Hawker to the rest of the crowd. "It wasone o' them there dokyments that the book agent had, up to the store.I alwayssaid as how 'twas him."

"We'll ketch him!" "We'll string him up!" yelled the crowd, startingback along the road at a run.

But he might as well have shouted to a flock of wild geese on theirclamorous voyage through the sky. Fired by Sam Hawker's exhortations,they were ready to lynch the black-whiskered stranger on sight.

"I'll hev to go after them, Andy," said he, "or there'll be troublewhen they find that there book agent."

"Better give 'em their head, Tug," protested the warden. "Guess hedone it all right. He'll git no more'n's good for him."

"Maybe he did it, an' then agin, maybe he didn't," retorted theDeputy, "an' anyways, they're jest plumb looney now. You stay here,an' I'll follow them up. Send Bob back to the Ridge to fetch thecoroner."

He turned and started on the run in pursuit of the shouting crowd,whistling at the same time for the dog to follow him. But to hissurprise Jim did not obey instantly. He was very busy digging under abig whitish stone at the other side of the pool. Blackstock halted.

"Jim," he commanded angrily, "git out o' that! What d'ye mean byfoolin' about after woodchucks a time like this? Come here!"

Jim lifted his head, his muzzle and paws loaded with fresh earth, andgazed at his master for a moment. Then, with evident reluctance, heobeyed. But he kept looking back over his shoulder at the big whitestone, as if he hated to leave it.

"There's a lot o' ordinary pup left in that there dawg yet," explainedBlackstock apologetically to the game-warden.

"There ain't a dawg ever lived that wouldn't want to dig out awoodchuck," answered Stephens.

III

The black-whiskered stranger had been overtaken by his pursuers aboutten miles beyond Brine's Rip, sleeping away the heat of the day under aspreading birch tree a few paces off the road. He was sleepingsoundly—too soundly indeed, as thought the experienced constable, fora man with murder on his soul.

But when he was roughly aroused and seized, he seemed so terrified thathis captors were all the more convinced of his guilt. He made noresistance as he was being hurried along the road, only clinging firmlyto his black leather case, and glancing with wild eyes from side toside as if nerving himself to a desperate dash for liberty.

When he had gathered, however, a notion of what he was wanted for, tothe astonishment of his captors, his terror seemed to subside—a factwhich the constable noted narrowly. He steadied his voice enough toask several questions about the murder—questions to which reply wascurtly refused. Then he walked on in a stolid silence, the ruddycolour gradually returning to his face.

A couple of miles before reaching Brine's Rip, the second search partycame in sight, the Deputy Sheriff at the head of it and the shaggyblack form of Jim close at his heels. With a savage curse Hawkersprang forward, and about half the party with him, as if to snatch theprisoner from his captors and take instant vengeance upon him.

But Blackstock was too quick for them. The swiftest sprinter in thecounty, he got to the other party ahead of the mob and whipped aroundto face them, with one hand on the big revolver at his hip and Jimshowing his teeth beside him. The constable and his party, hugelyastonished, but confident that Blackstock's side was the right one tobe on, closed protectingly around the prisoner, whose eyes now almostbulged from his head.

"You keep right back, boys," commanded the Deputy in a voice of steel."The law will look after this here prisoner, if he's the guilty one."

"Fur as we kin see, there ain't no 'if' about it," shouted Hawker,almost frothing at the mouth. "That's the man as done it, an' we'reagoin' to string 'im up fer it right now, for fear he might git offsome way atween the jedges an' the lawyers. You keep out of it now,Tug."

About half the crowd surged forward with Hawker in front. Up cameBlackstock's gun.

They kept back. They all fell back, indeed, some paces, except Hawker,who held his ground, half crouching, his lips distorted in a snarl ofrage.

"Aw now, quit it, Sam," urged one of his followers. "'Tain't worth it.An' Tug's right, anyways. The law's good enough, with Tug to the backof it." And putting forth a long arm he dragged Hawker back into thecrowd.

"Put away yer gun, Tug," expostulated another. "Seein's ye feel thatway about it, we won't interfere."

"Glad ye've come back to yer senses, boys," said he, perceiving thatthe crisis was over. "But keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seemsto 'ave gone clean off his head."

"Don't fret, Tug. We'll look after him," agreed several of hiscomrades from the mill, laying firmly persuasive hands upon the excitedman, who cursed them for cowards till they began to chaff him roughly.

"What's makin' you so sore, Sam?" demanded one. "Did the book agenttry to make up to Sis Hopkins?"

"No, it's Tug that Sis is making eyes at now," suggested another."That's what's puttin' Sam so off his nut."

"Leave the lady's name out of it, boys," interrupted Blackstock, in atone that carried conviction.

"Quit that jaw now, Sam," interposed another, changing the subject,"an' tell us what ye've done with that fancy belt o' yourn 'at ye're soproud of. We hain't never seen ye without it afore."

"That's so," chimed in the constable. "That accounts for hisfoolishness. Sam ain't himself without that fancy belt."

Hawker stopped his cursing and pulled himself together with an effort,as if only now realizing that his followers had gone over completely tothe side of the law and Tug Blackstock.

"Now, boys," said Blackstock presently, "we'll git right back along towhere poor Jake's still layin', and there we'll ask this here strangerwhat he knows about it. It's there, if anywheres, where we're mostlikely to git some light on the subject. I've sent over to the Ridgefer the coroner, an' poor Jake can't be moved till he comes."

The book agent, his confidence apparently restored by the attitude ofBlackstock, now let loose a torrent of eloquence to explain how glad hewould be to tell all he knew, and how sorry he was that he knewnothing, having merely had a brief conversation with poor Mr. Sandersonon the morning of the previous day.

"Ye'll hev lots o' time to tell us all that when we're askin' ye,"answered Blackstock. "Now, take my advice an' keep yer mouth shet."

As Blackstock was speaking, Jim slipped in alongside the prisoner andrubbed against him with a friendly wag of the tail as if to say:

Some of the men laughed, and one who was more or less a friend ofHawker's, remarked sarcastically:

"Oh, I don't know," replied the Deputy drily, noting the dog's attitudewith evident interest. "Time will show. Ye must remember a man ain'tnecessarily a murderer jest because he wears black side-lights an'tries to sell ye a book that ain't no good."

"No good!" burst out the prisoner, reddening with indignation. "Youshow me another book that's half as good, at double the price, an' I'llgive you——"

"Shet up, you!" ordered the Deputy, with a curious look. "This ain'tno picnic ye're on, remember."

Then some one, as if for the first time, thought of the money for whichSanderson had been murdered.

"Why don't ye search him, Tug?" he demanded. "Let's hev a look in thatthere black knapsack."

"Ye bloomin' fool," shouted Hawker, again growing excited, "ye don'ts'pose he'd be carryin' it on him, do ye? He'd hev it buriedsomewheres in the woods, where he could git it later."

"Right ye are, Sam," agreed the Deputy. "The man as done the deedain't likely to carry the evidence around on him. But all the same,we'll search the prisoner bime-by."

By the time the strange procession had got back to the scene of thetragedy it had been swelled by half the population of the village. AtBlackstock's request, Zeb Smith, the proprietor of the store, who wasalso a magistrate, swore in a score of special constables to keep backthe crowd while awaiting the arrival of the coroner. Under themagistrate's orders—which satisfied Blackstock's demand for strictformality of procedure—the prisoner was searched, and could notrefrain from showing a childish triumph when nothing was found upon him.

Passing from abject terror to a ridiculous over-confidence, he withdifficulty restrained himself from seizing the opportunity to haranguethe crowd on the merits of "Mother, Home, and Heaven." His face waswreathed in fatuous smiles as he saw the precious book snatched fromits case and passed around mockingly from hand to hand. He certainlydid not look like a murderer, and several of the crowd, includingStephens, the game-warden, began to wonder if they had not been barkingup the wrong tree.

"I've got the idee," remarked Stephens, "it'd take a baker's dozen o'that chap to do in Jake Sanderson that way. The skate as killed Jakewas some man, anyways."

"I'd like to know," sneered Hawker, "how ye're going to account forthat piece o' paper, the book-agent's paper, 'at Tug Blackstock foundthere under the body."

"Aw, shucks!" answered the game-warden, "that's easy. He's beena-sowin' 'em round the country so's anybody could git hold of 'em,same's you er me, Sam!"

This harmless, if ill-timed pleasantry appeared to Hawker, in hisexcitement, a wanton insult. His lean face went black as thunder, andhis lips worked with some savage retort that would not out. But atthat instant came a strange diversion. The dog Jim, who underBlackstock's direction had been sniffing long and minutely at theclothes of the murdered man, at the rifled leather bag, and at theground all about, came suddenly up to Hawker and stood staring at himwith a deep, menacing growl, while the thick hair rose stiffly alonghis back.

For a moment there was dead silence save for that strange accusinggrowl. Hawker's face went white to the lips. Then, in a blaze, offury he yelled!

"Git out o' that! I'll teach ye to come showin' yer teeth at me!" Andhe launched a savage kick at the animal.

"JIM!! Come here!" rapped out the command of Tug Blackstock, sharp asa rifle shot. And Jim, who had eluded the kick, trotted back, stillgrowling, to his master.

"Whatever ye been doin' to Jim, Sam?" demanded one of the mill hands."I ain't never seen him act like that afore."

"He'salways had a grudge agin me," panted Hawker, "coz I had to givehim a lickin' once."

"Now ye're lyin', Sam Hawker," said Blackstock quietly. "Ye know rightwell as how you an' Jim were good friends only yesterday at the store,where I saw ye feedin' him. An' I don't think likely ye've ever givenJim a lickin'. It don't sound probable."

"Seems to me there's a lot of us has gone a bit off their nut over thisthing, an' not much wonder, neither," commented the game-warden."Looks like Sam Hawker has gone plumb crazy. An' now there's Jim, thesensiblest dog in the world, with lots more brains than most men-kind,foolin' away his time like a year-old pup a-tryin' dig out a darn oldwoodchuck hole."

Such, in fact, seemed to be Jim's object. He was digging furiouslywith both forepaws beneath the big white stone on the opposite side ofthe pool.

"He's bit me. I'll kill him," screamed Hawker, his face distorted andfoam at the corners of his lips. He plucked his hunting-knife from itssheath, and leapt forward wildly, with the evident intention of dartingaround the pool and knifing the dog.

"No, ye don't, Sam!" he snapped, catching him by the wrist with such awrench that the bright blade fell to the ground. With a scream, Hawkerstruck at his face, but Blackstock parried the blow, tripped himneatly, and fell on him.

"Hold him fast, boys," he ordered. "Seems like he's gone mad. Don'tlet him hurt himself."

In five seconds the raving man was trussed up helpless as a chicken,his hands tied behind his back, his legs lashed together at the knees,so that he could neither run nor kick. Then he was lifted to his feet,and held thus, inexorably but with commiseration.

"Sorry to be rough with ye, Sam," said one of the constables, "butye've gone crazy as a bed-bug."

"Never knowed Sam was such a friend o' Jake's!" muttered another, withdeepest pity.

But Blackstock stood close beside the body of the murdered man, andwatched with a face of granite the efforts of Jim to dig under the bigwhite stone. His absorption in such an apparently frivolous matterattracted the notice of the crowd. A hush fell upon them all, brokenonly by the hoarse, half-smothered ravings of Sam Hawker.

"'Tain't no woodchuck Jim's diggin' for, you see!" muttered one of theconstables to the puzzled Stephens.

"Angus," said Blackstock in a low, strained voice to the constable whohad just spoken, "would ye mind stepping round an' givin' Jim a liftwith that there stone!"

The constable hastened to obey. As he approached, Jim looked up, hisface covered thickly with earth, wagged his tail in greeting, then fellto work again with redoubled energy.

The constable set both hands under the stone, and with a huge heaveturned it over. With a yelp of delight Jim plunged his head into thehole, grabbed something in his mouth, and tore around the pool with it.The something was long and whitish, and trailed as he ran. He laid itat Blackstock's feet.

Blackstock held it up so that all might see it. It was a paintedIndian belt, and it was stained and smeared with blood. The constablepicked out of the hole a package of bills.

