{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_47563/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_47563","id":"gutenberg_47563","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47563","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Novels","Dogs -- Folklore"],"text":"THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n                  NEW YORK \u00b7 BOSTON \u00b7 CHICAGO \u00b7 DALLAS\n                        ATLANTA \u00b7 SAN FRANCISCO\n                        MACMILLAN & CO., Limited\n                       LONDON \u00b7 BOMBAY \u00b7 CALCUTTA\n                               MELBOURNE\n                   THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.\n                                TORONTO\n\n\n\n\n                                  JIM\n                        THE STORY OF A BACKWOODS\n                               POLICE DOG\n\n\n                                   BY\n                      MAJOR CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS\n\n\n                               _New York_\n                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n                                  1931\n\n                            Copyright, 1918,\n                       By CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.\n                            Copyright, 1919,\n                       By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n                  All rights reserved\u2014no part of this\n                   book may be reproduced in any form\n                   without permission in writing from\n                             the publisher.\n\n            Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1919.\n\n                            _Norwood Press_\n                 J. S. Cushing Co.\u2014Berwick & Smith Co.\n                         Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\n                                CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                     PAGE\n  Jim, the Story of a Backwoods Police Dog                              7\n  I. How Woolly Billy Came to Brine\u2019s Rip                               9\n  II. The Book Agent and the Buckskin Belt                             32\n  III. The Hole in the Tree                                            65\n  IV. The Trail of the Bear                                            91\n  V. The Fire at Brine\u2019s Rip Mills                                    115\n  VI. The Man with the Dancing Bear                                   135\n  The Eagle                                                           157\n  The Mule                                                            179\n  Stripes the Unconcerned                                             199\n\n\n\n\n                JIM: THE STORY OF A BACKWOODS POLICE DOG\n\n\n\n\n                I. HOW WOOLLY BILLY CAME TO BRINE\u2019S RIP\n\n\n                                   I\n\nJim\u2019s mother was a big cross-bred bitch, half Newfoundland and half\nbloodhound, belonging to Black Saunders, one of the hands at the Brine\u2019s\nRip Mills. As the mills were always busy, Saunders was always busy, and\nit was no place for a dog to be around, among the screeching saws, the\nthumping, wet logs, and the spurting sawdust. So the big bitch, with\nfiery energy thrilling her veins and sinews and the restraint of a\nmaster\u2019s hand seldom exercised upon her, practically ran wild.\n\nHunting on her own account in the deep wilderness which surrounded\nBrine\u2019s Rip Settlement, she became a deadly menace to every wild thing\nless formidable than a bear or a bull moose, till at last, in the early\nprime of her adventurous career, she was shot by an angry game warden\nfor her depredations among the deer and the young caribou.\n\nJim\u2019s father was a splendid and pedigreed specimen of the old English\nsheep-dog. From a litter of puppies of this uncommon parentage, Tug\nBlackstock, the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, chose out the one\nthat seemed to him the likeliest, paid Black Saunders a sovereign for\nhim, and named him Jim. To Tug Blackstock, for some unfathomed reason,\nthe name of \u201cJim\u201d stood for self-contained efficiency.\n\nIt was efficiency, in chief, that Tug Blackstock, as Deputy Sheriff, was\nafter. He had been reading, in a stray magazine with torn cover and\nmuch-thumbed pages, an account of the wonderful doings of the trained\npolice dogs of Paris. The story had fired his imagination and excited\nhis envy.\n\nThere was a lawless element in some of the outlying corners of\nNipsiwaska County, with a larger element of yet more audacious\nlawlessness beyond the county line from which to recruit. Throughout the\nwide and mostly wilderness expanse of Nipsiwaska County the\nresponsibility for law and order rested almost solely upon the shoulders\nof Tug Blackstock. His chief, the Sheriff, a prosperous shopkeeper who\nowed his appointment to his political pull, knew little and thought less\nof the duties of his office.\n\nAs soon as Jim was old enough to have an interest beyond his breakfast\nand the worrying of his rag ball, Tug Blackstock set about his training.\nIt was a matter that could not be hurried. Tug had much work to do and\nJim, as behoved a growing puppy, had a deal of play to get through in\nthe course of each twenty-four hours. Then so hard was the learning, so\neasy, alas! the forgetting. Tug Blackstock was kind to all creatures but\ntimber thieves and other evil-doers of like kidney. He was patient, with\nthe long patience of the forest. But he had a will like the granite of\nold Bald Face.\n\nJim was quick of wit, willing to learn, intent to please his master. But\nit was hard for him to concentrate. It was hard to keep his mind off\ncats, and squirrels, the worrying of old boots, and other doggish\nfrivolities. Hence, at times, some painful misunderstandings between\nteacher and pupil. In the main, however, the education of Jim progressed\nto a marvel.\n\nThey were a pair, indeed, to strike the most stolid imagination, let\nalone the sensitive, brooding, watchful imagination of the backwoods.\nTug Blackstock was a tall, spare figure of a man, narrow of hip, deep of\nchest, with something of a stoop to his mighty shoulders, and his head\nthrust forward as if in ceaseless scrutiny of the unseen. His hair, worn\nsomewhat short and pushed straight back, was faintly grizzled. His face,\ntanned and lean, was markedly wide at the eyes, with a big,\nwell-modelled nose, a long, obstinate jaw, and a wide mouth whimsically\nuptwisted at one corner.\n\nExcept on the trail\u2014and even then he usually carried a razor in his\npack\u2014he was always clean-shaven, just because he didn\u2019t like the curl of\nhis beard. His jacket, shirt, and trousers were of browny-grey homespun,\nof much the same hue as his soft slouch hat, all as inconspicuous as\npossible. But at his throat, loosely knotted under his wide-rolling\nshirt collar, he wore usually an ample silk handkerchief of vivid green\nspattered with big yellow spots, like dandelions in a young June meadow.\n\nAs for Jim, at first glance he might almost have been taken for a slim,\nyoung black bear rather than a dog. The shaggy coat bequeathed to him by\nhis sheep-dog sire gave to his legs and to his hindquarters an\nappearance of massiveness that was almost clumsy. But under this dense\nblack fleece his lines were fine and clean-drawn as a bull-terrier\u2019s.\n\nThe hair about his eyes grew so long and thick that, if left to itself,\nit would have seriously interfered with his vision. This his master\ncould not think of permitting, so the riotous hair was trimmed down\nseverely, till Jim\u2019s large, sagacious eyes gazed out unimpeded from\nferocious, brush-like rims of stubby fur about half an inch in length.\n\n\n                                   II\n\nFor some ten miles above the long, white, furrowed face of Brine\u2019s Rip,\nwhere Blue Forks Brook flows in, the main stream of the Ottanoonsis is a\nsuccession of mad rapids and toothed ledges and treacherous,\nchannel-splitting shoals. These ten miles are a trial of nerve and\nwater-craft for the best canoeists on the river. In the spring, when the\nriver was in freshet and the freed logs were racing, battering, and\njamming, the whole reach was such a death-trap for the stream-drivers\nthat it had come to be known as Dead Man\u2019s Run.\n\nNow, in high summer, when the stream was shrunken in its channel and the\nsunshine lay golden over the roaring, creamy chutes and the dancing\nshallows, the place looked less perilous. But it was full of snares and\nhidden teeth. It was no place for the canoeist, however expert with pole\nand paddle, unless he knew how to read the water unerringly for many\nyards ahead. It is this reading of the water, this instantaneous solving\nof the hieroglyphics of foam and surge and swirl and glassy lunge, that\nmakes the skilled runner of the rapids.\n\nA light birch-bark canoe, with a man in the stern and a small child in\nthe bow, was approaching the head of the rapids, which were hidden from\nthe paddler\u2019s view by a high, densely-wooded bend of the shore. The\ncanoe leapt forward swiftly on the smooth, quiet current, under the\nstrong drive of the paddle.\n\nThe paddler was a tall, big-limbed man, with fair hair fringing out\nunder his tweed cap, and a face burnt red rather than tanned by the\nweather. He was dressed roughly but well, and not as a woodsman, and he\nhad a subtle air of being foreign to the backwoods. He knew how to\nhandle his paddle, however, the prow of his craft keeping true though\nhis strokes were slow and powerful.