By the note of the dogs' outcry, Flora knew that they had found a friend; and who could it be but Jim Todhunter? She continued to push and scramble forward. She kept a sharp and hopeful lookout ahead for the gleam of a fire, but in vain. At last she came to within a dozen yards of the dogs, who were still uttering occasional yaps and whines. But there was no fire. There was nothing but darkness.
"Is anyone there?" she asked.
"I'm here," replied a faint voice.
"Is it you, Jim?"
"Yes. Why have you run away, Flora? Wasn't one enough?"
"Where is your fire? What are you doing?"
"My fire seems to have gone out. I'm not doing anything."
"But—what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing much. Cut my leg—like a fool."
The girl dropped pack and gun and rustled dry wood for the second time within the hour. She worked in silence, fumbling in the dark; and Jim, too, was silent. The dogs whined anxiously. She found a white birch, from which she tore strips of bark, and she hacked away dozens of the dead lower branches of big spruces and firs. Soon strong flames were leaping, and by their light she saw Jim lying, rolled in blankets, on the snow. Only his head was uncovered. His eyes were wide open, regarding her fixedly.
"Didn't it work? Are they after you?" he asked.
For answer, she freed her feet from the snowshoes and knelt beside him.
"You are badly hurt!" she cried fearfully. "Let me see it! You have lost a lot of blood! How did you do it? Where is it?"
"My left leg," he answered. "Did it with the ax, like an idiot. Had fool's luck enough to miss the bone, by the feel of it. Doesn't hurt much, but bled a good deal. But what brought you along, Flora? Didn't our little game work? Or did you suddenly remember that you didn't thank me before I left?"
She did not answer his questions or meet his glance, but piled more fuel on the fire and set to unrolling the blankets gently and swiftly from about his legs. The heavy stockings on his left leg were wet and sticky with blood. Her exploring fingers were stained with it.
"You didn't tie it up!" she exclaimed.
"I tried to," he replied. "Tried to cut a strip of blanket for a bandage. Went groggy all of a sudden. Keeled over; just had time and sense enough to roll up snug in my blankets, so's not to get frost in the wound. Next thing I knew, the dogs were licking my face. Must have been unconscious for hours."
She produced bandages as if by magic, but with the help of a sharp knife. She cut away patches of the blood-soaked stockings and bound the deep wound. While she worked, he continued to repeat the question, but for all he learned she might as well have been deaf and dumb. Having completed the bandaging and covered the leg again, she gathered tips of cedar and fir and made a mattress and rolled him gently onto it. Then she melted snow in a smoky kettle, boiled the water, made tea, and fried bacon. She toasted bread and buttered it hot, sat down close beside him and poured tea into the only available mug. He put out a hand suddenly and gripped her nearest wrist with fingers like iron.
"Do you hear me?" he cried. "I have asked you a dozen times! Why have you come after me?"
"To find you," she answered faintly, with averted face.
"But what's the idea? What use my running away from the police if you run too?"
"Jim, do you really think I shot Amos Hammond?"
"You told me that you shot him!"
"Yes, I told you so—but I didn't!"
"Whatareyou driving at? If you didn't shoot him, then why did you ask me to run away like a coward? What good did it do you—my making a coward and a fool of myself—if you were innocent?"
"Can't you see?"
"No, I can't."
"I—I thought you had done it. What else could I think? And I wanted you to get away."
"But after I told you I didn't do it? It was not until then that you said you shot him!"
"I am ashamed of myself—miserably ashamed!"
"So it was just a silly trick, Flora? Nothing but an idiotic joke, to see what I would do for you."
"But it wasn't—a joke—or a trick," she sobbed. "I—I didn't believe you. I wanted you—to escape—but I wanted you to—trust me. And I thought you—would confess to me—if I said I did it."
"And when I didn't? You thought I was lying to you? You still thought so?"
"I am bitterly ashamed!"
"You believed me to be a fool, a liar, and a coward! You believed that I shot an unarmed man from cover and intended to bluff the sheriff, but that I was willing to run, eager to run, as soon as you said you were guilty. You believed that I was willing to pretend that you had shot him! Good Lord! It's too deep for me! Nice opinion you had of me! And still have, I suppose."
"I was crazy with anxiety—for you. I didn't think! I didn't reason! And when old Mrs. Wilson said that she had shot Hammond I—I hated myself! I despised myself—and I still do!"
"Mrs. Wilson? The queer old dame I gave cartridges to. I might have thought of that! So the police are still after me, I suppose?"