Then Tug Blackstock spoke, while every one, as if with one consent,turned his eyes away from the face of Sam Hawker, unwilling to see acomrade's shame and horror.

"This is a matter now for jedge and jury, boys," said he in a voicethat was grave and stern. "But I think you'll all agree that we hain'tno call to detain this gentleman, who's been put to so muchinconvenience all on account of our little mistake."

"Don't mention it, don't mention it," protested the book agent, as hisguards, with profuse apologies, released him. "That's a mightyintelligent dawg o' yours, Mr. Blackstock."

III. The Hole in the Tree

It was Woolly Billy who discovered the pile—notes and silver, with afew stray gold pieces—so snugly hidden under the fishhawk's nest.

The fish-hawk's nest was in the crotch of the old, half-dead rock-mapleon the shore of the desolate little lake which lay basking in theflat-lands about a mile back, behind Brine's Rip Mills.

As the fish-hawk is one of the most estimable of all the wildernessfolk, both brave and inoffensive, troubling no one except the fat andlazy fish that swarmed in the lake below, and as he is protected by asuperstition of the backwoodsmen, who say it brings ill-luck to disturbthe domestic arrangements of a fish-hawk, the big nest, conspicuous formiles about, was never disturbed by even the most amiable curiosity.

But Woolly Billy, not fully acclimatized to the backwoods tradition andsuperstition, and uninformed as to the firmness and decision with whichthe fish-hawks are apt to resent any intrusion, had long hankered toexplore the mysteries of that great nest. One morning he made up hismind to try it.

Tug Blackstock, Deputy-Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, was away for a dayor two, and old Mrs. Amos, his housekeeper, was too deaf and rheumaticto "fuss herself" greatly about the "goings-on" of so fantastic a childas Woolly Billy, so long as she knew he had Jim to look after him.This serves to explain how a small boy like Woolly Billy, hisseven-years-and-nine-months resting lightly on his amazingly fluffyshock of pale flaxen curls, could be trotting off down the lonelybackwoods trail with no companion or guardian but a big, black dog.

Woolly Billy was familiar with the mossy old trail to the lake, and didnot linger upon it. Reaching the shore, he wasted no time throwingsticks in for Jim to retrieve, but, in spite of the dog's eagerinvitations to this pastime, made his way along the dry edge betweenundergrowth and water till he came to the bluff. Pushing laboriouslythrough the hot, aromatic-scented tangle of bushes, he climbed to thefoot of the old maple, which looked dwarfed by the burden of the hugenest carried in its crotch.

Woolly Billy was an expert tree-climber, but this great trunk presentednew problems. Twice he went round it, finding no likely spot to begin.Then, certain roughnesses tempted him, and he succeeded in drawinghimself up several feet. Serene in the consciousness of his goodintentions, he struggled on. He gained perhaps another foot. Then hestuck. He pulled hard upon a ragged edge of bark, trying to work hisway further around the trunk. A patch of bark came away suddenly inhis grip and he fell backwards with a startled cry.

He fell plump on Jim, rolled off into the bushes, picked himself up,shook the hair out of his eyes and stood staring up at a round hole inthe trunk where the patch of bark had been.

A hole in a tree is always interesting. It suggests suchpossibilities. Forgetting his scratches, Woolly Billy made haste toclimb up again, in spite of Jim's protests. He peered eagerly into thehole. But he could see nothing. And he was cautious—for one couldnever tell what lived in a hole like that—or what the occupant, ifthere happened to be any, might have to say to an intruder. He wouldnot venture his hand into the unknown. He slipped down, got a bit ofstick, and thrust that into the hole. There was no result, but helearnt that the hole was shallow. He stirred the stick about. Therecame a slight jingling sound in return.

Woolly Billy withdrew the stick and thought for a moment. He reasonedthat a thing that jingled was not at all likely to bite. He droppedthe stick and cautiously inserted his hand to the full length of hislittle arm. His fingers grasped something which felt more or lessfamiliar, and he drew forth a bank-note and several silver coins.

Woolly Billy's eyes grew very round and large as he stared at hishandful. He was sure that money did not grow in hollow trees. TugBlackstock kept his money in an old black wallet. Woolly Billy likedmoney because it bought peppermints, and molasses candy, and gingerpop.But this money was plainly not his. He reluctantly put it back intothe hole.

Thoughtfully he climbed down. He knew that money was such a desirablething that it led some people—bad people whom Tug Blackstock hated—tosteal what did not belong to them. He picked up the patch of bark andlaboriously fitted it back into its place over the hole, lest some ofthese bad people should find the money and appropriate it.

"Not a word, now, not one single word," he admonished Jim, "till Tugcomes home. We'll tell him all about it."

It was five o'clock in the sleepy summer afternoon, and the fliesbuzzed drowsily among the miscellaneous articles that graced thewindows of the Corner Store. The mills had shut down early, becausethe supply of logs was running low in the boom, and no more could beexpected until there should be a rise of water. Some half-dozen of themill hands were sitting about the store on nail-kegs and soap-boxes,while Zeb Smith, the proprietor, swung his long legs lazily from theedge of the littered counter.

Woolly Billy came in with a piece of silver in his little fist to buy apacket of tea for Mrs. Amos. Jim, not liking the smoke, stayed outsideon the plank sidewalk, and snapped at flies. The child, who wasregarded as the mascot of Brine's Rip Mills, was greeted with a fire ofsolemn chaff, which he received with an impartial urbanity.

"Oh, quit coddin' the kiddie, an' don't try to be so smart," growledLong Jackson, the Magadavy river-man, lifting his gaunt length from apile of axe-handles, and thrusting his fist deep into his trousers'pocket. "Here, Zeb, give me a box of peppermints for Woolly Billy. Hehain't been in to see us this long while."

He pulled out a handful of coins and dollar bills, and proceeded toselect a silver bit from the collection. The sight was too much forWoolly Billy, bursting with his secret.

"I know where there's lots more money like that," he blurted outproudly, "in a hole in a tree."

During the past twelve months or more there had been thefts of money,usually of petty sums, in Brine's Rip Mills and the neighbourhood, andall Tug Blackstock's detective skill had failed to gain the faintestclue to the perpetrator. Suspicions there had been, but all hadvanished into thin air at the touch of investigation. Woolly Billy'samazing statement, therefore, was like a little bombshell in the shop.

One swarthy, keen-featured, slim-waisted, half-Indian-looking fellow,with the shapely hands and feet that mark so many of the Indianmixed-bloods, was sitting on a bale of homespun behind Long Jackson,and smoking solemnly with half-closed lids. His eyes opened wide for afraction of a second, and darted one searching glance at the child'sface. Then he dropped his lids slowly once more till the eyes were allbut closed. The others all stared eagerly at Woolly Billy.

Pleased with the interest he had excited, Woolly Billy glanced abouthim, and shook back his mop of pale curls self-consciously.

Then he remembered his discretion, his resolve to tell no one but TugBlackstock about his discovery. Seeking to change the subject, hebeamed upon Long Jackson.

"Thank you, Long," he said politely. "Ilove peppermints. An' Jimloves them, too."

"Where did you say that hole in the tree was?" asked Long Jackson,reaching for the box that held the peppermints, and ostentatiouslyfilling a generous paper-bag.

"Please, Long, if you don't mind very much, I can't tell anybody butTug Blackstockthat."

Jackson laid the bag of peppermints a little to one side, as if toconvey that their transfer was contingent upon Woolly Billy's behaviour.

The child looked wistfully at the coveted sweets; then his red lipscompressed themselves with decision and resentment.

"I won't tell anybody but Tug Blackstock,of course," said he. "An'I don't want any peppermints, thank you, Long."

He picked up his package of tea and turned to leave the shop, angry athimself for having spoken of the secret and angry at Jackson for tryingto get ahead of Tug Blackstock. Jackson, looking annoyed at therebuff, extended his leg and closed the door. Woolly Billy's blue eyesblazed. One of the other men strove to propitiate him.

"Oh, come on, Woolly Billy," he urged coaxingly, "don't git riled atLong. You an' him's pals, ye know. We're all pals o' yourn, an' ofTug's. An' there ain't no harmat all, at all, in yer showin' usthis 'ere traysure what you've lit on to. Besides, you know there'slikely some o' that there traysure belongs to us 'uns here. Come onnow, an' take us to yer hole in the tree."

"Ye ain't agoin' to git out o' this here store, Woolly Billy, I tell yethat, till ye promise to take us to it right off," said Long Jacksonsharply.

Woolly Billy was not alarmed in the least by this threat. But he wasso furious that for a moment he could not speak. He could do nothingbut stand glaring up at Long Jackson with such fiery defiance that thegood-natured mill-hand almost relented. But it chanced that he was oneof the sufferers, and he was in a hurry to get his money back. At thispoint the swarthy woodsman on the bale of homespun opened his narroweyes once again, took the pipe from his mouth, and spoke up.

"Quit plaguin' the kid, Long," he drawled. "The cash'll be all therewhen Tug Blackstock gits back, an' it'll save a lot of trouble an'misunderstandin', havin' him to see to dividin' it up fair an' square.Let Woolly Billy out."

Long Jackson shook his head obstinately, and opened his mouth to reply,but at this moment Woolly Billy found his voice.

"Let me out! Let me out!Let me out!" he screamed shrilly, stampinghis feet and clenching his little fists.

Instantly a heavy body was hurled upon the outside of the door,striving to break it in.

"The kid's right, an' Black Dan's right. Open the door, Long, an' doit quick. I don't want that there dawg comin' through the winder. An'he'll be doin' it, too, in half a jiff."

"Git along, then, Woolly, if ye insist on it. But no more peppermints,mind," growled Jackson, throwing open the door and stepping backdiscreetly. As he did so, Jim came in with a rush, just saving himselffrom knocking Woolly Billy over. One swift glance assured him that thechild was all right, but very angry about something.

"It's all right, Jim. Come with me," said Woolly Billy, tugging at theanimal's collar. And the pair stalked away haughtily side by side.

III

Tug Blackstock arrived the next morning about eleven. Before he hadtime to sit down for a cup of that strenuous black tea which thewoodsmen consume at all hours, he had heard from Woolly Billy's eagerlips the story of the hole in the tree beneath the fish-hawk's nest.He heard also of the episode at Zeb Smith's store, but Woolly Billy bythis time had quite forgiven Long Jackson, so the incident was told insuch a way that Blackstock had no reason to take offence.

"Long triedhard," said the child, "to get me to tell where that holewas, but Iwouldn't. And Black Dan was awful nice, an' made him stopbotherin' me, an' said I was quite right not to tellanybody till youcame home, coz you'd know just what to do."

"H'm!" said the Deputy-Sheriff thoughtfully, "Long's had a lot of moneystole from him, so, of course, he wanted to git his eyes on to thathole quick. But 'tain't like Black Dan to be that thoughtful. Maybehehasn't had none taken."

While he was speaking, a bunch of the mill-hands arrived at the door,word of Blackstock's return having gone through the village.

"We want to go an' help ye find that traysure, Tug," said Long Jackson,glancing somewhat sheepishly at Woolly Billy. A friendly grin from thechild reassured him, and he went on with more confidence:

"We tried to git the kiddie to tell us where 'twas, but wild steerswouldn't drag it out o' him till you got back."

"That's right, Long," agreed Blackstock, "but it don't need to be noexpedition. We don't want the whole village traipsin' after us. Youan' three or four more o' the boys that's lost money come along, withWoolly Billy an' me, an' the rest o' you meet us at the store in abouta couple o' hours' time. Tell any other folks you see that I don'twant 'em follerin' after us, because it may mix up things—an' anyways,I don't want it, see!"

After a few moments' hesitation and consultation the majority of themill-hands turned away, leaving Long Jackson and big Andy Stevens, theblue-eyed giant from the Oromocto (who had been one of the chiefvictims), and MacDonald, and Black Saunders, and Black Dan (whose namehad been Dan Black till the whim of the woodsmen turned it about).Blackstock eyed them appraisingly.

"Didn't ye, Tug?" returned Black with a short laugh. "Well, I didn'tsay nawthin about it, coz I was after doin' a leetle detective work onme own, an' mebbe I'd 'ave got in ahead o' ye if Woolly Billy herehadn't 'a' been so smart. But I tell ye, Tug, if that there traysure'sthe lot we're thinkin' it is, there'd ought ter be a five-dollar billin it what I've marked."