\n\nThe child who sat facing him on a cushion in the bow was a little boy of\nfour or five years, in a short scarlet jacket and blue knickers. His\nfat, bare legs were covered with fly-bites and scratches, his baby face\nof the tenderest cream and pink, his round, interested eyes as blue as\nperiwinkle blossoms. But the most conspicuous thing about him was his\nhair. He was bareheaded\u2014his little cap lying in the bottom of the canoe\namong the luggage\u2014and the hair, as white as tow, stood out like a fleece\nall over his head, enmeshing the sunlight in its silken tangle.\n\nWhen the canoe shot round the bend, the roar of the rapids smote\nsuddenly upon the voyagers\u2019 ears. The child turned his bright head\ninquiringly, but from his low place could see nothing to explain the\nnoise. His father, however, sitting up on the hinder bar of the canoe,\ncould see a menacing white line of tossing crests, aflash in the\nsunlight, stretching from shore to shore. Backing water vigorously to\ncheck his headway, he stood up to get a better view and choose his way\nthrough the surge.\n\nThe stranger was master of his paddle, but he had had no adequate\nexperience in running rapids. Such light and unobstructed rips as he had\ngone through had merely sufficed to make him regard lightly the menace\nconfronting him. He had heard of the perils of Dead Man\u2019s Run, but that,\nof course, meant in time of freshet, when even the mildest streams are\nliable to go mad and run amuck. This was the season of dead low water,\nand it was hard for him to imagine there could be anything really to\nfear from this lively but shrunken stream. He was strong, clear-eyed,\nsteady of nerve, and he anticipated no great trouble in getting through.\n\nAs the light craft dipped into the turmoil, jumping as if buffeted from\nbelow, and the wave-tops slapped in on either side of the bow, the\nlittle lad gave a cry of fear.\n\n\u201cSit tight, boy. Don\u2019t be afraid,\u201d said the father, peering ahead with\nintent, narrowed eyes and surging fiercely on his blade to avoid a\nboiling rock just below the first chute. As he swept past in safety he\nlaughed in triumph, for the passage had been close and exciting, and the\nconquest of a mad rapid is one of the thrilling things in life, and\nworth going far for. His laugh reassured the child, who laughed also,\nbut cowered low in the canoe and stared over the gunwale with wide eyes\nof awe.\n\nBut already the canoe was darting down toward a line of black rocks\nsmothered in foam. The man paddled desperately to gain the other shore,\nwhere there seemed to be a clear passage. Slanting sharply across the\ngreat current, surging with short, terrific strokes upon his sturdy\nmaple blade, his teeth set and his breath coming in grunts, he was swept\non downward, sideways toward the rocks, with appalling speed. But he\nmade the passage, swept the bow around, and raced through, shaving the\nrock so narrowly that his heart paused and the sweat jumped out suddenly\ncold on his forehead.\n\nImmediately afterwards the current swept him to mid-stream. Just here\nthe channel was straight and clear of rocks, and though the rips were\nheavy the man had a few minutes\u2019 respite, with little to do but hold his\ncourse.\n\nWith a stab at the heart he realized now into what peril he had brought\nhis baby. Eagerly he looked for a chance to land, but on neither side\ncould he make shore with any chance of escaping shipwreck. A woodsman,\nexpert with the canoe-pole, might have managed it, but the stranger had\nneither pole nor skill to handle one. He was in the grip of the wild\ncurrent and could only race on, trusting to master each new emergency as\nit should hurl itself upon him.\n\nPresently the little one took alarm again at his father\u2019s stern-set\nmouth and preoccupied eyes. The man had just time to shout once more,\n\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid, son. Dad\u2019ll take care of you,\u201d when the canoe was once\nmore in a yelling chaos of chutes and ledges. And now there was no\nrespite. Unable to read the signs of the water, he was full upon each\nnew peril before he recognized it, and only his great muscular strength\nand instant decision saved them.\n\nAgain and again they barely by a hair\u2019s-breadth, slipped through the\njaws of death, and it seemed to the man that the gnashing ledges raved\nand yelled behind him at each miracle of escape. Then hissing\nwave-crests cut themselves off and leapt over the racing gunwale, till\nhe feared the canoe would be swamped. Once they scraped so savagely that\nhe thought the bottom was surely ripped from the canoe. But still he won\nonward, mile after roaring mile, his will fighting doggedly to keep his\neyesight from growing hopelessly confused with the hellish, sliding\ndazzle and riot of waters.\n\nBut at last the fiend of the flood, having played with its prey long\nenough, laid bare its claws and struck. The bow of the canoe, in\nswerving from one foam-curtained rock, grounded heavily upon another. In\nan instant the little craft was swung broadside on, and hung there. The\nwaves piled upon her in a yelling pack. She was smothered down, and\nrolled over helplessly.\n\nAs they shot out into the torrent the man, with a terrible cry, sprang\ntoward the bow, striving to reach his son. He succeeded in catching the\nlittle one, with one hand, by the back of the scarlet jacket. The next\nmoment he went under and the jacket came off over the child\u2019s head. A\nwhimsical cross-current dragged the little boy twenty feet off to one\nside, and shot him into a shallow side channel.\n\nWhen the man came to the surface again his eyes were shut, his face\nstark white, his legs and arms flung about aimlessly as weeds; but fast\nin his unconscious grip he held the little red jacket. The canoe, its\nside stove in, and full of water, was hurrying off down the rapid amid a\nfleet of paddles, cushions, blankets, boxes, and bundles. The body of\nthe man, heavy and inert and sprawling, followed more slowly. The waves\nrolled it over and trampled it down, shouldered it up again, and\nsnatched it away viciously whenever it showed an inclination to hang\nitself up on some projecting ledge. It was long since they had had such\na victim on whom to glut their rancour.\n\nThe child, meanwhile, after being rolled through the laughing shallows\nof the side channel and playfully buffeted into a half-drowned\nunconsciousness, was stranded on a sand spit some eight or ten yards\nfrom the right-hand shore. There he lay, half in the water, half out of\nit, the silken white floss of his hair all plastered down to his head,\nthe rippled current tugging at his scratched and bitten legs.\n\nThe unclouded sun shone down warmly upon his face, slowly bringing back\nthe rose to his baby lips, and a small, paper-blue butterfly hovered\nover his head for a few seconds, as if puzzled to make out what kind of\nbeing he was.\n\nThe sand spit which had given the helpless little one refuge was close\nto the shore, but separated from it by a deep and turbulent current. A\nfew minutes after the blue butterfly had flickered away across the foam,\na large black bear came noiselessly forth from the fir woods and down to\nthe water\u2019s edge. He gazed searchingly up and down the river to see if\nthere were any other human creatures in sight, then stretched his savage\nblack muzzle out over the water toward the sand spit, eyeing and\nsniffing at the little unconscious figure there in the sun. He could not\nmake out whether it was dead or only asleep. In either case he wanted\nit. He stepped into the foaming edge of the sluice, and stood there\nwhimpering with disappointed appetite, daunted by the snaky vehemence of\nthe current.\n\nPresently, as the warmth of the flooding sun crept into his veins, the\nchild stirred, and opened his blue eyes. He sat up, noticed he was\nsitting in the water, crawled to a dry spot, and snuggled down into the\nhot sand. For the moment he was too dazed to realize where he was. Then,\nas the life pulsed back into his veins, he remembered how his father\u2019s\nhand had caught him by the jacket just as he went plunging into the\nawful waves. Now, the jacket was gone. His father was gone, too.\n\n\u201cDaddy! Daddee-ee!\u201d he wailed. And at the sound of that wailing cry, so\nunmistakably the cry of a youngling for its parent, the bear drew back\ndiscreetly behind a bush, and glanced uneasily up and down the stream to\nsee if the parent would come in answer to the appeal. He had a wholesome\nrespect for the grown-up man creature of either sex, and was ready to\nretire on the approach of one.\n\nBut no one came. The child began to sob softly, in a lonesome,\nfrightened, suppressed way. In a minute or two, however, he stopped\nthis, and rose to his feet, and began repeating over and over the shrill\nwail of \u201cDaddy, Dad-dee-ee, Daddee-ee!\u201d At the same time he peered about\nhim in every direction, almost hopefully, as if he thought his father\nmust be hiding somewhere near, to jump out presently for a game of\nbo-peep with him.\n\nHis baby eyes were keen. They did not find his father, but they found\nthe bear, its great black head staring at him from behind a bush.\n\nHis cries stopped on the instant, in the middle of a syllable, frozen in\nhis throat with terror. He cowered down again upon the sand, and stared,\nspeechless, at the awful apparition. The bear, realizing that the little\none\u2019s cries had brought no succour, came out from its hiding\nconfidently, and down to the shore, and straight out into the water till\nthe current began to drag too savagely at its legs. Here it stopped,\ngrumbling and baffled.