"No. She told the sheriff that she did it, and it is all right."
He drank tea, but refused to eat. Then he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Flora gathered a supply of wood for the night, made herself a bed of boughs and took to her blankets with a heavy heart. She had wronged Jim past forgiveness, so it seemed. She had judged him as she might have judged other young men of her acquaintance—Homer Steeves and Melchior Hammond, for instance, and all through her mad anxiety for his safety. Now, remembering everything she had seen and heard of him, she realized how foolish and unjust she had been even in her first mad mistake of believing that he had fired upon an unarmed man.
Jim Todhunter only pretended to sleep, but he lay very still for hours. His mind and heart were prey to bitter and humiliating thoughts and emotions. The girl had believed him guilty of shooting from cover at an unarmed man! It was a thing which her brother Mark would not have suspected him of for a moment. And she had continued to believe it of him after he had denied it. So far, she had considered him a coward, a would-be murderer, and a liar. But that had not been enough. She had then lied to him; and when he had believed her and taken to the winter wilderness to draw suspicion away from her and upon himself, she had considered him not only a blackguard but a fool. And he had thought her his friend! He had thought that she knew him! It was too damn much! But for his wounded leg, she would never see him again. As it was, he would avoid her as much as possible. He would return to the glen, remain there until the cut was healed, and then go north to the trapping country. In the meantime he would make the homeward trip without any help from her.
Before midnight, he sat up and cautiously prepared for his journey by the low, red glow of the fallen fire. First of all, he ate the few slices of fried bacon and toasted bread which had been left over from supper. These were frozen and he thawed them at the embers. He helped the heavy food down with a few mouthfuls of bitter cold tea. After examining the bandages of his injured leg and finding that the blood had ceased to flow, he cut one of his blankets in two, wrapped a half securely around the leg from hip to ankle and bound it with the thongs from his snowshoes. He rolled his blankets lengthwise, looped the roll across his shoulder like a bandolier and tied the ends. He slung his rifle, stuffed his pockets with food, pulled his mittens high about his wrists and his fur cap low about his ears and then crawled away from the low fire and the sleeping girl and dogs. He went on his hands and his right knee, dragging his bulkily swathed leg stiffly and heavily. His arms sank to the elbows, sometimes to the shoulders. The dry snow puffed up in his face at every movement of his arms, almost choking him. He followed his old tracks back to the edge of the barren, there found Flora's trail and took to the open. The air was still and cold.
Jim back-tracked along Flora's trail as fast as he could without straining his dragging leg or overheating himself. In spite of his bitterness and indignation, he kept his mind cool and clear on the job in hand. He paused now and then to clear eyes and nose of snow. He lay too low, and was too warmly clad and busily engaged to feel the cold. He kept to the track without a fault. Once, before dawn, he rested for twenty minutes and smoked a couple of cigarettes. By sunrise he within fifty yards of the edge of the forest. He staggered upright on a straight leg and looked around him; and at the same moment he heard a gust of wind strike and moan among the black spires of the forest in front, felt its icy breath on his face and saw the dry snow around him rise and run in a blinding cloud. That puff of wind and blown snow passed and fell in a second, and he saw a clump of stunted spruces a few rods away on his right. Then a bright idea came to him and he sank to hands and knee again and crawled off on a new course. He was determined to regain the glen without any help from the girl who had believed him to be a coward and a liar; he knew that his only chance of accomplishing this lay in eluding pursuit, for she could travel three yards to his one, and in this sudden draught of wind from the rising sun—the promise of a windy day—he saw his way to tricking her. In the open, with a wind blowing, even his trench-like spoor would soon be drifted full and utterly obliterated, but not so in the shelter of the thick timber. So he crawled for the little clump of bushy spruces. He would let her go blindly by, and then follow and complete his journey in his own time. He would show her that, even when crippled, he needed no assistance from one who thought of him as she did. He crawled to the center of the stiff tangle and dug deep in the snow to the very roots of the spruces. Here was a snug retreat, a veritable den, walled with snow and brush and dead fern and roofed with several layers of wide boughs. He unrolled his blankets; and then a sudden dizziness assailed him. He fought against it for a few seconds, extended his wounded leg and drew the blankets about him, sagged lower, and lay still and unconscious.