"H'm!" grunted the Deputy, hastily gulping down the last of his tea,and rising to his feet. "But Woolly Billy an' me and Jim's acombination pretty hard to git ahead of, I'm thinkin'."

As the party neared the bluff whereon the tree of the fish-hawk's neststood ragged against the sky, the air grew rank with the pungent odourof skunk. Now skunks were too common in the region of Brine's RipMills for that smell, as a rule, to excite any more comment than anoccasional disgusted execration when it became too concentrated. Butto-day it drew more than passing attention. MacDonald sniffed intently.

"It's deuced queer," said he, "but I've noticed that there's alwaysbeen a smell of skunk round when anybody's lost anything. Did it everstrike you that way, Tug?"

"It's a skunk, all right, that's been takin' our money," said big Andy,"ef hedon't carry his tail over his back."

Every one of the party was sniffing the tainted air as if the familiarstench were some rare perfume—all but Jim. He had had an encounterwith a skunk, once in his impulsive puppy days, and the memory was toopainful to be dwelt upon.

As they climbed the slope, one of the fish-hawks came swooping downfrom somewhere high in the blue, and began circling on slow wings aboutthe nest.

Arrived at the tree, Woolly Billy pointed eagerly to a slightly brokenpiece of bark a little above the height of the Deputy's head.

"There's the hole!" he cried, clapping his hands in his excitement asif relieved to find it had not vanished.

"Keep off a bit now, boys," cautioned Blackstock. Drawing his longhunting-knife, he carefully loosened the bark without letting his handcome in contact with it, and on the point of the blade laid it asideagainst the foot of the trunk.

"It was there yesterday morning," protested Woolly Billy, his blue eyesfilling with tears.

"Yes, yes, of course," agreed Blackstock, glancing slowly around thecircle of disappointed faces.

"Somebody from the store's been blabbin'," exclaimed Black Dan, in aloud and angry voice.

"An' why not?" protested Big Andy, with a guilty air. "We never saidnawthin' about keepin' it a secret."

In spite of their disappointment, the millhands laughed. Big Andy wasnot one to keep a secret in any case, and his weakness for a certainpretty widow who kept the postoffice was common comment. Big Andyresponded by blushing to the roots of his blonde hair.

"Jim!" commanded the Deputy. And the big black dog bounded up to him,his eyes bright with expectation. The Deputy picked him up, and heldhim aloft with his muzzle to the edges of the hole.

"Smell that," he ordered, and Jim sniffed intently. Then he set himdown, and directed him to the piece of bark. That, too, Jim's noseinvestigated minutely, his feathered tail slowly wagging.

Jim whined, looked puzzled, and sniffed again at the bark. Theinformation which his subtle nose picked up there was extremelyconfusing. First, there was the smell of skunk—but that smell ofskunk was everywhere, dulling the keenness of his discrimination.Then, there was a faint, faint reminiscence of Woolly Billy. But therewas Woolly Billy, at Tug Blackstock's side. Certainly, there could beno reason for him to seek Woolly Billy. Then there was an elusive,tangled scent, which for some moments defied him. At last, however, hegot a clue to it. With a pleased bark—his way of saying "Eureka!"—hewhipped about, trotted over to big Andy Stevens, sat down in front ofhim, and gazed up at him, with tongue hanging and an air of friendlyinquiry, as much as to say: "Here I am, Andy. But I don't know whatTug Blackstock wants me to seek you for, seein' as you're right herealongside him."

Big Andy dropped his hand on the dog's head familiarly; then noticingthe sudden tense silence of the party, his eyes grew very big and round.

"What're you all starin' at me fer, boys?" he demanded, with a sort ofuneasy wonder.

"I reckon old Jim's makin' a mistake fer once, Tug," drawled LongJackson, who was Andy's special pal.

The Deputy rubbed his lean chin reflectively. There could be no onemore above suspicion in his eyes than this transparently honest younggiant from the Oromocto. But Jim's curious action had scattered to thewinds, at least for a moment, a sort of hypothesis which he had beenbuilding up in his mind. At the same time, he felt dimly that a newclue was being held out to him, if he could only grasp it. He wantedtime to think.

"We kin all make mistakes," he announced sententiously. "Come here,Jim. Seek 'im, boy, seek 'im." And he waved his hand at large.

Jim bounced off with a joyous yelp, and began quartering the ground,hither and thither, all about the tree. Big Andy, at a complete lossfor words, stood staring from one to another with eyes of indignant andincredulous reproach.

Suddenly a yelp of triumph was heard in the bushes, a little way downtowards the lake, and Jim came racing back with a dark magenta articlein his mouth. At the foot of the tree he stopped, and looked atBlackstock interrogatively. Receiving no sign whatever from hismaster, whose face had lit up for an instant, but was now as impassiveas a hitching-post, he stared at Black Dan for a few seconds, and thenlet his eyes wander back to Andy's face. In the midst of his obvioushesitation the Oromocto man stepped forward.

"Durned ef that ain't one o' my old mittens," he exclaimed eagerly,"what Sis knit fer me. I've been lookin' fer 'em everywheres. Bringit here, Jim."

As the dog trotted up with it obediently, the Deputy intervened andstopped him. "You shall have it bime-by, Andy," said he, "ef it'syourn. But jest now I don't want nobody to tech it except Jim. Ef youacknowledge it's yourn——"

"Of course it's mine," interrupted Andy resentfully. "An' I want tofind the other one."

As Jim went ranging once more through the bushes, the whole party movedaround to the other side of the tree to get out of the downpour of thenoon sun. As they passed the magenta mitten Black Dan picked it up andexamined it ostentatiously.

"How do ye know it's yourn, Andy?" he demanded. "There's lots ofmagenta mitts in the world, I reckon."

"Oh, beg pardon, Tug," said Dan, dropping the mitt. "I forgot. 'Sposeit might kind o' confuse Jim's scent, gittin' another smell besidesAndy's on to it."

For a little while every one was quiet, listening to Jim as he crashedabout through the bushes, and confidently but unreasonably expectinghim to reappear with the other mitten. Or, at least, that was what BigAndy and Woolly Billy expected. The Deputy, at least, did not. Atlast he spoke.

"I agree with Mac here, boys," said he, "that there may be somethin'more'n skunk in this skunk smell. We'll jest look into it a bit. Youall keep back a ways—an' you, Long, jest keep an eye on Woolly Billyef ye don't mind, while I go on with Jim."

He whistled to the dog, and directed his attention to a spot at thefoot of the tree exactly beneath the hole. Jim sniffed hard at thespot, then looked up at his master with tail drooping despondently.

"Yes, I know it's skunk, plain skunk," agreed the Deputy. "But I wanthim. Seek him, Jim—seek him, boy."

Thus reassured, Jim's tail went up again. He started off through thebushes, down towards the lake, with his master close behind him. Therest of the party followed thirty paces or so behind.

"Of course," answered Jackson. "Don't you see he's took to the water?Now, yer common, no-account skunk hates wettin' his fur like pizen."

The Deputy examined the hard, white sand at the water's edge. Itshowed faint traces of moccasined feet. He pursed his lips. It was anold game, but a good one, this breaking a trail by going into thewater. He had no way of deciding whether his quarry had turned up thelake shore or down towards the outlet. He guessed at the latter as themore likely alternative.

Jim trotted slowly ahead, sniffing every foot of ground along thewater's edge. As they approached the outlet the shore became muddy,and Jackson swung Woolly Billy up on to his shoulder. Once in theoutlet, the foreshore narrowed to a tiny strip of bare rock between thewater and an almost perpendicular bank covered with shrubs and vines.All at once the smell of skunk, which had been almost left behind,returned upon the air with fresh pungency. Blackstock stopped shortand scanned the bank with narrowed eyes.

A second or two later, Jim yelped his signal, and his tail went up. Hesniffed eagerly across the ribbon of rock, and then leapt at the faceof the bank.

The Deputy called him off and hurried to the spot. The rest of theparty, much excited, closed up to within four or five paces, when awave of the Deputy's hand checked them.

"Phew!" ejaculated Black Dan, holding his nose. "There's a skunk holein that there bank. Ye'll be gittin' somethin' in the eye, Tug, ef yedon't keep off."

Blackstock, who was busy pulling apart the curtain of vines, paid noattention, but Long Jackson answered sarcastically:

"Ye call yerself a woodsman, Dan," said he, "an' ye don't know that thehole where a skunk livesdon't smell any. Yerreel skunk's quite agentleman and keeps his home always clean an' tidy. Tug Blackstockain't a-goin' to git nawthin' in the eye."

"Well, I reckon we'd better smoke," said Black Dan amiably, pulling outhis pipe and filling it. And the others followed his example.

Blackstock thrust his hand into a shallow hole in the bank quite hiddenby the foliage. He drew out a pair of moccasins, water-soaked, andhurriedly set them down on the rock. For all their soaking, theyreeked of skunk. He picked up one on the point of a stick and examinedit minutely. In spite of all the soaking, the sole, to his initiatedeye, still bore traces of that viscous, oily liquid which no water willwash off—the strangling exudation of the skunk's defensive gland. Itwas just what he had expected. The moccasin was neat and slim and ofmedium size—not more than seven at most. He held it up, that allmight see it clearly.

There was a jeer from the group, and Big Andy held up an enormous foot,which might, by courtesy, have been numbered a thirteen. It was apoint upon which the Oromocto man was usually sensitive, but to-day hewas proud of it.

"Ye'll hev to play Cinderella, Tug, an' find out what leetle foot itfits on to," suggested MacDonald.

The Deputy fished again in the hole. He drew forth a magenta mitten,dropped it promptly, then held it up on the point of his stick at arm'slength. It had been with the moccasins. Big Andy stepped forward toclaim it, then checked himself.

"It's a mite too strong fer me now," he protested. "I'll hev to gitSis to knit me another pair, I guess."

Blackstock dropped the offensive thing beside the moccasins at hisfeet, and reached once more into the hole.

"He ain't takin' no risks this time, boys," said Blackstock. "He'stook the swag with him."

There was a growl of disappointment. Long Jackson could not refrainfrom a reproachful glance at Woolly Billy, but refrained from sayingthe obvious.

"What are ye goin' to do about it, Tug?" demanded Black Dan. "Hev yegot any kind of areel clue, d'ye think, now?"

"Wait an' see," was Blackstock's noncommittal reply. He picked up themoccasins and mitten again on the point of his stick, scanned the banksharply to make sure his quarry had not gone that way, and led theprocession once more down along the rocky shore of the stream. "Seekhim," he said again to Jim, and the dog, as before, trotted on ahead,sniffing along by the water's edge to intercept the trail of whoeverhad stepped ashore.

The party emerged at length upon the bank of the main stream, andturned upwards towards Brine's Rip. After they had gone about half amile they rounded a bend and came in sight of a violent rapid which cutclose inshore. At this point it would be obviously impossible for anyone walking in the shallow water to avoid coming out upon dry ground.Tug Blackstock quickened his pace, and waved Jim forward.

"I've been an' gone an' left my 'baccy-pooch behind, by the skunk'shole," he announced. And grumbling under his breath he turned backdown the shore.

Blackstock ran on, as if suddenly in a great hurry. Just where theshallow water ended, at the foot of the rapid, Jim gave his signal withvoice and tail. He raced up the bank to a clump of bushes and beganthrashing about in them.

"Scent, and lots of it. No mistake this time," announced MacDonald."Hain't ye caught on to Jim's signs yet?"

Jim, with nose in air instead of to the ground, set off at a gallopdown the shore in the direction of the outlet.

Instead of obeying, Black Dan dashed up the bank, running like a deer,and vanished into the bushes.

"I knew it! That's the skunk, boys. Go home, you Billy!" criedBlackstock, and started after the fugitive. The rest followed close onhis heels. But Jackson cried:

The Deputy gave a shrill whistle, and Jim, who was just vanishing intothe bush, stopped short. At the same instant a shot rang out from thebushes, and the dog dropped in his tracks with a howl of anguish.

Blackstock's lean jaws set themselves like iron. He whipped out hisown heavy "Colt's," and the party tore on, till they met Jim dragginghimself towards them with a wounded hind-leg trailing pitifully.