\n\nThe little one, unable any longer to endure the dreadful sight, backed\nto the extreme edge of the sand, covered his face with his hands, and\nfell to whimpering piteously, an unceasing, hopeless, monotonous little\ncry, as vague and inarticulate as the wind.\n\nThe bear, convinced at length that the sluice just here was too strong\nfor him to cross, drew back to the shore reluctantly. It moved slowly\nup-stream some forty or fifty yards, looking for a feasible crossing.\nDisappointed in this direction, it then explored the water\u2019s edge for a\nlittle distance down-stream, but with a like result. But it would not\ngive up. Up and down, up and down, it continued to patrol the shore with\nhungry obstinacy. And the piteous whimpering of the little figure that\ncowered, with hidden face upon the sand spit, gradually died away. That\nwhite fleece of silken locks, dried in the sun and blown by the warm\nbreeze, stood out once more in its radiance on the lonely little\nslumbering head.\n\n\n                                  III\n\nTug Blackstock sat on a log, smoking and musing, on the shore of that\nwide, eddying pool, full of slow swirls and spent foam clusters, in\nwhich the tumbling riot of Brine\u2019s Rip came to a rest. From the mills\nbehind him screeched the untiring saws. Outstretched at his feet lay\nJim, indolently snapping at flies. The men of the village were busy in\nthe mills, the women in their cottages, the children in their schools;\nand the stretch of rough shore gave Tug Blackstock the solitude which he\nloved.\n\nDown through the last race of the rapids came a canoe paddle, and began\nrevolving slowly in the eddies. Blackstock pointed it out to Jim, and\nsent him in after it. The dog swam for it gaily, grabbed it by the top\nso that it could trail at his side, and brought it to his master\u2019s feet.\nIt was a good paddle, of clean bird\u2019s-eye maple and Melicite pattern,\nand Tug Blackstock wondered who could have been so careless as to lose\nit. Carelessness is a vice regarded with small leniency in the\nbackwoods.\n\nA few minutes later down the rapids came wallowing a water-logged\nbirch-canoe. The other things which had started out with it, the\ncushions and blankets and bundles, had got themselves tangled in the\nrocks and left behind.\n\nAt sight of the wrecked canoe, Tug Blackstock rose to his feet. He began\nto suspect another of the tragedies of Dead Man\u2019s Run. But what\nriver-man would come to grief in the Run at this stage of the water?\nBlackstock turned to an old dug-out which lay hauled up on the shore,\nran it down into the water and paddled out to salvage the wrecked canoe.\nHe towed it to shore, emptied it, and scrutinized it. He thought he knew\nevery canoe on the river, but this one was a stranger to him. It had\nevidently been brought across the Portage from the east coast. Then he\nfound, burnt into the inside of the gunwale near the bow, the letters J.\nC. M. W.\n\n\u201cThe Englishman,\u201d he muttered. \u201cHe\u2019s let the canoe git away from him at\nthe head of the Run, likely, when he\u2019s gone ashore. He\u2019d never have\ntried to shoot the Run alone, an\u2019 him with no experience of rapids.\u201d\n\nBut he was uneasy. He decided that he would get his own canoe and pole\nup through the rapids, just to satisfy himself.\n\nTug Blackstock\u2019s canoe, a strong and swift \u201cFredericton\u201d of polished\ncanvas, built on the lines of a racing birch, was kept under cover in\nhis wood shed at the end of the village street. He shouldered it,\ncarrying it over his head with the mid bar across his shoulders, and\nbore it down to the water\u2019s edge. Then he went back and fetched his two\ncanoe poles and his paddles.\n\nWaving Jim into the bow, he was just about to push off when his narrowed\neyes caught sight of something else rolling and threshing helplessly\ndown the rapid. Only too well he saw what it was. His face pale with\nconcern, he thrust the canoe violently up into the tail of the rapid,\njust in time to catch the blindly sprawling shape before it could sink\nto the depths of the pool. Tenderly he lifted it out upon the shore. It\nwas battered almost out of recognition, but he knew it.\n\n\u201cPoor devil! Poor devil!\u201d he muttered sorrowfully. \u201cHe was a man all\nright, but he didn\u2019t understand rapids for shucks!\u201d\n\nThen he noticed that in the dead man\u2019s right hand was clutched a tiny\nchild\u2019s jacket. He understood\u2014he saw the whole scene, and he swore\ncompassionately under his breath, as he unloosed the rigid fingers.\nAlive or dead, the little one must be found at once.\n\nHe called Jim sharply, and showed him the soaked red jacket. Jim sniffed\nat it, but the wearer\u2019s scent was long ago soaked out of it. He looked\nit over, and pawed it, wagging his tail doubtfully. He could see it was\na small child\u2019s jacket, but what was he expected to do with it?\n\nAfter a few moments, Tug Blackstock patted the jacket vigorously, and\nthen waved his arm up-stream.\n\n\u201cGo, find him, Jim!\u201d he ordered. Jim, hanging upon each word and\ngesture, comprehended instantly. He was to find the owner of the little\njacket\u2014a child\u2014somewhere up the river. With a series of eager\nyelps\u2014which meant that he would do all that living dog could do\u2014he\nstarted up the shore, on the full run.\n\nBy this time the mill whistles had blown, the screaming of the saws had\nstopped, the men, powdered with yellow sawdust, were streaming out from\nthe wide doors. They flocked down to the water.\n\nIn hurried words Blackstock explained the situation. Then he stepped\nonce more into his canoe, snatched his long, steel-shod pole, and thrust\nhis prow up into the wild current, leaving the dead man to the care of\nthe coroner and the village authorities. Before he had battled his way\nmore than a few hundred yards upwards through the raging smother, two\nmore canoes, with expert polers standing poised in them like statues,\nhad pushed out to follow him in his search.\n\nThe rest of the crowd picked up the body and bore it away reverently to\nthe court-room, with sympathetic women weeping beside it.\n\nRacing along the open edge of the river where it was possible, tearing\nfiercely through thicket and underbrush where rapids or rocks made the\nriver\u2019s edge impassable, the great black dog panted onwards with the\nsweat dripping from jaws and tongue. Whenever he was forced away from\nthe river, he would return to it at every fifty yards or so, and scan\neach rock, shoal or sand spit with keen, sagacious eyes. He had been\ntold to search the river\u2014that was the plain interpretation of the wet\njacket and of Tug Blackstock\u2019s gesture\u2014so he wasted no time upon the\nwoods and the undergrowth.\n\nAt last he caught sight of the little fluffy-headed figure huddled upon\nthe sand spit far across the river. He stopped, stared intently, and\nthen burst into loud, ecstatic barkings as an announcement that his\nsearch had been successful. But the noise did not carry across the\ntumult of the ledge, and the little one slept on, exhausted by his\nterror and his grief.\n\nIt was not only the sleeping child that Jim saw. He saw the bear, and\nhis barking broke into shrill yelps of alarm and appeal. He could not\nsee that the sluice between the sand spit and the bank was an effective\nbarrier, and he was frantic with anxiety lest the bear should attack the\nlittle one before he could come to the rescue.\n\nHis experienced eye told him in a moment that the river was impassable\nfor him at this point. He dashed on up-stream for another couple of\nhundred yards, and then, where a breadth of comparatively slack water\nbeneath a long ledge extended more than half-way across, he plunged in,\nundaunted by the clamour and the jumping, boiling foam.\n\nSwimming mightily, he gained a point directly above the sand spit. Then,\nfighting every inch of the way to get across the terrific draft of the\nmain current, he was swept downward at a tremendous speed. But he had\ncarried out his plan. He gained the shallow side channel, splashed down\nit, and darted up the sand spit with a menacing growl at the bear across\nthe sluice.\n\nAt the sound of that harsh growl close to his ears the little one woke\nup and raised his head. Seeing Jim, big and black and dripping, he\nthought it was the bear. With a piercing scream he once more hid his\nface in his hands, rigid with horror. Puzzled at this reception, Jim\nfell to licking his hands and his ears extravagantly, and whining and\nthrusting a coaxing wet nose under his arms.\n\nAt last the little fellow began to realize that these were not the\nactions of a foe. Timidly he lowered his hands from his face, and looked\naround. Why, there was the bear, on the other side of the water,\ntremendous and terrible, but just where he had been this ever so long.\nThis creature that was making such a fuss over him was plainly a dog\u2014a\nkind, good dog, who was fond of little boys.\n\nWith a sigh of inexpressible relief his terror slipped from him. He\nflung his arms about Jim\u2019s shaggy neck and buried his face in the wet\nfur. And Jim, his heart swelling with pride, stood up and barked\nfuriously across at the bear.\n\nTug Blackstock, standing in the stern of his canoe, plied his pole with\nrenewed effort. Reaching the spit he strode forward, snatched the child\nup in his arms, and passed his great hand tenderly through that\nwonderful shock of whitey-gold silken curls. His eyes were moist, but\nhis voice was hearty and gay, as if this meeting were the most ordinary\nthing in the world.\n\n\u201cHullo, Woolly Billy!\u201d he cried. \u201cWhat are you doin\u2019 here?\u201d\n\n\u201cDaddy left me here,\u201d answered the child, his lip beginning to quiver.\n\u201cWhere\u2019s he gone to?