Flora Ducat awoke at dawn, built up the fire with dry twigs, greeted the bounding dogs and then discovered Jim's absence. Gone! Gone with rifle, blankets, and wounded leg! Her eyes tingled with tears, her heart faltered, and her cheeks went gray at the implication. He would risk bleeding to death, or freezing in the snow, rather than remain in her company or accept her assistance. As she stared at the deep trail he had made, the tears suddenly formed and dimmed her sight.
"He has crawled off like a wounded animal," she whispered.
She tossed the crusts of a frozen loaf to the dogs, made up her pack, bound on her webs, and set off on Jim's laborious trail. As she reached the edge of the barren she saw the first swoop of the wind lift and drive a great cloud of snow along the desolate expanse. She hesitated for a moment, then advanced from the shelter of the woods. The level rays of the sun flamed across the white waste and dazzled her eyes. The tears froze on her cheeks and lashes, and she wiped them away with the back of a red mitten. The dogs ran ahead in Jim's deep trail. The wind swooped again, nearer this time, spun gleaming clouds in the sunshine and enveloped the girl in an icy blast and veils of stinging snow. She bowed her head and closed her eyes until the suffocating drift had passed.
The wind increased in violence. The sun continued to shine in a clear sky, but it and the landscape were frequently completely veiled from the girl by the flying drift. Sometimes the wind and the hunted snow swirled past her on the right or left, and sometimes it swirled over her, closing her eyes and snatching away her breath. She held bravely to her course. The dogs returned to her, leaping and yelping anxiously. Long mounds of white formed before her heavy snowshoes, puffed up and vanished and formed again. But she staggered ahead, stooped almost double. She wondered anxiously if Jim had reached shelter. Suddenly, after a deluge of wind and snow more violent and prolonged than usual, she saw that the deep tracks had vanished, wiped out in some places and completely filled in others. She halted unsteadily for a moment and selected landmarks to travel by before the drift sprang up again, then staggered forward.
Consciousness soon returned to Jim Todhunter in the den in the heart of the thicket of spruces. He found that snow had sifted in upon him, through the tangled and overlapping boughs, to a depth of several inches. He stood up, taking all his weight on the uninjured leg, and shook the blankets. He felt much better—almost himself again. He looked abroad, over the edge of the pit and through the heavy screen of branches, and saw the drifting clouds lift and spin and fall. He thought, against his will, of Flora Ducat. He wondered if she had yet waked and discovered his absence. He hoped not. He hoped that no evil chance had aroused her in time for her to have left the shelter of the western forest before sunrise and the outbreak of wind. To change the trend of his thoughts, he untied and unwound the blanket from his left leg, examined the bandages, and found them all in order and free of blood, and replaced the blanket. He smoked a cigarette very comfortably, listening to the wind and driving drift go past and over and watching the sift of snow as fine as spray through the black brush above him.
The wind increased in force and Jim became restless. Thoughts of Flora Ducat grew insistent. At last he got to his feet again and set to gathering dry twigs and branches that were within his reach but which did not impair his shelter. This done, he crawled out of the hole and worked farther afield, using a heavy knife. The thicket was ten or a dozen paces in diameter, close-growing and thick with dead wood. He returned to his den, heaped the fuel conveniently around the mouth of it, settled down again and made a tiny fire on the frozen ground beside him. He was warm enough without the fire, but the lively flame cheered him. He fed it with dry twigs and fern, and soon with little sticks as thick as his thumb; and so it grew from the size of his fist to the size of his head; and still it grew, and he was forced to enlarge the pit. He ate a little bread and cold pork and smoked another cigarette. A thin spray of snow continued to sift through the roof of brush and fall hissing into the fire. He grew drowsy and nodded. He was aroused by the yelping of a dog, then by a snowslide, an increased hissing of the fire, and the dog itself leaping upon him. He quieted the dog, rolled his blankets and placed them at a safe distance from the fire, snugged himself for the trail, slung his rifle, threw dry brush and green on the fire, and crawled out of the den. The dog leaped over him and plunged ahead. He crawled from the edge of the thicket into a world of smothering, flying white.
Jim followed the dog. He resembled a swimmer using the overhead racing stroke in a sea of foam and froth. The drift and wind were almost continuous by this time, but in every lull he cleared his eyes and looked behind and saw the smoke of his fire. The dog returned to him often, encouraging him with yelps and jumps. In places the drift was so deep that he was forced to stand and hop on his right leg, plunge, stagger up, and hop again. The second dog appeared for a moment, leaped upon him, slashed his face with a wet tongue, and vanished into the flying snow.