The Deputy gave one look at the big black dog, heaved a breath ofrelief, and stopped.

"'Tain't no manner o' use chasin' him now, boys," he decreed, "because,as we all know, Dan kin run right away from the best runner amongst us.But now I know him—an' I've suspicioned him this two month, only Icouldn't git no clue—I'll git him, never you fear. Jest now, ye'dbetter help me carry Jim home, so's we kin git him doctored up in goodshape. I reckon Nipsiwaska County can't afford to lose Mr.Assistant-Deputy Sheriff. That there skunk-oil on Dan's moccasinsfooledboth Jim an' me, good an' plenty, didn't it?"

IV. The Trail of the Bear

The Deputy-Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County had spent half an hour at thetelephone. In the backwoods the telephone wires go everywhere. Inthat half-hour every settlement, every river-crossing, everylumber-camp, and most of the wide-scattered pioneer cabins had beenwarned of the flight of the thief, Dan Black, nicknamed Black Dan, andhow, in the effort to secure his escape, he had shot and wounded theDeputy-Sheriff's big black dog whose cleverness on the trail he hadsuch cause to dread. As Tug Blackstock, the Deputy-Sheriff, came outof the booth he asked after Jim.

"Oh, Black Dan's bullet broke no bones that time," replied the villagedoctor, who had tended the dog's wound as carefully as if his patienthad been the Deputy himself. "It's a biggish hole, but Jim'll be allright in a few days, never fear."

"Ye don't seem to be worryin' much about Black Dan's gittin' away,Tug," grumbled Long Jackson, who was not unnaturally sore over the lossof his money.

"No, I ain't worryin' much," agreed the Deputy, with a confident grin,"now I know Jim ain't goin' to lose a leg. As for Black Dan's gittin'away, well, I've got me own notions about that. I've 'phoned all overthe three counties, and given warnin' to every place he kin stop for abite or a bed. He can't cross the river to get over the Border, forI've sent word to hev every bridge an' ferry watched. Black Dan'scunnin' enough to know I'd do jest that, first thing, so he won't wastehis time tryin' the river. He'll strike right back into the bigtimber, countin' on the start he's got of us, now he's put Jim out ofthe game. But I guess I kin trail him myself—now I know what I'mtrailin'—pretty nigh as well as Jim could. I've took note of histracks, and there ain't another pair o' boots in Brine's Rip Mills likethem he's wearin'."

"And when air ye goin' to start?" demanded Long Jackson, still inclinedto be resentful.

"Right now," replied Blackstock cheerfully, "soon as ye kin git gunsand stuff some crackers an' cheese into yer pockets. I'll want you tocome along, MacDonald, an' you, Long, an' Saunders, an' Big Andy, as myposse. Meet me in fifteen minutes at the store an' I'll hev Zeb Smithswear ye in for the job. If Black Dan wants to do any shootin', it'sjest as well to hev every thin' regular."

There were not a few others among the mill-hands and the villagers whohad lost by Black Dan's cunning pilferings, and who would gladly havejoined in the hunt. In the backwoods not even a murderer—unless hisvictim has been a woman or a child—is hunted down with so much zest asa thief. But the Deputy did not like too much volunteer assistance,and was apt to suppress it with scant ceremony. So his choice of aposse was accepted without protest or comment, and the chosen fourslipped off to get their guns.

As Tug Blackstock had foreseen, the trail of the fugitive was easilypicked up. Confident in his powers as a runaway, Black Dan's soleobject, at first, had been to gain as much lead as possible over theexpected pursuit, and he had run straight ahead, leaving a trail whichany one of Blackstock's posse—with the exception, perhaps, of BigAndy—could have followed with almost the speed and precision of theDeputy himself.

There had been no attempt at concealment. About five miles back,however, in the heavy woods beyond the head of the Lake, it appearedthat the fugitive had dropped into a walk and begun to go morecircumspectly. The trail now grew so obscure that the other woodsmenwould have had difficulty in deciphering it at all, and they wereamazed at the ease and confidence with which Blackstock followed it up,hardly diminishing his stride.

"Tug is sure some trailer," commented Jackson, his good humour nowquite restored by the progress they were making.

"Jim couldn't 'a' done no better himself," declared Big Andy, theOromocto man.

And just then Blackstock came abruptly to a halt, and held up his handfor his followers to stop.

"Steady, boys. Stop right where ye are, an' don't step out o' yertracks," he commanded.

The four stood rigid, and began searching the ground all about themwith keen, initiated eyes.

"Oh, I've got him, so fur, all right," continued Blackstock, pointingto a particularly clear and heavy impression of a boot-sole closebehind his own feet. "But here it stops. It don't appear to go anyfurther."

"P'raps he's doubled back on his tracks, to throw us off," suggestedSaunders, who was himself an expert on the trails of all the wildcreatures.

"P'raps he's give a big jump to one side or t'other, to break histrail," said MacDonald.

"No," said Blackstock with decision, "nor that neither, Mac. This hereprint is even. Ef he'd jumped to one side or the other, it would bedug in on that side, and ef he'd jumped forrard, it would be hard downat the toe. It fair beats me!"

Stepping carefully, foot by foot, he examined the ground minutely overa half circle of a dozen yards to his front. He sent out hisfollowers—all but Big Andy, who, being no trailer, was bidden to standfast—to either side and to the rear, crawling like ferrets andinterrogating every grass tuft, in vain. The trail had simply stoppedwith that one footprint. It was as if Black Dan had dissolved into amiasma, and floated off.

At last Blackstock called the party in, and around the solitaryfootprint they all sat down and smoked. One after another they madesuggestions, but each suggestion had its futility revealed and sealedby a stony stare from Blackstock, and was no more befriended by itsauthor.

"I don't mind tellin' ye, boys," said he, "it beats me fair. Butonething's plain enough, Black Dan ain'there, an' he ain't likely tocome here lookin' for us. Spread out now, an' we'll work on ahead, an'see ef we can't pick up somethin'. You, Big Andy, you keep right alongbehind me. There's an explanation toeverything—an' we'll find thisout afore along, or my name's Dinnis."

Over the next three or four hundred yards, however, nothing ofsignificance was discovered by any of the party. Then, breakingthrough a dense screen of branches, Blackstock came upon the face of arocky knoll, so steep, at that point, that hands and feet togetherwould be needed to climb it. Casting his eyes upwards, he saw whatlooked like the entrance to a little cave.

A whistle brought the rest of the party to his side. A cave alwaysholds possibilities, if nothing else. Blackstock spread his men outagain, at intervals of three or four paces, and all went cautiously upthe steep, converging on the entrance. Blackstock, in the centre,shielding himself behind a knob of rock, peered in.

The place was empty. It was hardly a cave, indeed, being little morethan a shallow recess beneath an overhanging ledge. But it was wellsheltered by a great branch which stretched upwards across the opening.Blackstock sniffed critically.

The floor was naked rock, scantily littered with dead leaves and twigs.These, Blackstock concluded, had been recently disturbed, but he couldfind no clue to what had disturbed them. From the further side,however—to Blackstock's right—a palpable trail, worn clear of mossand herbage, led off by a narrow ledge across the face of the knoll.Half a dozen paces further on the rock ended in a stretch of stiffsoil. Here the trail declared itself. It was unmistakably that of abear, and unmistakably, also, a fresh trail.

Waving the rest to stop where they were, Blackstock followed the cleartrail down from the knoll, and for a couple of hundred yards along thelevel, going very slowly, and searching it hawk-eyed for some signother than that of bear. At length he returned, looking slightlycrestfallen.

"Nawthin' at all but bear," he announced in an injured voice. "Butthat bear seems to have been in a bit of a hurry, as if he was gittin'out o' somebody's way—Black Dan's way, it's dollars to doughnuts. Butwhere was Black Dan, that's what I want to know?"

"Jim!" said the Deputy, rubbing his lean chin and biting off a big"chaw" of "black-jack."

"Jim's sure some dawg," agreed MacDonald. "That was the only foolthing I ever know'd ye to do, Tug—sendin' Jim after Black Dan thatway."

Blackstock swore, softly and intensely, though he was a man not givento that form of self-expression.

"Boys," said he, "I used to fancy myself quite a lot. But now I beginto think Nipsiwaska County'd better be gittin' a noo Deputy. I ain'tno manner o' good."

The men looked at him in frank astonishment. He had never before beenseen in this mood of self-depreciation.

"Aw, shucks," exclaimed Long Jackson presently, "there ain't a man fromhere to the St. Lawrence as kintech ye, an' ye know it, Tug. Quityer jollyin' now. I believe ye've got somethin' up yer sleeve, only yewon't say so."

"Well, boys, there's one thing Ikin do," said he. "I'm goin' backto git Jim, ef I hev to fetch him in a wheelbarrow. We'll find outwhat he thinks o' the situation. I'll take Saunders an' Big Andy withme. You, Long, an' Mac, you stop on here an' lay low an' see whatturns up. But don't go mussin' up the trails."

Jim proved to be so far recovered that he was able to hobble about alittle on three legs, the fourth being skilfully bandaged so that hecould not put his foot to the ground. It was obvious, however, that hecould not make a journey through the woods and be any use whatever atthe end of it. Blackstock, therefore, knocked together a handy litterfor his benefit. And with very ill grace Jim submitted to being borneupon it.

Some twenty paces from that solitary boot-print which marked the end ofBlack Dan's trail, Jim was set free from his litter and his attentiondirected to a bruised tuft of moss.

The dog gave one sniff, and then with a growl of anger the hair liftedalong his back, and he limped forward hurriedly.

"He's got it in for Black Dannow," remarked MacDonald. And thewhole party followed with hopeful expectation, so great was their faithin Jim's sagacity.

The dog, in his haste, overshot the end of the trail. He stoppedabruptly, whined, sniffed about, and came back to the deep boot-print.All about it he circled, whimpering with impatience, but never goingmore than a dozen feet away from it. Then he returned, sniffed longand earnestly, and stood over it with drooping tail, evidently quitenonplussed.

"He don't appear to make no more of it than you did, Tug," said LongJackson, much disappointed.

Running with amazing briskness on his three sound legs, the dog beganto quarter the undergrowth in ever-widening half-circles, while the menstood waiting and watching. At last, at a distance of several hundredyards, he gave a yelp and a growl, and sprang forward.

"Guess it's only the trail o' that there b'ar he's struck," suggestedJackson pessimistically.

"Jim, stop!" ordered Blackstock. And the dog stood rigid in his trackswhile Blackstock hastened forward to see what he had found.

"Sure enough. It's only the bear," cried Blackstock, investigating thegreat footprint over which Jim was standing. "Come along back here,Jim, an' don't go foolin' away yer time over a bear, jestnow."

The dog sniffed at the trail, gave another hostile growl, andreluctantly followed his master back. Blackstock made him smell theboot-print again. Then he said with emphasis, "Black Dan, Jim, it'sBlack Dan we're wantin'. Seek him, boy.Fetch him."

Jim started off on the same manoeuvres as before, and at the same pointas before he again gave a growl and a yelp and bounded forward.

"What do you mean by that foolin'?" went on his master severely."What's bears to you? Smell that!" and he pointed again to theboot-print. "It'sBlack Dan you're after."

Jim hung upon his words, but looked hopelessly at sea as to hismeaning. He turned and gazed wistfully in the direction of the bear'strail. He seemed on the point of starting out for it again, but thetone of Blackstock's rebuke withheld him. Finally, he sat down uponhis dejected tail and stared upwards into a great tree, one of whoselower branches stretched directly over his head.

Blackstock followed his gaze. The tree was an ancient rock maple, itsbranches large but comparatively few in number. Blackstock could seeclear to its top. It was obvious that the tree could afford nohiding-place to anything larger than a wild-cat. Nevertheless, asBlackstock studied it, a gleam of sudden insight passed over his face.

"Ye can't always tellwhat Jim's thinkin'," retorted Blackstock."But I'll bet it's a clever idea he's got in his black head, whateverit is."

He scanned the tree anew and the other trees nearest whose branchesinterlaced with it. Then, with a sharp "Come on, Jim," he startedtowards the knoll, eyeing the branches overhead as he went. The restof the party followed at a discreet distance.