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d replied Tug Blackstock hurriedly, \u201cyer dad was called away rather\nsudden, an\u2019 he sent me an\u2019 Jim, here, to look after you till he gits\nback. An\u2019 we\u2019ll do it, too, Woolly Billy; don\u2019t you fret.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name\u2019s George Harold Manners Watson,\u201d explained the child politely.\n\n\u201cBut we\u2019ll just call you Woolly Billy for short,\u201d said Tug Blackstock.\n\n\n\n\n                II. THE BOOK AGENT AND THE BUCKSKIN BELT\n\n\n                                   I\n\nA big-framed, jaunty man with black side-whiskers, a long black frock\ncoat, and a square, flat case of shiny black leather strapped upon his\nback, stepped into the Corner Store at Brine\u2019s Rip Mills.\n\nHe said: \u201cHullo, boys! Hot day!\u201d in a big voice that was intentionally\nhearty, ran his bulging eyes appraisingly over every one present, then\ntook off his wide-brimmed felt hat and mopped his glistening forehead\nwith a big red and white handkerchief. Receiving a more or less\nhospitable chorus of grunts and \u201chullos\u201d in response, he seated himself\non a keg of nails, removed the leather case from his back, and asked for\nginger beer, which he drank noisily from the bottle.\n\n\u201cName of Byles,\u201d said he at length, introducing himself with a sweeping\nnod. \u201cHot tramp in from Cribb\u2019s Ridge. Thirsty, you bet. Never drink\nnothing stronger\u2019n ginger pop or soft cider. Have a round o\u2019 pop on me,\nboys. A1 pop this o\u2019 yours, mister. A dozen more bottles, please, for\nthese gentlemen.\u201d\n\nHe looked around the circle with an air at once assured and persuasive.\nAnd the taciturn woodsmen, not wholly at ease under such sudden\ncordiality from a stranger, but too polite to rebuff him, muttered\n\u201cThank ye, kindly,\u201d or \u201cHere\u2019s how,\u201d as they threw back their heads and\npoured the weak stuff down their gaunt and hairy throats.\n\nIt was a slack time at Brine\u2019s Rip, the mills having shut down that\nmorning because the river was so low that there were no more logs\nrunning. The shrieking saws being silent for a little, there was nothing\nfor the mill hands to do but loaf and smoke. The hot air was heavily\nscented with the smell of fresh sawdust mixed with the strong\nhoney-perfume of the flowering buckwheat fields beyond the village. The\nbuzzing of flies in the windows of the store was like a fine arabesque\nof sound against the ceaseless, muffled thunder of the rapids.\n\nThe dozen men gathered here at Zeb Smith\u2019s store\u2014which was, in effect,\nthe village club\u2014found it hard to rouse themselves to a conversational\neffort in any way worthy the advances of the confident stranger. They\nall smoked a little harder than usual, and looked on with courteous but\nnoncommittal interest while he proceeded to unstrap his shiny black\nleather case.\n\nIn his stiff and sombre garb, so unsuited to the backwoods trails, the\nstranger had much the look of one of those itinerant preachers who\nsometimes busy themselves with the cure of souls in the remoter\nbackwoods settlements. But his eye and his address were rather those of\na shrewd and pushing commercial traveller.\n\nTug Blackstock, the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, felt a vague\nantagonism toward him, chiefly on the ground that his speech and bearing\ndid not seem to consort with his habiliments. He rather liked a man to\nlook what he was or be what he looked, and he did not like black side\nwhiskers and long hair. This antagonism, however, he felt to be\nunreasonable. The man had evidently had a long and tiring tramp, and was\nentitled to a somewhat friendlier reception than he was getting.\n\nSwinging his long legs against the counter, on which he sat between a\npile of printed calicoes and a box of bright pink fancy soap, Tug\nBlackstock reached behind him and possessed himself of a box of long,\nblack cigars. Having selected one critically for himself, he proffered\nthe box to the stranger.\n\n\u201cHave a weed?\u201d said he cordially. \u201cThey ain\u2019t half bad.\u201d\n\nBut the stranger waved the box aside with an air at once grand and\ngracious.\n\n\u201cI never touch the weed, thank you kindly just the same,\u201d said he. \u201cBut\nI\u2019ve nothing agin it. It goes agin my system, that\u2019s all. If it\u2019s all\nthe same to you, I\u2019ll take a bite o\u2019 cheese an\u2019 a cracker \u2019stead o\u2019 the\ncigar.\u201d\n\n\u201cSartain,\u201d agreed Blackstock, jumping down to fetch the edibles from\nbehind the counter. Like most of the regular customers, he knew the\nstore and its contents almost as well as Zeb Smith himself.\n\nDuring the last few minutes an immense, rough-haired black dog had been\nsniffing the stranger over with suspicious minuteness. The stranger at\nfirst paid no attention whatever, though it was an ordeal that many\nmight have shrunk from. At last, seeming to notice the animal for the\nfirst time, he recognized his presence by indifferently laying his hand\nupon his neck. Instead of instantly drawing off with a resentful growl,\nafter his manner with strangers, the dog acknowledged the casual caress\nby a slight wag of the tail, and then, after a few moments, turned away\namicably and lay down.\n\n\u201cIf Jim finds him all right,\u201d thought Blackstock to himself, \u201cther\u2019\ncan\u2019t be _much_ wrong with him, though I can\u2019t say I take to him\nmyself.\u201d And he weighed off a much bigger piece of cheese than he had at\nfirst intended to offer, marking down his indebtedness on a slate which\nserved the proprietor as a sort of day-book. The stranger fell to\ndevouring it with an eagerness which showed that his lunch must have\nbeen of the lightest.\n\n\u201cYe was sayin\u2019 as how ye\u2019d jest come up from Cribb\u2019s Ridge?\u201d put in a\nlong-legged, heavy-shouldered man who was sprawling on a cracker box\nbehind the door. He had short sandy hair, rapidly thinning, eyes of a\ncold grey, set rather close together, and a face that suggested a cross\nbetween a fox and a fish-hawk. He was somewhat conspicuous among his\nfellows by the trimness of his dress, his shirt being of dark blue\nflannel with a rolled-up collar and a scarlet knotted kerchief, while\nthe rest of the mill hands wore collarless shirts of grey homespun, with\nno thought of neckerchiefs.\n\nHis trousers were of brown corduroy, and were held up by a broad belt of\nwhite dressed buckskin, elaborately decorated with Navajo designs in\nblack and red. He stuck to this adornment tenaciously as a sort of\ninoffensive proclamation of the fact that he was not an ordinary\nbackwoods mill hand, but a wanderer, one who had travelled far, and\ntried his wits at many ventures in the wilder West.\n\n\u201cRight you are,\u201d assented the stranger, brushing some white cracker\ncrumbs out of his black whiskers.\n\n\u201cI was jest a-wonderin\u2019,\u201d went on Hawker, giving a hitch to the\nelaborate belt and leaning forward a little to spit out through the\ndoorway, \u201cif ye\u2019ve seed anything o\u2019 Jake Sanderson on the road.\u201d\n\nThe stranger, having his mouth full of cheese, did not answer for a\nmoment.\n\n\u201cThe boys are lookin\u2019 for him rather anxious,\u201d explained Blackstock with\na grin. \u201cHe brings the leetle fat roll that pays their wages here at the\nmill, an\u2019 he\u2019s due sometime to-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cI seen him at Cribb\u2019s Ridge this morning,\u201d answered the stranger at\nlast. \u201cSaid he\u2019d hurt his foot, or strained his knee, or something, an\u2019\nwould have to come on a bit slow. He\u2019ll be along sometime to-night, I\nguess. Didn\u2019t seem to me to have much wrong with him. No, ye can\u2019t have\nnone o\u2019 that cheese. Go \u2019way an\u2019 lay down,\u201d he added suddenly to the\ngreat black dog, who had returned to his side and laid his head on the\nstranger\u2019s knee.\n\nWith a disappointed air the dog obeyed.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tain\u2019t often Jim\u2019s so civil to a stranger,\u201d muttered Blackstock to\nhimself.\n\nA little boy in a scarlet jacket, with round eyes of china blue, and an\nimmense mop of curly, fluffy, silky hair so palely flaxen as to be\nalmost white, came hopping and skipping into the store. He was greeted\nwith friendly grins, while several voices drawled, \u201cHullo, Woolly\nBilly!\u201d He beamed cheerfully upon the whole company, with a special\ngleam of intimate confidence for Tug Blackstock and the big black dog.\nThen he stepped up to the stranger\u2019s knee, and stood staring with\nrespectful admiration at those flowing jet-black side-whiskers.\n\nThe stranger in return looked with a cold curiosity at the child\u2019s\nsingular hair. Neither children nor dogs had any particular appeal for\nhim, but that hair was certainly queer.\n\n\u201cMost an albino, ain\u2019t he?\u201d he suggested.\n\n\u201cNo, he ain\u2019t,\u201d replied Tug Blackstock, curtly. The dog, detecting a\nnote of resentment in his master\u2019s voice, got up and stood beside the\nchild, and gazed about the circle with an air of anxious interrogation.\nHad any one been disagreeable to Woolly Billy? And if so, who?\n\nBut the little one was not in the least rebuffed by the stranger\u2019s\nunresponsiveness.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d he inquired, patting admiringly the stranger\u2019s shiny\nleather case.\n\nThe stranger grew cordial to him at once.