Flora Ducat had ceased to struggle by the time Jim found her. Only her red hood and a red stocking showed above the drift. He knelt to windward of her and shook her with both hands. Then he cleared the big webs from her feet and hoisted her to her knees. She opened her eyes and looked at him with a bewildered expression.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Frozen?" he asked.
"Only tired—tired to death," she said.
The blinding drift sprang up and drove over them. He shielded her from it. He removed her pack from her shoulders and swung it to his own back and added her snowshoes to the load.
"And I have cramps," she moaned. "Snowshoers' cramps—in both legs—terribly."
"Then you must crawl," he said. "Follow me."
All went well, though slowly and with vast labor, for a few hundred yards; and then the girl stalled. Jim turned back, lifted her to her knees again and shook her again.
"Are you frozen anywhere?" he asked,
"I'm not cold," she replied faintly. "I'm tired out. Please leave me alone."
He rubbed her face with handfuls of snow. She protested angrily and burst into tears.
"Leave me be!" she sobbed. "Let me rest!"
"You can't rest here!" he cried, and shook her roughly. "I've a shelter somewhere. It isn't far. You can rest there."
She exerted herself again, but after a few yards subsided on her face and refused to budge. He struggled and argued with her in vain for several minutes, then realized that he was wasting his own strength for nothing. He unslung the snowshoes and pack and fastened the snowshoes to the collar of one of the dogs and the pack to the back of the other. Then he burrowed under the girl, raised himself to his hands and one knee beneath her and continued his journey.
It was slow work. The dogs ceased to frisk. Jim was frequently forced to shake the girl from his back and extricate one or the other of the dogs from either its load or the drift. The dogs understood and did their best—but the snowshoes on the pack were ever-lastingly slipping around and dragging beneath them. Only Flora did not seem to understand or to make any effort to do so. She rolled off Jim's back when he wanted her to stay on, and several times roused herself sufficiently to clutch at his neck when he wanted to roll her off. And yet so unreasonable a thing is the human heart, the more trouble she gave him the more kindly did he feel toward her. All his bitterness had gone at the first glimpse of her lying helpless; and now that she made no effort to help herself, and exerted herself only to impede his progress, he felt only tenderness and admiration for her. The fact that she had not believed his word was forgotten; that she had thought him a shooter from ambush seemed a small thing; that she had thought him a coward—even that appeared a small matter now. She had come out alone to find him; that was the great thing! And she had admitted her shame for having thought meanly of him, and that was another great thing! So he struggled onward.
The wind began to fail. It blew less violently, lifted the snow no more than five or six feet and dropped it almost immediately. It struck less frequently, baffled, and finally died away.
Jim reached the thicket from which a thin plume of smoke arose straight into the still air. He freed the floundering dogs of their burdens, dragged the girl through the tangle and deposited her in the den and sank on his face beside her. He lay motionless for fully ten minutes, then turned over and sat up. Flora, too, was sitting up, with her back against the wall of brush and snow. Her eyes were open and their green gaze was fixed anxiously and wonderingly upon him.
"How did you—get me here?" she whispered.
"You crawled part of the way," he answered. "Then I lugged you on my back. Are you feeling better?"
"I feel dizzy—and sick. I thought I was dead. But I remember crawling. You saved my life."
"I'll make some tea. Your pack's just outside."
"You saved my life—and I thought you hated me."
"It was my fault. I shouldn't have crawled away last night."
He staggered up, crawled out and brought in the pack. He made tea and buttered toast, the girl and the dogs watching him in silence.
"I didn't eat any breakfast," she said as he handed her the only mug, full of tea.
"I was a fool to crawl away last night," he said.
"You might have started your leg bleeding again," said the girl.
"It would have served me right," he answered.
"Can you forgive me for—for thinking you lied to me?"
"I forgave you long ago—when I saw you on your face in the snow. I wanted to kick myself then for having raised such a row about a little thing like that."
He took the empty mug from her and filled it for himself.
"I am glad you saved my life, even if you do feel—that way about me," she said.
"What way?" he asked.
"As if I—wasn't capable of—really understanding you."
He moved over closer beside her.
"I—only want you to think well of me," he said. "It was my pride that was talking last night, but seeing you helpless out there in the drift took the silly pride out of me."
"I think—very well of you. I think, I know, that you are brave and honest. But what do you think of me, Jim?"
"I think you are as brave as—as you are—dashed beautiful!"
"Beautiful! I have green eyes!"