Crippled as he was, Jim could not climb the steep face of the knoll,but his master helped him up. The instant he entered the cave hegrowled savagely, and once more the stiff hair rose along his back.Blackstock watched in silence for a moment. He had never beforenoticed, on Jim's part, any special hostility toward bears, whom he wasquite accustomed to trailing. He glanced up at the big branch thatoverhung the entrance, and conviction settled on his face. Then hewhispered, sharply, "Seek him, Jim." And Jim set off at once, as fastas he could limp, along the trail of the bear.

"Come on, boys," called Blackstock to his posse. "Ef we can't findBlack Dan we may as well hev a little bear-hunt to fill in the time.Jim appears to hev a partic'lar grudge agin that bear."

The men closed up eagerly, expecting to find that Blackstock, withJim's help, had at last discovered some real signs of Black Dan. Whenthey saw that there was still nothing more than that old bear's trail,which they had already examined, Long Jackson began to grumble.

"I guess Tug ain't no keener after bear this day than you be,"commented MacDonald. "He's gotsomethin' up his sleeve, you see!"

"Mebbe it's a tame b'ar, atrained b'ar, an' Black Dan's a-ridin' himhorseback," suggested Big Andy.

Blackstock, who was close at Jim's heels, a few paces ahead of therest, turned with one of his rare, ruminative laughs.

"That's quite an idea of yours, Andy," he remarked, stooping to examineone of those great clawed footprints in a patch of soft soil.

"But eventrained b'ar hain't got wings," commented MacDonald again."An' there's a good three hundred yards atween the spot where BlackDan's trail peters out an' the nearest b'ar track. I guess yerinterestin' hipotheesis don't quite fill the bill—eh, Andy?"

"Anyways," protested the big Oromocto man, "ye'll all notice one thingqueer about this here b'ar track. It goesstraight. Mostly a b'arwill go wanderin' off this way an' that, to nose at an old root, ergrub up a bed o' toadstools. Butthis b'ar keeps right on, as ef hehad important business somewhere straight ahead. That's just the wayhe'd go ef some onewas a-ridin' him horseback."

Andy had advanced his proposition as a joke, but now he was inclined totake it seriously and to defend it with warmth.

"Well," said Long Jackson, "we'll all chip in, when we git our moneyback, an' buy ye a bear, Andy, an' ye shall ride it up every day fromthe mills to the post office. It'll save ye quite a few minutes ingittin' to the post office. It don't matter about yer gittin' away."

The big Oromocto lad blushed, but laughed good-naturedly. He was somuch in love with the little widow who kept the post office thatnothing pleased him more than to be teased about her.

For the Deputy's trained eyes, as for Jim's trained nose, thatbear-track was an easy one to follow. Nevertheless, progress was slow,for Blackstock would halt from time to time to interrogate someclaw-print with special minuteness, and from time to time Jim wouldstop to lie down and lick gingerly at his bandage, tormented by theaching of his wound.

Late in the afternoon, when the level shadows were black upon the trailand the trailing had come to depend entirely on Jim's nose, Blackstockcalled a halt on the banks of a small brook and all sat down to eattheir bread and cheese. Then they sprawled about, smoking, for theDeputy, apparently regarding the chase as a long one, was now in nogreat hurry. Jim lay on the wet sand, close to the brook's edge, whileBlackstock, scooping up the water in double handfuls, let it fall in anicy stream on the dog's bandaged leg.

"Hev ye got any reel idee to come an' go on, Tug?" demanded LongJackson at last, blowing a long, slow jet of smoke from his lips, andwatching it spiral upwards across a bar of light just over his head.

"An' air ye sure it's a good one—good enough to drag us 'way out hereon?" persisted Jackson.

"Jim's idee an' mine ain't the same, exackly," vouchsafed Blackstock,after a pause, "but I guess they'll come to the same thing in the end.They're fittin' in with each other fine, so fur!"

Long looked satisfied. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe andproceeded to refill it.

"Oh, ef ye're so sure as that, Tug," he drawled, "I guess I ain'ttakin' any this time."

For a couple of hours after sunset the party continued to follow thetrail, depending now entirely upon Jim's leadership. The dog, revivedby his rest and his master's cold-water treatment, limped forward at agood pace, growling from time to time as a fresh pang in his woundreminded him anew of his enemy.

"He doesthat!" agreed Blackstock. "An' he's goin' to git his ownback, too, I'm thinkin', afore long."

Presently the moon rose round and yellow through the tree-tops, and thegoing became less laborious. Jim seemed untiring now. He pressed onso eagerly that Blackstock concluded the object of his vindictivepursuit, whatever it was, must be now not far ahead.

Another hour, and the party came out suddenly upon the bank of a smallpond. Jim, his nose to earth, started to lead the way around it,towards the left. But Blackstock stopped him, and halted his party inthe dense shadows.

The opposite shore was in the full glare of the moonlight. There,close to the water's edge, stood a little log hut, every detail of itstanding out as clearly as in daylight. It was obviously old, but theroof had been repaired with new bark and poles and the door was shut,instead of sagging half open on broken hinges after the fashion of thedoors of deserted cabins.

"I'm thinkin', boys, we'll git some information yonder about that bear,ef we go the right way about inquirin'. Now, Saunders, you go roundthe pond to the right and steal up alongshore, through the bushes, towithin forty paces of the hut. You, Mac, an' Big Andy, you two goround same way, but git well back into the timber, and come upbehindthe hut to within about the same distance. There'll be a winder onthat side, likely.

"When ye're in position give the call o' the big horned owl, not tooloud. An' when I answer with the same call twice, then close in. Butkeep a good-sized tree atween you an' the winder, for ye never knowwhat a bear kin do when he's trained. I'll bet Big Andy's seen bearsthat could shoulder a gun like a man! So look out for yourselves.Long an' Jim an' me, we'll follow the trail o' the bear right roundthis end o' the pond—an' ef I'm not mistaken it'll lead us right up tothe door o' that there hut. Some bears hev a taste in regard to wherethey sleep."

The pond lay smooth as glass under the flooding moonlight, reflecting apale star or two where the moon-path grudgingly gave it space.

After some fifteen minutes a lazy, muffled hooting floated across thepond. Five minutes later the same call, the very voice of thewilderness at midnight, came from the deep of the woods behind the hut.

Blackstock, with Jackson close behind him and Jim pulling eagerly onthe leash, was now within twenty yards of the hut door, but hiddenbehind a thick young fir tree. He breathed the call of the hornedowl—a mellow, musical call, which nevertheless brings terror to allthe small creatures of the wilderness—and then, after a pause,repeated it softly.

He waited for a couple of minutes motionless. His keen ears caught thesnapping of a twig close behind the hut.

"Big Andy's big feet that time," he muttered to himself. "That boy'llnever be much good on the trail."

Then, leaving Jim to the care of Jackson, he slipped forward to anotherand bigger tree not more than a dozen paces from the cabin. Standingclose in the shadow of the trunk, and drawing his revolver, he calledsharply as a gun-shot—"Dan Black."

"Dan Black," repeated the Deputy, "the game's up. I've got yesurrounded. Will ye come out quietly an' give yerself up, or do yewant trouble?"

"Waal, no, I guess I don't want no more trouble," drawled a cool voicefrom within the hut. "I guess I've got enough o' my own already. I'llcome out, Tug."

The door was flung open, and Black Dan, with his hands held up, stalkedforth into the moonlight.

With a roar Jim sprang out from behind the fir tree, dragging LongJackson with him by the sudden violence of his rush.

"Down, Jim,down!" ordered Blackstock. "Lay down an' shut up." AndJim, grumbling in his throat, allowed Jackson to pull him back by thecollar.

Blackstock advanced and clicked the handcuffs on to Black Dan's wrists.Then he took the revolver and knife from the prisoner's belt, andmotioned him back into the hut.

"Bein' pretty late now," said Blackstock, "I guess we'll accept yerhospitality for the rest o' the night."

"Right ye are, Tug," assented Dan. "Ye'll find tea an' merlasses, an'a bite o' bacon in the cupboard yonder."

As the rest of the party came in Black Dan nodded to them cordially, agreeting which they returned with more or less sheepish grins.

"Excuse me ef I don't shake hands with ye, boys," said he, "but Tughere says the state o' me health makes it bad for me to use me arms."And he held up the handcuffs.

Last of all came in Long Jackson, with Jim. Blackstock slipped theleash, and the dog lay down in a corner, as far from the prisoner as hecould get.

In a few minutes the whole party were sitting about the tiny stove,drinking boiled tea and munching crackers and molasses—the prisonerjoining in the feast as well as his manacled hands would permit. Atlength, with his mouth full of cracker, the Deputy remarked:

"Not half so clever as you seein' through it the way you did, Tug,"responded the prisoner handsomely.

"But darned efI see through itnow," protested Big Andy in aplaintive voice. "It's just about as clear as mud tome. Where'syour wings, Dan? An' where in tarnation is that b'ar?"

The prisoner laughed triumphantly. Long Jackson and the others lookedrelieved, the Oromocto man having propounded the question which theyhad been ashamed to ask.

"It's jest this way," explained Blackstock. "When we'd puzzled Jimyonder—an' he was puzzled at us bein' such fools—ye'll recollect hesat down on his tail by that boot-print, an' tried to work out what wewanted of him. I was tellin' him to seek Black Dan, an' yet I wascallin' him back off that there bear-track.He could smell Black Danin the bear-track, but we couldn't. So we was doin' the best we couldto mix him up.

"Well, he looked up into the big maple overhead. Then I saw whereBlack Dan had gone to. He'd jumped (that's why the boot-print was soheavy), an' caught that there branch, an' swung himself up into thetree. Then he worked his way along from tree to tree till he come tothe cave. I saw by the way Jim took on in the cave that Black Dan hadbeenthere all right. For Jim hain't got no special grudge aginbear. Says I to myself, ef Jim smells Black Dan in that bear trail,then Black Dan mustbe in it, that's all!

"Then it comes over me that I'd once seen a big bear-skin in Dan's roomat the Mills, an' as the picture of it come up agin in my mind, Inoticed how the fore-paws and legs of it were missin'. With that Ilooked agin at the trail, as we went along Jim an' me. An' sureenough, in all them tracks there wasn't one print of a hind-paw.Theywere all fore-paws. Smart, very smart o' Dan, says I to myself.Let's see them ingenious socks o' yours, Dan."

"They're in the top bunk yonder," said Black Dan, with a weary air."An' my belt and pouch, containin' the other stuff, that's all in thebunk, too. I may's well save ye the trouble o' lookin' for it, as ye'dfind it anyways. I wassure ye'd never succeed in trackin' me down,so I didn't bother to hide it. An' I see now yewouldn't 'a' got me,Tug, ef it hadn't 'a' been fer Jim. That's where I made the mistake o'my life, not stoppin' to make sure I'd done Jim up."

"No, Dan," said Blackstock, "ye're wrong there. Ef you'd done Jim upI'd have caught ye jest the same, in the long run, fer I'd never havequit the trail till Idid git ye. An' when I got ye—well, I'd hevforgot myself, mebbe, an' only remembered that ye'd killed my bestfriend. Ef ye'd had as many lives as a cat, Dan, they wouldn't hevbeen enough to pay fer that dawg."

V. The Fire at Brine's Rip Mills

When pretty Mary Farrell came to Brine's Rip and set up a modestdressmaker's shop quite close to the Mills (she said she loved thesound of the saws), all the unattached males of the village, to saynothing of too many of the attached ones, fell instant victims to hercharms. They were her slaves from the first lifting of her long lashesin their direction.

Tug Blackstock, the Deputy-Sheriff, to be sure, did not capitulatequite so promptly as the rest. Mary had to flash her dark blue eyesupon him at least twice, dropping them again with shy admiration. Thenhe was at her feet—which was a pleasant place to be, seeing that thosesame small feet were shod with a neatness which was a perpetualreproach to the untidy sawdust strewn roadways of Brine's Rip.

Even Big Andy, the boyish young giant from the Oromocto, wavered for afew hours in his allegiance to the postmistress. But Mary was much tootactful to draw upon her pretty shoulders the hostility of such a poweras the postmistress, and Big Andy's enthusiasm was cold-douched in itsfirst glow.