\n\n\u201cAh, now ye\u2019re talkin\u2019,\u201d said he enthusiastically, undoing the flap of\nthe case. \u201cIt\u2019s a book, sonny. The greatest book, the most _interestin\u2019_\nbook, the most useful book\u2014and next to the Bible the most high-toned,\nuplifting book that was ever written. Ye can\u2019t read yet, sonny, but this\nbook has the loveliest pictures ye ever seen, and the greatest lot of\n\u2019em for the money.\u201d\n\nHe drew reverently forth from the case a large, fat volume, bound\nsumptuously in embossed sky-blue imitation leather, lavishly gilt, and\nopened it upon his knees with a spacious gesture.\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d he continued proudly. \u201cIt\u2019s called \u2018Mother, Home, and Heaven!\u2019\nAin\u2019t that a title for ye? Don\u2019t it show ye right off the kind of book\nit is? With this book by ye, ye don\u2019t need any other book in the house\nat all, except maybe the almanack an\u2019 the Bible\u2014an\u2019 this book has lots\no\u2019 the best bits out of the Bible in it, scattered through among the\nreceipts an\u2019 things to keep it all wholesome an\u2019 upliftin\u2019.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019ll tell ye such useful things as how to get a cork out of a bottle\nwithout breakin\u2019 the bottle, when ye haven\u2019t got a corkscrew, or what to\ndo when the baby\u2019s got croup, and there ain\u2019t a doctor this side of\nTourdulac. An\u2019 it\u2019ll tell ye how to live, so as when things happen that\nno medicines an\u2019 no doctors and no receipts\u2014not even such great receipts\nas these here ones\u201d (and he slapped his hand on the counter) \u201ccan help\nye through\u2014such as when a tree falls on to ye, or you trip and stumble\non to the saws, or git drawn down under half-a-mile o\u2019 raft\u2014then ye\u2019ll\nbe ready to go right up aloft, an\u2019 no questions asked ye at the Great\nWhite Gate.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 it has po\u2019try in it, too, reel _heart_ po\u2019try, such as\u2019ll take ye\nback to the time when ye was all white an\u2019 innocent o\u2019 sin at yer\nmother\u2019s knee, an\u2019 make ye wish ye was like that now. In fact, boys,\nthis book I\u2019m goin\u2019 to show ye, with your kind permission, is handier\nthan a pocket in a shirt, an\u2019 at the same time the blessed fragrance of\nit is like a rose o\u2019 Sharon in the household. It\u2019s in three styles o\u2019\nbindin\u2019, all _reel_ handsome, but\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to look at another picture now,\u201d protested Woolly Billy. \u201cI\u2019m\ntired of this one of the angels sayin\u2019 their prayers.\u201d\n\nHis amazing shock of silver-gold curls was bent intently over the book\nin the stranger\u2019s lap. The woodsmen, on the other hand, kept on smoking\nwith a far-off look, as if they heard not a word of the fluent harangue.\nThey had a deep distrust and dread of this black-whiskered stranger, now\nthat he stood revealed as the Man-Wanting-to-Sell-Something. The\nmajority of them would not even glance in the direction of the gaudy\nbook, lest by doing so they should find themselves involved in some\nexpensive and complicated obligation.\n\nThe stranger responded to Woolly Billy\u2019s appeal by shutting the book\nfirmly. \u201cThere\u2019s lots more pictures purtier than that one, sonny,\u201d said\nhe. \u201cBut ye must ask yer dad to buy it fer ye. He won\u2019t regret it.\u201d And\nhe passed the volume on to Hawker, who, having no dread of book-agents,\nbegan to turn over the leaves with a superior smile.\n\n\u201cDad\u2019s gone away ever so far,\u201d answered Woolly Billy sadly. \u201cIt\u2019s an\nawfully pretty book.\u201d And he looked at Tug Blackstock appealingly.\n\n\u201cLook here, mister,\u201d drawled Blackstock. \u201cI don\u2019t take much stock myself\nin those kind of books, an\u2019 moreover (not meanin\u2019 no offence to you),\nany man that\u2019s sellin\u2019 \u2019em has got to larn to do a sight o\u2019 lyin\u2019. But\nas Woolly Billy here wants it so bad I\u2019ll take a copy, if \u2019tain\u2019t too\ndear. All the same, it\u2019s only fair to warn ye that ye\u2019ll not do much\nbusiness in Brine\u2019s Rip, for there was a book agent here last year as\ngot about ha\u2019f the folks in the village to sign a crooked contract, and\nwe was all stung bad. I\u2019d advise ye to move on, an\u2019 not really tackle\nBrine\u2019s Rip fer another year or so. Now, what\u2019s the price?\u201d\n\nThe stranger\u2019s face had fallen during this speech, but it brightened at\nthe concluding question.\n\n\u201cSix dollars, four dollars, an\u2019 two dollars an\u2019 a half, accordin\u2019 to\nstyle of bindin\u2019,\u201d he answered, bringing out a handful of leaflets and\norder forms and passing them round briskly. \u201cAn\u2019 ye don\u2019t need to pay\nmore\u2019n fifty cents down, an\u2019 sign this order, an\u2019 ye pay the balance in\na month\u2019s time, when the books are delivered. I\u2019ll give ye my receipt\nfor the fifty cents, an\u2019 ye jest fill in this order accordin\u2019 to the\nbindin\u2019 ye choose. Let me advise ye, as a friend, to take the six dollar\none. It\u2019s the best value.\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks jest the same,\u201d said Blackstock drily, pulling out his wallet,\n\u201cbut I guess Woolly Billy\u2019d jest as soon have the two-fifty one. An\u2019\nI\u2019ll pay ye the cash right now. No signin\u2019 orders fer me. Here\u2019s my name\nan\u2019 address.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight ye are,\u201d agreed the stranger cordially, pocketing the money and\nsigning the receipt. \u201cCash payments for me every time, if I could have\n_my_ way. Now, if some o\u2019 you other gentlemen will follow Mr.\nBlackstock\u2019s fine example, ye\u2019ll never regret it\u2014an\u2019 neither will I.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome on, Woolly Billy. Come on, Jim,\u201d said Blackstock, stepping out\ninto the street with the child and the dog at his heels. \u201cWe\u2019ll be\ngittin\u2019 along home, an\u2019 leave this gentleman to argy with the boys.\u201d\n\n\n                                   II\n\nJake Sanderson, with the pay for the mill-hands, did not arrive that\nnight, nor yet the following morning. Along toward noon, however, there\narrived a breathless stripling, white-faced and wild-eyed, with news of\nhim. The boy was young Stephens, son of Andy Stephens, the game-warden.\nHe and his father, coming up from Cribb\u2019s Ridge, had found the body of\nSanderson lying half in a pool beside the road, covered with blood. Near\nat hand lay the bag, empty, slashed open with a bloody knife. Stephens\nhad sent his boy on into the Settlement for help, while he himself had\nremained by the body, guarding it lest some possible clue should be\ninterfered with.\n\nSwift as a grass fire, the shocking news spread through the village. An\nexcited crowd gathered in front of the store, every one talking at once,\ntrying to question young Stephens. The Sheriff was away, down at\nFredericton for a holiday from his arduous duties. But nobody lamented\nhis absence. It was his deputy they all turned to in such an emergency.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Tug Blackstock?\u201d demanded half a dozen awed voices. And, as if\nin answer, the tall, lean figure of the Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska\nCounty came striding in haste up the sawdusty road, with the big, black\ndog crowding eagerly upon his heels.\n\nThe clamour of the crowd was hushed as Blackstock put a few questions,\nterse and pertinent, to the excited boy. The people of Nipsiwaska County\nin general had the profoundest confidence in their Deputy Sheriff. They\nbelieved that his shrewd brain and keen eye could find a clue to the\nmost baffling of mysteries. Just now, however, his face was like a mask\nof marble, and his eyes, sunk back into his head, were like points of\nsteel. The murdered man had been one of his best friends, a comrade and\nhelper in many a hard enterprise.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said he to the lad, \u201cwe\u2019ll go an\u2019 see.\u201d And he started off down\nthe road at that long loose stride of his, which was swifter than a trot\nand much less tiring.\n\n\u201cHold on a minute, Tug,\u201d drawled a rasping nasal voice.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, Hawker?\u201d demanded Blackstock, turning impatiently on his\nheel.\n\n\u201cYe hain\u2019t asked nothin\u2019 yet about the Book Agent, Mister Byles, him as\nsold ye \u2018Mother, Home, an\u2019 Heaven.\u2019 Maybe _he_ could give us some\ninformation. He _said_ as how he\u2019d had some talk with poor old Jake.\u201d\n\nBlackstock\u2019s lips curled slightly. He had not read the voluble stranger\nas a likely highwayman in any circumstances, still less as one to try\nissues with a man like Jake Sanderson. But the crowd, eager to give\ntongue on any kind of a scent, and instinctively hostile to a book\nagent, seized greedily upon the suggestion.\n\n\u201cWhere is he?\u201d \u201cSend for him.\u201d \u201cDid anybody see him this mornin\u2019?\u201d \u201cRout\nhim out!\u201d \u201cFetch him along!\u201d The babel of voices started afresh.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s cleared out,\u201d cried a woman\u2019s shrill voice. It was the voice of\nMrs. Stukeley, who kept the boarding-house. Every one else was silent to\nhear what she had to say.\n\n\u201cHe quit my place jest about daylight this morning,\u201d continued the woman\nvirulently. She had not liked the stranger\u2019s black whiskers, nor his\nministerial garb, nor his efforts to get a subscription out of her, and\nshe was therefore ready to believe him guilty without further proof. \u201cHe\nseemed in a powerful hurry to git away, sayin\u2019 as how the Archangel\nGabriel himself couldn\u2019t do business in this town.