"They are beautiful. Flora, do you know I—I don't want to make you angry but—I kissed you once, out there in the snow. And if you can forgive me—I was quite desperate, don't you know—I'd like to do it again."
"Hands up!" cried a voice; and they looked up and beheld the head and shoulders and rifle of Homer Steeves at the edge of the pit. Jim didn't remove his arm from Flora's waist.
"Hands up, I said!" cried Homer. "An' move away from that girl! Pack yer dunnage an' come along out of that!"
Jim stood up.
"What's the matter with yer leg?" asked Homer.
"Cut it. What's the matter with you?" asked Jim.
"Cut it, did ye. Well, ye got to come along all the same. I figgered on tyin' you an' haulin' you anyhow—an' Flora can help me."
"Very kind of you, but why are you pointing that rifle at me?"
"To shoot you if you resist, that's why."
"He will come quietly, Homer. Don't shoot!" cried the girl.
A sudden, reckless rage took possession of Jim. He stooped swiftly, snatched the largest brand from the fire and flung it in Homer's face. Homer swore and twitched his finger. The hammer of the Snider fell, the cap in the base of the cartridge detonated with a sharp crack—and that was all! And before the volunteer man-hunter could eject the worthless charge and insert another—another equally worthless, had he only known it—Jim was at him. Homer clubbed his rifle and swung it, but Jim ducked, grabbed with his right hand and yanked Homer into the pit, rifle and snowshoes and all. Despite the fact that he kept his left foot clear of the ground all the time, Jim had the intruder disarmed and bound helplessly at wrist and ankle in thirty seconds.
Jim crawled out of the den and thicket to look for the sled which Steeves had mentioned. Flora followed him.
"He tried to kill you," she whispered.
"He doesn't like me, evidently," replied Jim. "Lucky for me the cartridge didn't explode!"
"What will we do next?" she asked.
"Start for home first thing to-morrow morning, if you feel fit to travel."
"But you can't crawl all the way."
"Homer will have to drag me on the sled. That's what he brought it for."
"But he intended to haul you home as a prisoner. Now it will be a different matter entirely when he knows that the sheriff doesn't want you. He will refuse to haul you, for he is very stubborn; and then what can we do? You wouldn't shoot him."
"No, I wouldn't shoot him. I couldn't do more than threaten him."
"And if he saw that you were anxious to get back to the glen, then he would know that you are innocent and he would refuse to haul you a foot. We'll have to fool him."
"How?"
"Let him go on thinking you are guilty. And I'll tie you up early to-morrow morning and set him free, but I'll throw his cartridges away and keep your rifle handy. He will haul you right up to the kitchen door, Jim; and then it will be time to tell him the truth."
"Flora, you are a wonder! And you are not angry with me, are you?"
"Angry? Why should I be angry now that we are good friends again?"
"Then I'll chance it again!" he exclaimed, and he did.
They returned to their prisoner and the fire. They did not talk to each other or Homer. Jim ejected the unexploded cartridge from the Snider and pocketed it. He took the other cartridges from Homer's pocket and was about to throw them away when a bright scratch on the brass of one of them caught his eye. He examined it carefully, then extracted the bullet with the point of his knife. He did the same to the other shells.
"Where did you get your ammunition?" he asked.
"What's wrong with it?" asked the prisoner, who had watched the operations keenly and curiously.
"No explosive charges," replied Jim.
"The devil you say!" cried Homer. "No powder! That's old Hercules Ducat, the tricky old skunk. He loaned me the rifle an' ca'tridges. But he'll wish he hadn't been so smart when I put the law onto him."
"You should be very grateful to him," returned Jim. "You would be a murderer now if they had been all right."
The rest of the evening was passed in silence. Supper was eaten in silence.
Jim was awakened by Flora before dawn.
"Now I must tie you up," she whispered, with her lips very close to his ear.
She bound his wrists comfortably. She bound his ankles. Then she kissed him swiftly and slipped away. He smiled and fell asleep again. His dreams were scattered again half an hour later by the sharp punching of a moccasined toe against his ribs. He opened his eyes and beheld Homer Steeves standing over him.
"Wake up an' feed yer face, Mr. Dood!" cried Homer; and then, as Jim pretended to try to free his wrists, he laughed with loud derision.
Jim scowled and maintained a sullen silence throughout breakfast, but he ate heartily.
"Go to it," jeered Homer. "It's a durn sight better'n the grub ye'll get in jail."