As for the womenfolk of Brine's Rip, it was not to be expected thatthey would agree any too cordially with the men on the subject of MaryFarrell.

But one instance of Mary's tact made even the most irreconcilable ofher own sex sheath their claws in dealing with her. She had come fromHarner's Bend. The Mills at Harner's Bend were anathema to Brine's RipMills. A keen trade rivalry had grown, fed by a series of petty butexasperating incidents, into a hostility that blazed out on the leastoccasion. And pretty Mary had come from Harner's Bend. Brine's Ripdid not find it out till Mary's spell had been cast and secured, ofcourse. But the fact was a bitter one to swallow. No one else butMary Farrell could have made Brine's Rip swallow it.

One day Big Andy, greatly daring, and secure in his renovatedallegiance to the postmistress, ventured to chaff Mary about it. Sheturned upon him, half amused and half indignant.

"Well," she demanded, "isn't Harner's Bend a good place to come awayfrom? Do you think I'd ought to have stopped there? Do I look likethe kind of girl thatwouldn't come away from Harner's Bend? And mea dress-maker? I just couldn'tlive, let alone make a living, amongsuch a dowdy lot of women-folk as they've got over there. It isn'tdressesthey want, but oat-sacks, and you wouldn't know thedifference, either, when they'd got them on."

The implication was obvious; and the women of Brine's Rip began toallow for possible virtues in Miss Farrell. The post-mistress declaredthere was no harm in her, and even admitted that she might almost becalled good-looking "if she hadn't such anawful big mouth."

I have said that all the male folk of Brine's Rip had capitulatedimmediately to the summons of Mary Farrell's eyes. But there were twonotable exceptions—Woolly Billy and Jim. Both Woolly Billy's flaxenmop of curls and the great curly black head of Jim, the dog, had turnedaway coldly from Mary's first advances. Woolly Billy preferred men towomen anyhow. And Jim was jealous of Tug Blackstock's devotion to thepetticoated stranger.

But Mary Farrell knew how to manage children and dogs as well as men.She ignored both Jim and Woolly Billy. She did it quite pointedly, yetwith a gracious politeness that left no room for resentment. Neitherthe child nor the dog was accustomed to being ignored. Before longMary's amiable indifference began to make them feel as if they werebeing left out in the cold. They began to think they were losingsomething because she did not notice them. Reluctantly at first, butby-and-by with eagerness, they courted her attention. At last theygained it. It was undeniably pleasant. From that moment the child andthe dog were at Mary's well-shod and self-reliant little feet.

As summer wore on into autumn the dry weather turned to a veritabledrought, and all the streams ran lower and lower. Word came early thatthe mills at Harner's Bend, over in the next valley, had been compelledto shut down for lack of logs. But Brine's Rip exulted unkindly. TheOttanoonsis, fed by a group of cold spring lakes, maintained a steadyflow; there were plenty of logs, and the mills had every prospect ofworking full time all through the autumn. Presently they began togather in big orders which would have gone otherwise to Harner's Bend.Brine's Rip not only exulted, but took into itself merit. It felt thatit must, on general principles, have deserved well of Providence, forProvidence so obviously to take sides with it.

As August drew to a dusty, choking end, Mary Farrell began to collecther accounts. Her tact and sympathy made this easy for her, and womenpaid up civilly enough who had never been known to do such a thingbefore, unless at the point of a summons. Mary said she was going tothe States, perhaps as far as New York itself, to renew her stock andstudy up the latest fashions.

Every one was much interested. Woolly Billy's eyes brimmed over at theprospect of her absence, but he was consoled by the promise of herspeedy return with an air-gun and also a toy steam-engine that wouldreally go. As for Jim, his feathery black tail drooped in premonitionof a loss, but he could not gather exactly what was afoot. He wasfurther troubled by an unusual depression on the part of TugBlackstock. The Deputy-Sheriff seemed to have lost his zest intracking down evil-doers.

It was nearing ten o'clock on a hot and starless night. TugBlackstock, too restless to sleep, wandered down to the silent millwith Jim at his heels. As he approached, Jim suddenly went bounding onahead with a yelp of greeting. He fawned upon a small, shadowy figurewhich was seated on a pile of deals close to the water's edge. TugBlackstock hurried up.

"I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the waterslipping away blindly in the dark," said Mary. "It helps one not tothink," she added with a faint catch in her voice.

"How dreadfully dry everything is," replied Mary irrelevantly, as ifheading Blackstock off. "What if there should be a fire at the mill?Wouldn't the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might getcaught asleep in their beds. Oughtn't there to be more than one nightwatchman in such dry weather as this? I've so often heard of millscatching fire—though I don't see why they should, any more thanhouses."

"Mills most generally gitset afire," answered the Deputy grimly."Think what it would mean to Harner's Bend if these mills should gitburnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. Butyou're dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only itdepends on the wind. This time o' year, an' as long as it keeps dry,what wind there is blows mostly away from the houses, so sparks andbrands would just be carried out over the river. But if the windshould shift to the south'ard or thereabouts, yes, there'd be morewatchmen needed. I s'pose you're thinkin' about your shop while ye'reaway?"

"I was thinking about Woolly Billy," said Mary gravely. "What do Icare about the old shop? It's insured, anyway."

"I'll look out for Woolly Billy," answered Blackstock. "And I'll lookout for the shop, whetheryou care about it or not. It's yours, andyour name's on the door, and anything of yours, anything you'vetouched, an' wherever you've put your little foot, that's something forme to care about. I ain't no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, orpaying compliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads arejust wonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on 'em.Ef only I could think that you could care—that I had anything, wasanything, Mary, worth offering you——"

He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put hisgreat arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,—and for a moment,with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered againsthim, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as hespoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away,sprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sobviolently.

"Go away.Please don't come near me," she appealed, somewhat wildly."You don't understand—anything."

Tug Blackstock looked puzzled. He seated himself at a distance ofseveral inches, and clasped his hands resolutely in his lap.

"Of course, I won't tech you, Mary," said he, "if you don't want me to.I don't want to doanything you don't want me to—never, Mary. ButI sure don't understand what you're crying for.Please don't. I'mso sorry I teched you, dear. But if you knew how I love you, how Iwould give my life for you, I think you'd forgive me, Mary."

"It isn't that, oh no, it isn'tthat!" she said. "I—Iliked it.There!" she panted. Then she sprang to her feet and faced him. And inthe gloom he could see her eyes flaming with some intense excitement,from a face ghost-white.

"But—I won't let you make me love you, Tug Blackstock. I won't!—Iwon't! I won't let you change all my plans, all my ambitions. I won'tgive up all I've worked for and schemed for and sold my very soul for,just because at last I've met a real man. Oh, I'd soon spoil yourlife, no matter how much you love me. You'd soon find how cruel, andhard, and selfish I am. An' I'd ruin my own life, too. Do you think Icould settle down to spend my life in the backwoods? Do you think Ihave no dreams beyond the spruce woods of Nipsiwaska County? Do youthink you could imprisonme in Brine's Rip? I'd either kill yourbrave, clean soul, Tug Blackstock, or I'd kill myself!"

Utterly bewildered at this incomprehensible outburst, Blackstock couldonly stammer lamely:

"Like it!" The uttermost of scorn was in her voice. "I hate, hate,hate it! I just live to get out into the great world, where I feelthat I belong. But I must have money first. And I'm going to study,and I'm going to make myself somebody. I wasn't born for this." Andshe waved her hand with a sweep that took in all the backwoods world."I'm getting out of it. It would drive me mad. Oh, I sometimes thinkit has already driven me half mad."

Her tense voice trailed off wearily, and she sat down again—this timefurther away.

"But," he went on without heeding the protest, "I hoped, somehow, thatI might be able to make you happy. An' that's what I want, more'nanything else in the world. All I have is at your feet, Mary, an' Icould make' it more in time. But I'm not a big enough man for you.I'm all yours—an' always will be—but I can't make myself no more thanI am."

"Yes, you could, Tug Blackstock," she cried. "Real men are scarce, inthe great world and everywhere. You could make yourself a masteranywhere—if only you would tear yourself loose from here."

He sprang up, and his arms went out as if to seize her. But, with aneffort, he checked himself, and dropped them stiffly to his side.

"I'm too old to change my spots, Mary," said he. "I'm stamped for goodan' all. I am some good here. I'd be no good there. An' I won'tnever resk bein' a drag on yer plans."

"Ef ever ye git tired of it all out there, an' yer own kind calls yeback—as it will, bein' in yer blood—I'll be waitin' for ye, Mary,whatever happens."

He strode off quickly up the shore. The girl stared after, him till hewas quite out of sight, then buried her face in the fur of Jim, who hadwillingly obeyed a sign from his master and remained at her side.

"Oh, my dear, if only you could have dared," she murmured. At last shejumped up, with an air of resolve, and wandered off, apparentlyaimlessly, into the recesses of the mill, with one hand resting firmlyon Jim's collar.

III

Two days later Mary Farrell left Brine's Rip. She hugged and kissedWoolly Billy very hard before she left, and cried a little with him,pretending to laugh, and she took her three big trunks with her, in thelong-bodied express waggon which carried the mails, although she saidshe would not be gone more than a month at the outside.

Tug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His onlycomfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary's little shop,which she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon hadrattled and bumped away out of sight there was a general feeling inBrine's Rip that the whole place had gone flat, like stale beer, andthe saws did not seem to make as cheerful a shrieking as before, andBlack Saunders, expert runner of logs as he was, fell in because heforgot to look where he was going, and knocked his head heavily infalling, and was almost drowned before they could fish him out.

"There's goin' to be some bad luck comin' to Brine's Rip afore long,"remarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism.

That same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills rightacross the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except afew light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About aweek later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from thevillage and straight across the river. And once more a singlenight-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire.

A little before daybreak on the second night following this change ofwind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splashfrom the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gatheredbefore being fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman's voice. Asfast as he could stumble over the intervening deals and rubbish he madehis way to the spot, waving his lantern and calling anxiously. Therewas no sign of any one in the water. As he searched he becameconscious of a ruddy light at one corner of the mill.

He turned and dashed back, yelling "Fire! Fire!" at the top of hislungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other cornersof the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemicalextinguisher, yelling madly all the while. But he was already toolate. The flames were licking up the dry wood with furious appetite.

In almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole greatstructure was ablaze, with all Brine's Rip, in every varying stage ofdéshabille, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine workedheroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, andthen turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep themdrenched.

"Thank God the wind's in the right direction," muttered Zeb Smith, thestorekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoedfervently through the crowd.

In the meantime Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do inthe way of fighting the fire—the mill being already devoured—wasinterviewing the distracted watchman.

"Sure," he agreed, "it was a trick to git you away long enough for thefires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an' chucked in a big stick,that's all. An', o' course, you run to help. You couldn't naturallydo nothin' else."

The watchman heaved a huge sigh of relief. If Blackstock exoneratedhim from the charge of negligence, other people would. And his hearthad been very heavy at being so fatally fooled.

"Ef only we could prove it," said Blackstock, searching the damp groundabout the edges of the pool, which was lighted now as by day.Presently he saw Jim sniffing excitedly at some tracks. He hurriedover to examine them. Jim looked up at him and wagged his tail, asmuch as to say, "So you've found them, too! Interesting, ain't they!"

The footprints were small and neat. They were of a double-soledlarrigan, with a low heel of a single welt.

"None ofour boys," said Blackstock, "wear a larrigan like that,especially this time o' year. One could run light in that larrigan,an' the sole's thick enough to save the foot. An' it's good for acanoe, too."

"Yesterday," said the watchman, "I mind seein' a young half-breed, helooked like a slip of a lad, very dark complected, crossin' the roadhalf-a-mile up yonder. He was out o' sight in a second, like ashadder, but I mind noticin' he had on larrigans—an' a brown slouchhat down over his eyes, an' a dark red handkerchief roun' his neck. Hewas a stranger in these parts."

"That would account for the voice, like a woman's," said Blackstock,following the tracks till they plunged through a tangle of tall bush."An' here's the handkerchief," he added triumphantly, grabbing up adark red thing that fluttered from a branch. "Harner's Bend knowssomethin' about that boy, I'm thinkin'. Now, Bill, you go along back,an' don't say nothin' about this,mind! Me an' Jim, we'll look intoit. Tell old Mrs. Amos and Woolly Billy not to fret. We'll be backsoon."