\u201d\n\nSeeing the effect her words produced, and that even the usually\nimperturbable and disdainful Deputy Sheriff was impressed by them, she\ncould not refrain from embroidering her statement a little.\n\n\u201cNow ez I come to think of it,\u201d she went on, \u201cI did notice as how he\nseemed kind of excited an\u2019 nervous like, so\u2019s he could hardly stop to\nfinish his breakfus\u2019. But he took time to make me knock half-a-dollar\noff his bill.\u201d\n\n\u201cMac,\u201d said Blackstock sharply, turning to Red Angus MacDonald, the\nvillage constable, \u201cyou take two of the boys an\u2019 go after the Book\nAgent. Find him, an\u2019 fetch him back. But no funny business with him,\nmind you. We hain\u2019t got a spark of evidence agin him. We jest want him\nas a witness, mind.\u201d\n\nThe crowd\u2019s excitement was somewhat damped by this pronouncement, and\nHawker\u2019s exasperating voice was heard to drawl:\n\n\u201cNo _evidence_, hey? Ef that ain\u2019t _evidence_, him skinnin\u2019 out that way\nafore sun-up, I\u2019d like to know what is!\u201d\n\nBut to this and similar comments Tug Blackstock paid no heed whatever.\nHe hurried on down the road toward the scene of the tragedy, his lean\njaws working grimly upon a huge chew of tobacco, the big, black dog not\nnow at his heels but trotting a little way ahead and casting from one\nside of the road to the other, nose to earth. The crowd came on behind,\nbut Blackstock waved them back.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want none o\u2019 ye to come within fifty paces of me, afore I tell\nye to,\u201d he announced with decision. \u201cKeep well back, all of ye, or ye\u2019ll\nmess up the tracks.\u201d\n\nBut this proved a decree too hard to be enforced for any length of time.\n\nWhen he arrived at the place where the game-warden kept watch beside the\nmurdered man, Blackstock stood for a few moments in silence, looking\ndown upon the body of his friend with stony face and brooding eyes. In\nspite of his grief, his practised observation took in the whole scene to\nthe minutest detail, and photographed it upon his memory for reference.\n\nThe body lay with face and shoulder and one leg and arm in a deep,\nstagnant pool by the roadside. The head was covered with black, clotted\nblood from a knife-wound in the neck. Close by, in the middle of the\nroad, lay a stout leather satchel, gaping open, and quite empty. Two\nsmall memorandum books, one shut and the other with white leaves\nfluttering, lay near the bag. Though the roadway at this point was dry\nand hard, it bore some signs of a struggle, and toward the edge of the\nwater there were several little, dark, caked lumps of puddled dust.\n\nBlackstock first examined the road minutely, all about the body, but the\nexamination, even to such a practised eye as his, yielded little result.\nThe ground was too hard and dusty to receive any legible trail, and,\nmoreover, it had been carelessly over-trodden by the game-warden and his\nson. But whether he found anything of interest or not, Blackstock\u2019s\ngrim, impassive face gave no sign.\n\nAt length he went over to the body, and lifted it gently. The coat and\nshirt were soaked with blood, and showed marks of a fierce struggle.\nBlackstock opened the shirt, and found the fatal wound, a knife-thrust\nwhich had been driven upwards between the ribs. He laid the body down\nagain, and at the same time picked up a piece of paper, crumpled and\nblood-stained, which had lain beneath it. He spread it open, and for a\nmoment his brows contracted as if in surprise and doubt. It was one of\nthe order forms for \u201cMother, Home, and Heaven.\u201d\n\nHe folded it up and put it carefully between the leaves of the note-book\nwhich he always carried in his pocket.\n\nStephens, who was close beside him, had caught a glimpse of the paper,\nand recognized it.\n\n\u201cSay!\u201d he exclaimed, under his breath. \u201cI never thought o\u2019 _him_!\u201d\n\nBut Blackstock only shook his head slowly, and called the big black dog,\nwhich had been waiting all this time in an attitude of keen expectancy,\nwith mouth open and tail gently wagging.\n\n\u201cTake a good look at him, Jim,\u201d said Blackstock.\n\nThe dog sniffed the body all over, and then looked up at his master as\nif for further directions.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 now take a sniff at this.\u201d And he pointed to the rifled bag.\n\n\u201cWhat do you make of it?\u201d he inquired when the dog had smelt it all over\nminutely.\n\nJim stood motionless, with ears and tail drooping, the picture of\nirresolution and bewilderment.\n\nBlackstock took out again the paper which he had just put away, and\noffered it to the dog, who nosed it carefully, then looked at the dead\nbody beside the pool, and growled softly.\n\n\u201cSeek him, Jim,\u201d said Blackstock.\n\nAt once the dog ran up again to the body, and back to the open book.\nThen he fell to circling about the bag, nose to earth, seeking to pick\nup the elusive trail.\n\nAt this point the crowd from the village, unable longer to restrain\ntheir eagerness, surged forward, led by Hawker, and closed in,\neffectually obliterating all trails. Jim growled angrily, showing his\nlong white teeth, and drew back beside the body as if to guard it.\nBlackstock stood watching his action with a brooding scrutiny.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that bit o\u2019 paper ye found under him, Tug?\u201d demanded Hawker\nvehemently.\n\n\u201cNone o\u2019 yer business, Sam,\u201d replied the deputy, putting the\nblood-stained paper back into his pocket.\n\n\u201cI seen what it was,\u201d shouted Hawker to the rest of the crowd. \u201cIt was\none o\u2019 them there dokyments that the book agent had, up to the store. I\nalways _said_ as how \u2019twas him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe\u2019ll ketch him!\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ll string him up!\u201d yelled the crowd, starting\nback along the road at a run.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be sech fools!\u201d shouted Blackstock. \u201cHold on! Come back I tell\nye!\u201d\n\nBut he might as well have shouted to a flock of wild geese on their\nclamorous voyage through the sky. Fired by Sam Hawker\u2019s exhortations,\nthey were ready to lynch the black-whiskered stranger on sight.\n\nBlackstock cursed them in a cold fury.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll _hev_ to go after them, Andy,\u201d said he, \u201cor there\u2019ll be trouble\nwhen they find that there book agent.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter give \u2019em their head, Tug,\u201d protested the warden. \u201cGuess he done\nit all right. He\u2019ll git no more\u2019n\u2019s good for him.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Maybe_ he did it, an\u2019 then agin, maybe he didn\u2019t,\u201d retorted the\nDeputy, \u201can\u2019 anyways, they\u2019re just plumb looney now. You stay here, an\u2019\nI\u2019ll follow them up. Send Bob back to the Ridge to fetch the coroner.\u201d\n\nHe turned and started on the run in pursuit of the shouting crowd,\nwhistling at the same time for the dog to follow him. But to his\nsurprise Jim did not obey instantly. He was very busy digging under a\nbig whitish stone at the other side of the pool. Blackstock halted.\n\n\u201cJim,\u201d he commanded angrily, \u201cgit out o\u2019 that! What d\u2019ye mean by foolin\u2019\nabout after woodchucks a time like this? Come here!\u201d\n\nJim lifted his head, his muzzle and paws loaded with fresh earth, and\ngazed at his master for a moment. Then, with evident reluctance, he\nobeyed. But he kept looking back over his shoulder at the big white\nstone, as if he hated to leave it.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a lot o\u2019 ordinary pup left in that there dawg yet,\u201d explained\nBlackstock apologetically to the game-warden.\n\n\u201cThere ain\u2019t a dawg ever lived that wouldn\u2019t want to dig out a\nwoodchuck,\u201d answered Stephens.\n\n\n                                  III\n\nThe black-whiskered stranger had been overtaken by his pursuers about\nten miles beyond Brine\u2019s Rip, sleeping away the heat of the day under a\nspreading birch tree a few paces off the road. He was sleeping\nsoundly\u2014too soundly indeed, as thought the experienced constable, for a\nman with murder on his soul.\n\nBut when he was roughly aroused and seized, he seemed so terrified that\nhis captors were all the more convinced of his guilt. He made no\nresistance as he was being hurried along the road, only clinging firmly\nto his black leather case, and glancing with wild eyes from side to side\nas if nerving himself to a desperate dash for liberty.\n\nWhen he had gathered, however, a notion of what he was wanted for, to\nthe astonishment of his captors, his terror seemed to subside\u2014a fact\nwhich the constable noted narrowly. He steadied his voice enough to ask\nseveral questions about the murder\u2014questions to which reply was curtly\nrefused. Then he walked on in a stolid silence, the ruddy colour\ngradually returning to his face.\n\nA couple of miles before reaching Brine\u2019s Rip, the second search party\ncame in sight, the Deputy Sheriff at the head of it and the shaggy black\nform of Jim close at his heels. With a savage curse Hawker sprang\nforward, and about half the party with him, as if to snatch the prisoner\nfrom his captors and take instant vengeance upon him.