Flora hung her head as if in shame, but whenever the man-hunter's back was turned she winked at the captive and blew him a kiss.
Jim made no protest when Homer told him to sit on the sled. The day was bright, without wind, but the going was heavy. Homer pulled mightily, while Flora beat a trail in front. They rested often; and Homer turned frequently and damned the passenger. By the time they had gone four miles, Homer's wind and temper were both demoralized. He dropped the rope, slipped his feet from his webs and went back and kicked Jim off the sled. Jim lay helpless and half smothered in the deep snow.
"Crawl, durn ye!" cried Homer.
The girl came back on the jump, raised Jim to a sitting position, and flashed green fire at Homer.
"How can he crawl when he's tied hand and foot?" she asked.
"I dassent risk lettin' him loose, but we'd sure get along quicker if he could crawl a piece now an' agin," replied Homer.
"Untie me, and I give you my word I won't hurt you and I'll crawl part of the way," promised Jim.
Homer agreed to this and the girl loosed the thongs. Jim crawled behind the sled for a distance of several hundred yards, then grabbed the sled and pulled himself onto it. After traveling at his ease for half a mile, he rolled off and crawled again.
Jim was tied again before camp was made that night, and the night passed uneventfully. Homer, who had been the first to sleep, was the first to wake. He was in a bad humor, despite the fact that his rival was in his power and would soon be in the grasp of the law. He built up the fire. Then he went over to his captive and kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could without hurting his soft-shod toes.
Again they traveled glenward, with Flora and the dogs leading, Homer hauling the sled and Jim sometimes on and sometimes off the sled. The hauls were long and the crawls were short, but they went forward at a fair pace.
Lamplight was shining from the kitchen windows when Homer Steeves pulled the sled up to the kitchen door. Homer was weary. He staggered and sat down on the chopping-block beside the door. Flora went to the sled and unfastened Jim's bonds and helped him to his feet. She turned to Homer, while Jim supported part of his weight with an arm across her shoulders.
"Thank you, Homer," she said. "You have been a great help. I don't know what we should have done without you and the sled."
"It was Flora's idea," explained Jim. "She said that if you knew old Mrs. Wilson had shot Hammond and that the sheriff wasn't after me, you wouldn't haul me home—and I imagine she was right. So we didn't enlighten you, and here we are. Thanks very much, Steeves."
Homer got to his feet slowly and advanced wonderingly.
"What the devil d'ye mean?" he asked in a choking voice.
"Don't come any nearer, or I'll land you one that'll put you to sleep for a week," cautioned Jim.
At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Ducat looked out. The dogs bounded past her into the kitchen and Flora ran into her embrace. Jim followed the mother and daughter into the kitchen, hopping on one foot; and Homer cleared his snowshoes from his feet and followed Jim. He did not wait for an invitation. He could not bring himself to believe that he should ever require an invitation to make himself at home in that kitchen. Looking about him, he saw the old men and old Mrs. Wilson seated by the stove. He confronted the widow.
"I hear it was you shot Amos Hammond," he said, and laughed derisively.
"Sure it was me," returned the old lady tartly. "Who had a better right to shoot 'im, I'd like to know? What's the joke, young man?"
"You shot 'im?" muttered Homer.
"Ain't I jes' told ye so? Where's yer manners?"
"Does Sheriff Hart know?"
"That he does, an' Hammond, too! The hull world knows it, I reckon."
Homer turned and left the kitchen. He went to the stable and harnessed his mare in the dark.
Mark Ducat entered the kitchen within a few minutes of Homer's departure. He had returned from Kettle Pond only that morning, and was full of enthusiasm for his and Jim's venture.
Jim stopped in the middle of recounting his adventures and gripped Mark's hand in both of his and expressed intense pleasure at the sight of his partner by word and look.
"But I won't be able to make the trip north for a week or two because of this game leg," he explained cheerfully. "I've been having a wild old time the last few days. But I've learned a lot about women, at any rate."
"What's that got to do with our trap line?"
"Nothing, of course, but they're as brave as we are, Mark—but even the best of them is inclined to—well, given to dissembling."
"Has someone been makin' a fool of you, Jim?"
"Not at all."
"Maybe not—but the woods is the place for us, Jim."
"He's got a cut in his leg that'll keep him right here for a week or so," said Flora, smiling.
Old Hercules Ducat chuckled.
"When I was a young feller," he began—but at that moment the conversation became general and no one but Widow Wilson heard what he had to say.