He slipped the leash into Jim's collar, gave him the red handkerchiefto smell, and said, "Seek him, Jim." And Jim set off eagerly, tuggingat the leash, because the trail was so fresh and plain to him, and hehated to be held back.

The trail led around behind the village, and back to the river bankabout a mile below. There it followed straight down the shore. It wasevident to Blackstock that his quarry would have a canoe in hiding somedistance further down. There was no time to be lost. It was nowalmost full daybreak, and he could follow the trail by himself. Afterall, it was only a boy he had to deal with. He could trust Jim todelay him, to hold him at bay. He loosed the leash, and Jim boundedforward at top speed. He himself followed at a leisurely loping stride.

As he trotted on, thinking of many things, he took out the redhandkerchief and examined it again. He smelt it curiously. His nosewas keen, like a wild animal's. As he sniffed, a pang went throughhim, clutching at his heart. He sniffed again. His long strideshortened. He dropped into a walk. He thought over, word by word, hisconversation with Mary that night beside the mill. His face went grey.After a brief struggle he shouted to Jim, trying to call him back. Butthe eager dog was already far beyond hearing. Then Blackstock brokeinto a desperate run, shouting from time to time. He thought of Jim'sferocity when on the trail.

Meanwhile, the figure of a slim boy, very light of foot, was speedingfar down the river bank, clutching a brown slouch hat in one hand as heran. He had an astonishing crop of hair, wound in tight coils abouthis head. He was panting heavily, and seemed nearly spent. At last hehalted, drew a deep sigh of relief, pressed his hands to his heart, andplunged into a clump of bushes. In the depth of the bushes lay a smallbirch-bark canoe, carefully concealed. He tugged at it, but for themoment he was too weary to lift it. He flung himself down beside it totake breath.

In the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding downthe shore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big blackdog was galloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouthset itself so hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edgeof the bushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe.

"Jim," said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged inthrough the bushes. The youth's stern lips relaxed. He slipped theknife back into its sheath, and fondled the dog, which was fawning uponhim eagerly.

"You'd never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I'd done?"said he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his litheyoung body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water'sedge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, whereJim had been licking it.

Before stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap ofpaper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something,sealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it "private," and gave itto Jim, who took it in his mouth.

"Give that to Tug Blackstock," ordered the youth clearly. Then hekissed the top of Jim's black head, pushed off, and paddled awayswiftly down river. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shoreat a gallop to meet his master.

Half-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim'smouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty.He tore open the letter. It said!

Yes, I did it. I had to do it. Butyou could have saved me, ifyou'ddared—for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.—MARY.

A month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containingan air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But itcontained no address. And Brine's Rip said that Tug Blackstock hadbeen bested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out whoburnt down the mills.

VI. The Man with the Dancing Bear

One day there arrived at Brine's Rip Mills, driving in a smart trapwhich looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, animposing gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan,gauntletted gloves, immaculate linen, shining boots, and a well-fittingmorning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminationsof travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocleso securely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had beenborn there.

His red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust ofthe village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like woodenstructure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of theCONTINENTAL HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so hesat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience, for some one tocome out to him.

In a few moments the landlord strolled forth in his shirt-sleeves,chewing tobacco, and inquired casually what he could do for his visitor.

"I'm looking for Mr. Blackstock—Mr. J. T. Blackstock," said thestranger with lofty politeness. "Will you be so good as to direct meto him?"

The landlord spat thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he wasnot unduly impressed by the stranger's appearance.

"You'll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder," heanswered pointing with his thumb. "Last house towards the river.Lives with old Mrs. Amos—him an' Woolly Billy."

The stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in frontof the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman,with kind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitualconcentration, appeared in the doorway and gave him courteous greeting.

"Mr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say,"returned the stranger with extreme affability, descending from the trap.

"The same," assented Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch the horse toa fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring theresplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock's side to superintend thehitching. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shockof pale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped tostare at the visitor.

The latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny, swift and intent,then turned to his host.

"I am extraordinarily glad to meet you, Mr. Blackstock," he said,holding out his hand. "If, as I surmise, the name of this little boyhere is Master George Harold Manners Watson, then I owe you a debt ofgratitude which nothing can repay. I hear that you not only saved hislife, but have been as a father to him, ever since the death of his ownunhappy father."

Blackstock's heart contracted. He accepted the stranger's handcordially enough, but was in no hurry to reply. At last he said slowly:

"Yes, Stranger, you've got Woolly Billy's reel name all O.K. But whyshould you thank me? Whatever I've done, it's been for Woolly Billy'sown sake—ain't it, Billy?"

For answer, Woolly Billy snuggled up against his side and clutched hisgreat brown hand adoringly, while still keeping dubious eyes upon thestranger.

"Well, you see, Mr. Blackstock, I'm only his uncle, and his only uncleat that. So I have a right to thank you, and I see by the way thechild clings to you how good you've been to him. My name is J.Heathington Johnson, of Heathington Hall, Cramley, Blankshire. I'm hismother's brother. And I fear I shall have to tear him away from you ina great hurry, too."

"Come inside, Mr. Johnson," said Blackstock, "an' sit down. We musttalk this over a bit. It is kind o' sudden, you see."

"I don't want to seem unsympathetic," said the visitor kindly, "and Iknow my little nephew is going to resent my carrying him off." (Atthese words Woolly Billy began to realize what was in the air, andclung to Blackstock with a storm of frightened tears.) "But you willunderstand that I have to catch the next boat from New York—and I havea thirty-mile drive before me now to the nearest railway station. Youknow what the roads are! So I'm sure you won't think me unreasonableif I ask you to get my nephew ready as soon as possible."

Blackstock devoted a few precious moments to quieting the child's sobsbefore replying. He remembered having found out in some way, from somepapers in the drowned Englishman's pockets or somewhere, that the nameof Woolly Billy's mother, before her marriage, was not Johnson, butO'Neill. Of course that discrepancy, he realized, might be easilyexplained, but his quick suspicions, sharpened by his devotion to thechild, were aroused.

"We are not a rich family, by any means, Mr. Blackstock," continued thestranger, after a pause. "But we have enough to be able to rewardhandsomely those who have befriended us. Allpossible expense thatmy nephew may have been to you, I want to reimburse you for at once.And I wish also to make you a present as an expression of mygratitude—not, I assure you, as a payment," he added, noticing thatBlackstock's face had hardened ominously. He took out a thickbill-book, well stuffed with banknotes.

"Put away your money, Mr. Johnson," said Blackstock coldly. "I ain'ttaking any, thank you, for what I may have done for Woolly Billy. Butwhat I want to know is, what authority have you to demand the child?"

"I'm his uncle, his mother's brother," answered the stranger sharply,drawing himself up.

"That may be, an' then again, it mayn't," said Blackstock. "Do youthink I'm goin' to hand over the child to a perfect stranger, justbecause he comes and says he's the child's uncle? What proofs haveyou?"

The visitor glared angrily, but restrained himself and handedBlackstock his card.

"What does that prove?" he demanded sarcastically. "It might not beyour card! An' even if you are 'Mr. Johnson' all right, that's notproving that Mr. Johnson is the little feller's uncle! I want legalproof, that would hold in a court of law."

"You insolent blockhead!" exclaimed the visitor. "How dare youinterfere between my nephew and me? If you don't hand him over atonce, I will make you smart for it. Come, child, get your cap andcoat, and come with me immediately. I have no more time to waste withthis foolery, my man." And he stepped forward as if to lay hands onWoolly Billy.

Blackstock interposed an inexorable shoulder. The big dog growled, andstiffened up the hair on his neck ominously.

"Look here," said Blackstock crisply, "you're goin' to git yourselfinto trouble before you go much further, my lad. You jest mind yourmanners. When you bring me them proofs, I'll talk to you, see!"

The stranger's righteous indignation, strangely enough, seemed to havebeen allayed by this speech. He followed eagerly.

"Don't be unreasonable, Mr. Blackstock," he coaxed. "I'll send youthe documents, from my solicitors, at once. I'm sure you don't want tostand in the dear child's light this way, and prevent him getting backto his own people, and the life that is his right, a day longer than isnecessary. Do listen to reason, now." And he patted his wad ofbank-notes suggestively.

But at this stage, Woolly Billy and the big dog having already enteredthe cottage, Blackstock followed, and calmly shut the door. "You'llsmart for this, you ignorant clod-hopper!" shouted Mr. HeathingtonJohnson. He clutched the door-knob. But for all his rage, prudencecame to his rescue. He did not turn the knob. After a moment'shesitation he ground his heel upon the doorstep, stalked back to hisgig, and drove off furiously. The three at the window watched hisgoing.

"We won't seehim back here again," remarked the Deputy. "Hewasn't no uncle o' yours, Woolly Billy."

That same evening he wrote to a reliable firm of lawyers at Exville,telling them all he knew about Woolly Billy and Woolly Billy's father,and also all he suspected, and instructed them to look into the matterfully.

Several weeks went by, and the imposing stranger, as Blackstock hadanticipated, failed to return with his proofs. Then came a letter fromthe lawyers at Exville, saying that they had something important tocommunicate, and Blackstock hurried off to see them, planning to beaway for about a week.

On the day following his departure, to the delight of all the childrenand of most of the rest of the population as well, there arrived atBrine's Rip Mills a man with a dancing bear. He was a black-eyed,swarthy, merry fellow, with a most infectious laugh, and besides histrained bear he possessed a pedlar's pack containing all sorts ofup-to-date odds and ends, not by any means to be found in the veryutilitarian miscellany of Zeb Smith's corner store.

He talked a rather musical but very broken lingo that passed forEnglish, flashing a mouthful of splendid white teeth as he did so. Heappeared to be an Italian, and the men of Brine's Rip christened him a"Dago" at once. There was no resisting his childlike bonhomie, or theamiable antics of his great brown bear, which grinned through itsmuzzle as if dancing to its master's merry piccolo were its one delightin life. And the two did a roaring business from the moment they camestrolling into Brine's Rip.

"Tony" was what the laughing vagabond called himself, and his bearanswered to the name of Beppo. Business being so good, Tony couldafford to be generous, and he was continually pressing peppermintlozenges upon the rabble of children who formed a triumphal processionfor him wherever he moved. When Tony's eyes first fell on WoollyBilly, standing just outside the crowd, with one arm over the neck ofthe big black dog, he was delighted.

"Com-a here, Bambino, com-a quick!" he cried, holding out somepeppermints. Woolly Billy liked him at once, and adored the bear, butwas too shy, or reserved, to push his way through the other children.So Tony came to him, leading the bear. Woolly Billy stood his ground,with a welcoming smile. The big black dog growled doubtfully, and thenlost his doubts in curious admiration of the bear, which plainlyfascinated him.

Woolly Billy accepted the peppermints politely, and put one into hismouth without delay. Then, with an apologetic air, the Italian laidone finger softly on Woolly Billy's curls, and drew back at once, as iffearing he had taken a liberty.

"Jim likes the bear, sir,doesn't he?" suggested Woolly Billy, tomake conversation.

"Everybody he like-a ze bear. Him vaira good bear," asserted thebear's master, and laughed again, giving the bear a peppermint. "An'you one vaira good bambino. Ze bear, he like-a you vaira much. See,he shak-a you ze hand—good frens now."

Encouraged by the warmth of his welcome, the Italian had from the firstmade a practice of dropping in at certain houses of the village just atmeal times—when he was received always with true backwoodshospitality. On Woolly Billy's invitation he had come to the house ofMrs. Amos. The old lady, too rheumatic to get about much out of doors,was delighted with such a unique and amusing guest. To all hesaid—which, indeed, she never more than half understood—she keptejaculating. "Well, I never!" and "Did ye ever hear the likes o' that?"

And the bear, chained to the gate-post and devouring herpancakes-and-molasses, thrilled her with a sense of "furrin parts." Infact, there was no other house at Brine's Rip where Tony and his bearwere made more warmly welcome than at Mrs. Amos'. The only member ofthe household who lacked cordiality was Jim, whose coolness towardsTony, however, was fully counter-balanced by his interest in the bear.Towards Tony his attitude was one of armed neutrality.