\n\nBut Blackstock was too quick for them. The swiftest sprinter in the\ncounty, he got to the other party ahead of the mob and whipped around to\nface them, with one hand on the big revolver at his hip and Jim showing\nhis teeth beside him. The constable and his party, hugely astonished,\nbut confident that Blackstock\u2019s side was the right one to be on, closed\nprotectingly around the prisoner, whose eyes now almost bulged from his\nhead.\n\n\u201cYou keep right back, boys,\u201d commanded the Deputy in a voice of steel.\n\u201cThe law will look after this here prisoner, if he\u2019s the guilty one.\u201d\n\n\u201cFur as we kin see, there ain\u2019t no \u2018if\u2019 about it,\u201d shouted Hawker,\nalmost frothing at the mouth. \u201cThat\u2019s the man as done it, an\u2019 we\u2019re\nagoin\u2019 to string \u2019im up fer it right now, for fear he might git off some\nway atween the jedges an\u2019 the lawyers. You keep out of it now, Tug.\u201d\n\nAbout half the crowd surged forward with Hawker in front. Up came\nBlackstock\u2019s gun.\n\n\u201cYe know me, boys,\u201d said he. \u201cKeep back.\u201d\n\nThey kept back. They all _fell_ back, indeed, some paces, except Hawker,\nwho held his ground, half crouching, his lips distorted in a snarl of\nrage.\n\n\u201cAw now, quit it, Sam,\u201d urged one of his followers. \u201c\u2019Tain\u2019t worth it.\nAn\u2019 Tug\u2019s right, anyways. The law\u2019s good enough, with Tug to the back of\nit.\u201d And putting forth a long arm he dragged Hawker back into the crowd.\n\n\u201cPut away yer gun, Tug,\u201d expostulated another. \u201cSeein\u2019s ye feel that way\nabout it, we won\u2019t interfere.\u201d\n\nBlackstock stuck the revolver back into his belt with a grin.\n\n\u201cGlad ye\u2019ve come back to yer senses, boys,\u201d said he, perceiving that the\ncrisis was over. \u201cBut keep an eye on Hawker for a bit yet. Seems to \u2019ave\ngone clean off his head.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t fret, Tug. We\u2019ll look after him,\u201d agreed several of his comrades\nfrom the mill, laying firmly persuasive hands upon the excited man, who\ncursed them for cowards till they began to chaff him roughly.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s makin\u2019 you so sore, Sam?\u201d demanded one. \u201cDid the book agent try\nto make up to Sis Hopkins?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, it\u2019s Tug that Sis is making eyes at now,\u201d suggested another.\n\u201cThat\u2019s what\u2019s puttin\u2019 Sam so off his nut.\u201d\n\n\u201cLeave the lady\u2019s name out of it, boys,\u201d interrupted Blackstock, in a\ntone that carried conviction.\n\n\u201cQuit that jaw now, Sam,\u201d interposed another, changing the subject, \u201can\u2019\ntell us what ye\u2019ve done with that fancy belt o\u2019 yourn \u2019at ye\u2019re so proud\nof. We hain\u2019t never seen ye without it afore.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s so,\u201d chimed in the constable. \u201cThat accounts for his\nfoolishness. Sam _ain\u2019t_ himself without that fancy belt.\u201d\n\nHawker stopped his cursing and pulled himself together with an effort,\nas if only now realizing that his followers had gone over completely to\nthe side of the law and Tug Blackstock.\n\n\u201cBusted the buckle,\u201d he explained quickly. \u201cMend it when I git time.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, boys,\u201d said Blackstock presently, \u201cwe\u2019ll git right back along to\nwhere poor Jake\u2019s still layin\u2019, and there we\u2019ll ask this here stranger\nwhat _he_ knows about it. It\u2019s there, if anywheres, where we\u2019re most\nlikely to git some light on the subject. I\u2019ve sent over to the Ridge fer\nthe coroner, an\u2019 poor Jake can\u2019t be moved till he comes.\u201d\n\nThe book agent, his confidence apparently restored by the attitude of\nBlackstock, now let loose a torrent of eloquence to explain how glad he\nwould be to tell all he knew, and how sorry he was that he knew nothing,\nhaving merely had a brief conversation with poor Mr. Sanderson on the\nmorning of the previous day.\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll hev lots o\u2019 time to tell us all that when we\u2019re askin\u2019 ye,\u201d\nanswered Blackstock. \u201cNow, take my advice an\u2019 keep yer mouth shet.\u201d\n\nAs Blackstock was speaking, Jim slipped in alongside the prisoner and\nrubbed against him with a friendly wag of the tail as if to say:\n\n\u201cSorry to see you in such a hole, old chap.\u201d\n\nSome of the men laughed, and one who was more or less a friend of\nHawker\u2019s, remarked sarcastically:\n\n\u201cJim don\u2019t seem quite so discriminatin\u2019 as usual, Tug.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t know,\u201d replied the Deputy drily, noting the dog\u2019s attitude\nwith evident interest. \u201cTime will show. Ye must remember a man ain\u2019t\n_necessarily_ a murderer jest because he wears black side-lights an\u2019\ntries to sell ye a book that ain\u2019t no good.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo good!\u201d burst out the prisoner, reddening with indignation. \u201cYou show\nme another book that\u2019s half as good, at double the price, an\u2019 I\u2019ll give\nyou\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cShet up, you!\u201d ordered the Deputy, with a curious look. \u201cThis ain\u2019t no\npicnic ye\u2019re on, remember.\u201d\n\nThen some one, as if for the first time, thought of the money for which\nSanderson had been murdered.\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t ye search him, Tug?\u201d he demanded. \u201cLet\u2019s hev a look in that\nthere black knapsack.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe bloomin\u2019 fool,\u201d shouted Hawker, again growing excited, \u201cye don\u2019t\ns\u2019pose he\u2019d be carryin\u2019 it on him, do ye? He\u2019d hev it buried somewheres\nin the woods, where he could git it later.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight ye are, Sam,\u201d agreed the Deputy. \u201cThe man as done the deed ain\u2019t\nlikely to carry the evidence around on him. But all the same we\u2019ll\nsearch the prisoner bime-by.\u201d\n\nBy the time the strange procession had got back to the scene of the\ntragedy it had been swelled by half the population of the village. At\nBlackstock\u2019s request, Zeb Smith, the proprietor of the store, who was\nalso a magistrate, swore in a score of special constables to keep back\nthe crowd while awaiting the arrival of the coroner. Under the\nmagistrate\u2019s orders\u2014which satisfied Blackstock\u2019s demand for strict\nformality of procedure\u2014the prisoner was searched, and could not refrain\nfrom showing a childish triumph when nothing was found upon him.\n\nPassing from abject terror to a ridiculous over-confidence, he with\ndifficulty restrained himself from seizing the opportunity to harangue\nthe crowd on the merits of \u201cMother, Home, and Heaven.\u201d His face was\nwreathed in fatuous smiles as he saw the precious book snatched from its\ncase and passed around mockingly from hand to hand. He certainly did not\nlook like a murderer, and several of the crowd, including Stephens, the\ngame-warden, began to wonder if they had not been barking up the wrong\ntree.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve got the idee,\u201d remarked Stephens, \u201cit\u2019d take a baker\u2019s dozen o\u2019\nthat chap to do in Jake Sanderson that way. The skate as killed Jake was\nsome man, anyways.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d like to know,\u201d sneered Hawker, \u201chow ye\u2019re going to account for that\npiece o\u2019 paper, the book-agent\u2019s paper, \u2019at Tug Blackstock found there\nunder the body.\u201d\n\n\u201cAw, shucks!\u201d answered the game-warden, \u201cthat\u2019s easy. He\u2019s been a-sowin\u2019\n\u2019em round the country so\u2019s anybody could git hold of \u2019em, same\u2019s you er\nme, Sam!\u201d\n\nThis harmless, if ill-timed pleasantry appeared to Hawker, in his\nexcitement, a wanton insult. His lean face went black as thunder, and\nhis lips worked with some savage retort that would not out. But at that\ninstant came a strange diversion. The dog Jim, who under Blackstock\u2019s\ndirection had been sniffing long and minutely at the clothes of the\nmurdered man, at the rifled leather bag, and at the ground all about,\ncame suddenly up to Hawker and stood staring at him with a deep,\nmenacing growl, while the thick hair rose stiffly along his back.\n\nFor a moment there was dead silence save for that strange accusing\ngrowl. Hawker\u2019s face went white to the lips. Then, in a blaze of fury he\nyelled:\n\n\u201cGit out o\u2019 that! I\u2019ll teach ye to come showin\u2019 yer teeth at me!\u201d And he\nlaunched a savage kick at the animal.\n\n\u201cJIM!! Come here!\u201d rapped out the command of Tug Blackstock, sharp as a\nrifle shot. And Jim, who had eluded the kick, trotted back, still\ngrowling, to his master.\n\n\u201cWhatever ye been doin\u2019 to Jim, Sam?\u201d demanded one of the mill hands. \u201cI\nain\u2019t never seen him act like that afore.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s _always_ had a grudge agin me,\u201d panted Hawker, \u201ccoz I had to give\nhim a lickin\u2019 once.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow ye\u2019re lyin\u2019, Sam Hawker,\u201d said Blackstock quietly. \u201cYe know right\nwell as how you an\u2019 Jim were good friends only yesterday at the store,\nwhere I saw ye feedin\u2019 him. An\u2019 I don\u2019t think likely ye\u2019ve ever given\nJim a lickin\u2019. It don\u2019t _sound_ probable.