On the fourth evening after the arrival of Tony and Beppo, Jimdiscovered a most tempting lump of meat in the corner of Mrs. Amos'garden. Having something of an appetite at the moment, he was justabout to bolt the morsel. But no sooner had he set his teeth into itthan he conceived a prejudice against it. He dropped it, and sniffedat it intently. The smell was quite all right. He turned it over withhis paw and sniffed at the under side. No, there was nothing thematter with it. Nevertheless, his appetite had quite vanished. Well,it would do for another time. He dug a hole and buried the morsel, andthen went back to the house to see what Woolly Billy and Mrs. Amos weredoing.

A little later, just as Mrs. Amos was lighting the lamps in thekitchen, the rattling of a chain was heard outside, followed by thewhimpering of Beppo, who objected to being tied up to the gate-postwhen he wanted to come in and beg for pancakes. Woolly Billy ran tothe door and peered forth into the dusk. After a few moments Tonyentered, all his teeth agleam in his expansive smile.

He had a little bag of bon-bons for Woolly Billy—something much morefascinating than peppermints—which he doled out to the child one byone, as a rare treat. And for himself he wanted a cup of tea, whichhospitable Mrs. Amos was only too eager to brew for him. Jim, seeingthat Woolly Billy was too interested to needhis company, got up andwent out to inspect the bear.

Tony was in gay spirits that evening. In his broken English, andhelping out his meaning with eloquent gestures, he told of adventureswhich made Woolly Billy's eyes as round as saucers and reduced Mrs.Amos to admiring speechlessness. He made Mrs. Amos drink tea with him,pouring it out for her himself while she hobbled about to find himsomething to eat. And once in a while, at tantalizing intervals, heallowed Woolly Billy one more bon-bon.

There was a chill in the night air, so Tony, who was always politenessitself, asked leave to close the door. Mrs. Amos hastened also toclose the window. Or, rather, she tried to hasten, but made rather apoor attempt, and sat down heavily in the big arm-chair beside it.

"My legs is that heavy," she explained, laughing apologetically. SoTony closed the window himself, and at the same time drew the curtains.Then he went on talking.

But apparently his conversation was less interesting than it had been.There came a snore from Mrs. Amos' big chair. Tony glanced aside atWoolly Billy, as if expecting the child to laugh. But Woolly Billytook no notice of the sound. He was fast asleep, his fluffy fair headfallen forward upon the red table-cloth.

Tony looked at the clock on the mantel-piece. It was not as late as hecould have wished, but he had observed that Brine's Rip went to bedearly. He turned the lamp low, softly raised the window, and lookedout, listening. There were no lights in the village, and all wassilence save for the soft roar of the Rip. He extinguished the lamp,and waited a few moments till his eyes got quite accustomed to thegloom.

At length he picked up the slight form of Woolly Billy (who was now ina drugged stupor from which he would not awake for hours), and slunghim over his left shoulder. In his right hand he grasped his shortbear-whip, with its loaded butt. He stepped noiselessly to the door,listened a few moments, and then opened it inch by inch with his lefthand, standing behind it, and grasping the whip so as to be ready tostrike with the butt. He was wondering where the big black dog was.

The door was about half open, when a black shape, appearing suddenly,launched itself at the opening. The loaded butt came crashingdown—and Jim dropped sprawling across the threshold.

From the back of the bear Tony now unfastened a small pack, andstrapped it over his right shoulder. Then he unchained the great beastnoiselessly, and led it off to the waterside, to a spot where a heavylog canoe was drawn up upon the beach. He hauled the canoe down,making much disarrangement in the gravel, launched it, thrust it farout into the water, and noted it being carried away by the current. Hehad no wish to journey by that route himself, knowing that as soon asthe crime was discovered, which might chance at any moment, thetelephone would give the alarm all down the river.

Next he undid the bear's chain, and took off its muzzle, and threw themboth into the water, knowing that when freed from these badges ofservitude the animal would wander further and more freely. At firstthe good-natured creature was unwilling to leave him. Its master, frompolicy, had always treated it kindly, and fed it well, and it was in nohurry to profit by its freedom.

However, the man ordered it off towards the woods, enforcing thecommand by a vigorous push and a stroke of the whip. Shaking itselftill it realized its freedom, it slouched away a few paces down stream,then turned into the woods. The man listened to its careless, crashingprogress.

Assured that he had thus thrown out two false trails to distractpursuers, the man now stepped into the water, and walked up stream forseveral hundred yards, till he reached the spot which served as a ferrylanding. Here, in the multiplicity of footprints, he knew his ownwould be indistinguishable to even the keenest of backwood eyes. Hecame ashore, slipped through the slumbering village, and plunged intothe woods with the assurance of one to whom their mysteries were anopen book.

He was shaping his course—by the stars at present, but by compass whenit should become necessary—for an inlet on the coast, where therewould be a sturdy fishing-smack awaiting him and his rich prize. Allwas working smoothly—as most plans were apt to work under his swift,resourceful hands—and his hard lips relaxed in triumphantself-satisfaction. One of the most accomplished and relentless of thedesperadoes of the Great North-West, he had peculiarly enjoyed his poseas the childlike Tony.

For hour after hour he pushed on, till even his untiring sinews beganto protest. About the edge of dawn Woolly Billy awoke, but, stillstupid with the heavy drugging he had received, he did not seem torealize what had happened. He cried a little, asking for Jim, and forTug Blackstock, and for Mrs. Amos, but was pacified by the most trivialexcuses. The man gave him some sweet biscuits, but he refused to eatthem, leaving them on the moss beside him. He hardly protested evenwhen the man cut off his bright hair, and proceeded to darken what wasleft with some queer-smelling dye.

When the man undressed him and proceeded to stain his face and hiswhole body, he apparently thought he was being got ready for bed, andto certain terrible threats as to what would happen if he tried to getaway, or to tell any one anything, he paid no attention whatever. Hewent to sleep again in the middle of it all.

Satisfied with his job, the man lay down beside him, knowing himselfsecure from pursuit, and went to sleep himself.

Meanwhile, after lying motionless for several hours, where he haddropped across the threshold, Jim at last began to stir. That crashingblow, after all, had not fallen quite true. Jim was not dead, by anymeans. He staggered to his feet, swayed a few moments, and then, forall the pain in his head, he was practically himself again. He wentinto the cottage, tried in vain to awaken Mrs. Amos in her chair,hunted for Woolly Billy in his bed, and at last, realizing something ofwhat had happened, rushed forth in a panic of rage and fear and grief,and remorse for a trust betrayed.

It was a matter of a few minutes to trail the party down to thewaterside. Then he darted off after the bear. The latter, grubbingdelightedly in a rotten stump, greeted him with a friendly "Woof." Aglance and a sniff satisfied Jim that Woolly Billy was not there, andhis instinct assured him that the bear was void of offence in the wholematter. He knew the enemy. He darted back to the waterside, ran on upstream to the ferry-landing, picked up the trail of Tony's feet,followed it unerringly through the confusion of other footprints, anddarted silently into the woods in pursuit.

At daybreak an early riser, seeing the door of Mrs. Amos' cottagestanding open, looked in and saw the old lady still asleep in herchair. She was awakened with difficulty, and could give but a vagueaccount of what had happened. The whole village turned out. Under theleadership of Long Jackson, the big mill-hand who constituted himselfWoolly Billy's special guardian in Blackstock's absence, the "Dago" andbear were traced down to the waterside.

Of course, it was clear to almost every one that the "Dago"—who wasnow due for lynching when caught—had carried Woolly Billy off downriver in the vanished canoe. Instantly the telephones were broughtinto service, and half-a-dozen expert canoeists, in the swiftest canoesto be had, started off in pursuit. But the more astute of thewoodsmen—including Long Jackson himself—held that this river clue wasa false one, a ruse to put them off the track. This group went afterthe bear.

In an hour or two they found him. And very glad to see them heappeared to be. He was getting hungry, and a bit lonely. So withoutwaiting for an invitation, with touching confidence he attached himselfto the party, and accompanied it back to the village. There Big Andy,who had always had a weakness for bears, took him home and fed him, andshut him up in the back yard.

In the meantime Jim, travelling at a speed that the fugitive could nothope to rival, had come soon after daybreak to the spot where the manand Woolly Billy lay asleep.

He arrived as soundlessly as a shadow. At sight of his enemy—for heknew well who had carried off the child, and who had dealt that almostfatal blow—his long white fangs bared in a silent snarl of hate. Buthe had learnt, well learnt, that this man was a dangerous antagonist.He crouched, stiffened as if to stone, and surveyed the situation.

His sensitive nose prevented him from being quite deceived by thetransformation in Woolly Billy's appearance. He was puzzled by it, buthe had no doubt as to the child's identity. Having satisfied himselfthat the little fellow was asleep, and therefore presumably safe forthe moment, he turned his attention to his enemy.

The man was sleeping almost on his back, one arm thrown above his head,his chin up, his brown, sinewy throat exposed. That bare throatriveted Jim's vengeful gaze. He knew well that the man, though asleepand at an utter disadvantage, was the most dangerous adversary he couldpossibly tackle.

Step by step, so lightly, so smoothly, that not a twig crackled underhis feet, he crept up, his muzzle outstretched, his fangs gleaming thehair rising along his back. When he was within a couple of paces ofhis goal, the sleeper stirred slightly, as if about to wake up, orgrowing conscious of danger. Instantly Jim sprang, and sank his fangsdeep, deep, into his enemy's throat.

With a shriek the sleeper awoke, flinging wide his arms and legsconvulsively. But the shriek was strangled at its birth, as Jim'simplacable teeth crunched closer. The great dog shook his victim as aterrier shakes a rat. There was a choked gurgle, and the threshingarms and legs lay still.

Jim continued his savage shaking till satisfied his foe was quite dead.Then he let go, and turned his attention to Woolly Billy.

The child was sitting up, staring at him with round eyes of questionand bewilderment.

"Where am I, Jim?" he demanded. Then he gazed at the transformation inhimself—his clothes and his stained hands. He saw his old clothestossed aside, his curls lying near them in a bright, fluffy heap. Hefelt his cropped head. And then his brain began to clear. He had adim memory of the man cutting his hair and changing his clothes.

Upon his first glimpse of the man, lying there dead and covered withblood, he felt a sharp pang of sorrow. He had liked Tony. But thepang passed, as he began to understand. IfJim had killed Tony, Tonymust have been bad. It was evident that Tony had carried him off, andthat Jim had come to save him. Jim was licking his face now,rapturously, and evidently coaxing him to get up and come away.

He flung his arms around Jim's neck. Then he saw the biscuits. Hedivided them evenly between himself and Jim, and ate his portion withgood appetite. Jim would not touch his share, so Woolly Billy tuckedthem into his pocket. Then he got up and followed where Jim was tryingto lead him, keeping his face averted from the terrible, bleeding thingsprawled there upon the moss. And Jim led him safely home.

When Tug Blackstock, two days later, returned from his visit toExville, he brought news which explained why a certain gang ofcriminals had planned to get possession of Woolly Billy. The child hadfallen heir to an immense property in England, and an ancient title,and he was to have been held for ransom. From that moment Blackstocknever let him out of his sight, until, with a heavy heart, he handedhim over to his own people.

Thereafter, as he sat brooding on a log beside the noisy river, withJim stretched at his feet, Tug Blackstock felt that Brine's Rip, forthe lack of a childish voice and a head of flaxen curls, had lost allsavour for him. And his thoughts turned more and more towards thearguments of a grey-eyed girl, who had urged him to seek a wider spherefor his energies than the confines of Nipsiwaska County could afford.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Ledge on Bald Face

"The great dog shook his victim as a terrier shakes a rat." (Page 253.)

ITHE LEDGE ON BALD FACE

The Ledge on Bald Face

"He was thrown off his balance and shouldered clean over the brink."

IITHE EAGLE

The Eagle

"Then he spread his wings wide and let go."

IIICOCK-CROW

Cock-Crow

IVTHE MORNING OF THE SILVER FROST

The Morning of the Silver Frost

VJIM, THE BACKWOODS POLICE DOG