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeems to me there\u2019s a lot of us has gone a bit off their nut over this\nthing, an\u2019 not much wonder, neither,\u201d commented the game-warden. \u201cLooks\nlike Sam Hawker has gone plumb crazy. An\u2019 now there\u2019s Jim, the\nsensiblest dog in the world, with lots more brains than most men-kind,\nfoolin\u2019 away his time like a year-old pup a-tryin\u2019 to dig out a darn old\nwoodchuck hole.\u201d\n\nSuch, in fact, seemed to be Jim\u2019s object. He was digging furiously with\nboth forepaws beneath the big white stone on the opposite side of the\npool.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s bit me. I\u2019ll kill him,\u201d screamed Hawker, his face distorted and\nfoam at the corners of his lips. He plucked his hunting-knife from its\nsheath, and leapt forward wildly, with the evident intention of darting\naround the pool and knifing the dog.\n\nBut Blackstock, who had been watching him intently, was too quick for\nhim.\n\n\u201cNo, ye don\u2019t, Sam!\u201d he snapped, catching him by the wrist with such a\nwrench that the bright blade fell to the ground. With a scream, Hawker\nstruck at his face, but Blackstock parried the blow, tripped him neatly,\nand fell on him.\n\n\u201cHold him fast, boys,\u201d he ordered. \u201cSeems like he\u2019s gone mad. Don\u2019t let\nhim hurt himself.\u201d\n\nIn five seconds the raving man was trussed up helpless as a chicken, his\nhands tied behind his back, his legs lashed together at the knees, so\nthat he could neither run nor kick. Then he was lifted to his feet, and\nheld thus, inexorably but with commiseration.\n\n\u201cSorry to be rough with ye, Sam,\u201d said one of the constables, \u201cbut ye\u2019ve\ngone crazy as a bed-bug.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever knowed Sam was such a friend o\u2019 Jake\u2019s!\u201d muttered another, with\ndeepest pity.\n\nBut Blackstock stood close beside the body of the murdered man, and\nwatched with a face of granite the efforts of Jim to dig under the big\nwhite stone. His absorption in such an apparently frivolous matter\nattracted the notice of the crowd. A hush fell upon them all, broken\nonly by the hoarse, half-smothered ravings of Sam Hawker.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tain\u2019t no woodchuck Jim\u2019s diggin\u2019 for, you see!\u201d muttered one of the\nconstables to the puzzled Stephens.\n\n\u201cTug don\u2019t seem to think so, neither,\u201d agreed Stephens.\n\n\u201cAngus,\u201d said Blackstock in a low, strained voice to the constable who\nhad just spoken, \u201cwould ye mind stepping round an\u2019 givin\u2019 Jim a lift\nwith that there stone!\u201d\n\nThe constable hastened to obey. As he approached, Jim looked up, his\nface covered thickly with earth, wagged his tail in greeting, then fell\nto work again with redoubled energy.\n\nThe constable set both hands under the stone, and with a huge heave\nturned it over. With a yelp of delight Jim plunged his head into the\nhole, grabbed something in his mouth, and tore around the pool with it.\nThe something was long and whitish, and trailed as he ran. He laid it at\nBlackstock\u2019s feet.\n\nBlackstock held it up so that all might see it. It was a painted Indian\nbelt, and it was stained and smeared with blood. The constable picked\nout of the hole a package of bills.\n\nFor some moments no one spoke, and even the ravings of Hawker were\nstilled.\n\nThen Tug Blackstock spoke, while every one, as if with one consent,\nturned his eyes away from the face of Sam Hawker, unwilling to see a\ncomrade\u2019s shame and horror.\n\n\u201cThis is a matter now for jedge and jury, boys,\u201d said he in a voice that\nwas grave and stern. \u201cBut I think you\u2019ll all agree that we hain\u2019t no\ncall to detain this gentleman, who\u2019s been put to so much inconvenience\nall on account of our little mistake.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t mention it, don\u2019t mention it,\u201d protested the book agent, as his\nguards, with profuse apologies, released him. \u201cThat\u2019s a mighty\nintelligent dawg o\u2019 yours, Mr. Blackstock.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s sure done _you_ a good turn this day, mister,\u201d replied the Deputy\ngrimly.\n\n\n\n\n                       III. THE HOLE IN THE TREE\n\n\n                                   I\n\nIt was Woolly Billy who discovered the pile\u2014notes and silver, with a few\nstray gold pieces\u2014so snugly hidden under the fish-hawk\u2019s nest.\n\nThe fish-hawk\u2019s nest was in the crotch of the old, half-dead rock-maple\non the shore of the desolate little lake which lay basking in the\nflat-lands about a mile back, behind Brine\u2019s Rip Mills.\n\nAs the fish-hawk is one of the most estimable of all the wilderness\nfolk, both brave and inoffensive, troubling no one except the fat and\nlazy fish that swarmed in the lake below, and as he is protected by a\nsuperstition of the backwoodsmen, who say it brings ill-luck to disturb\nthe domestic arrangements of a fish-hawk, the big nest, conspicuous for\nmiles about, was never disturbed by even the most amiable curiosity.\n\nBut Woolly Billy, not fully acclimatized to the backwoods tradition and\nsuperstition, and uninformed as to the firmness and decision with which\nthe fish-hawks are apt to resent any intrusion, had long hankered to\nexplore the mysteries of that great nest. One morning he made up his\nmind to try it.\n\nTug Blackstock, Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County, was away for a day\nor two, and old Mrs. Amos, his housekeeper, was too deaf and rheumatic\nto \u201cfuss herself\u201d greatly about the \u201cgoings-on\u201d of so fantastic a child\nas Woolly Billy, so long as she knew he had Jim to look after him. This\nserves to explain how a small boy like Woolly Billy, his\nseven-years-and-nine-months resting lightly on his amazingly fluffy\nshock of pale flaxen curls, could be trotting off down the lonely\nbackwoods trail with no companion or guardian but a big, black dog.\n\nWoolly Billy was familiar with the mossy old trail to the lake, and did\nnot linger upon it. Reaching the shore, he wasted no time throwing\nsticks in for Jim to retrieve, but, in spite of the dog\u2019s eager\ninvitations to this pastime, made his way along the dry edge between\nundergrowth and water till he came to the bluff. Pushing laboriously\nthrough the hot, aromatic-scented tangle of bushes, he climbed to the\nfoot of the old maple, which looked dwarfed by the burden of the huge\nnest carried in its crotch.\n\nWoolly Billy was an expert tree-climber, but this great trunk presented\nnew problems. Twice he went round it, finding no likely spot to begin.\nThen, certain roughnesses tempted him, and he succeeded in drawing\nhimself up several feet. Serene in the consciousness of his good\nintentions, he struggled on. He gained perhaps another foot. Then he\nstuck. He pulled hard upon a ragged edge of bark, trying to work his way\nfurther around the trunk. A patch of bark came away suddenly in his grip\nand he fell backwards with a startled cry.\n\nHe fell plump on Jim, rolled off into the bushes, picked himself up,\nshook the hair out of his eyes and stood staring up at a round hole in\nthe trunk where the patch of bark had been.\n\nA hole in a tree is always interesting. It suggests such possibilities.\nForgetting his scratches, Woolly Billy made haste to climb up again, in\nspite of Jim\u2019s protests. He peered eagerly into the hole. But he could\nsee nothing. And he was cautious\u2014for one could never tell what lived in\na hole like that\u2014or what the occupant, if there happened to be any,\nmight have to say to an intruder. He would not venture his hand into the\nunknown. He slipped down, got a bit of stick and thrust _that_ into the\nhole. There was no result, but he learnt that the hole was shallow. He\nstirred the stick about. There came a slight jingling sound in return.\n\nWoolly Billy withdrew the stick and thought for a moment. He reasoned\nthat a thing that jingled was not at all likely to bite. He dropped the\nstick and cautiously inserted his hand to the full length of his little\narm. His fingers grasped something which felt more or less familiar, and\nhe drew forth a bank-note and several silver coins.\n\nWoolly Billy\u2019s eyes grew very round and large as he stared at his\nhandful. He was sure that money did not grow in hollow trees. Tug\nBlackstock kept _his_ money in an old black wallet. Woolly Billy liked\nmoney because it bought peppermints, and molasses candy, and gingerpop.\nBut this money was plainly not his. He reluctantly put it back into the\nhole.\n\nThoughtfully he climbed down. He knew that money was such a desirable\nthing that it led some people\u2014bad people whom Tug Blackstock hated\u2014to\nsteal what did not belong to them. He picked up the patch of bark and\nlaboriously fitted it back into its place over the hole, lest some of\nthese bad people should find the money and appropriate it.\n\n\u201cNot a word, now, not one single word,\u201d he admonished Jim, \u201ctill Tug\ncomes home. We\u2019ll tell him all about it.\u201d\n\n\n                                   II\n\nIt was five o\u2019clock in the sleepy summer afternoon, and the flies buzzed\ndrowsily among the miscellaneous articles that graced the windows of the\nCorner Store. The mills had shut down early, because the supply of logs\nwas running low in the boom, and no more could be expected until there\nshould be a rise of water. Some half-dozen of the mill hands were\nsitting about the store on nail-kegs and soap-boxes, while Zeb Smith,\nthe proprietor, swung his long legs lazily from the edge of the littered\ncounter.\n\nWoolly Billy came in with a piece of silver in his little fist to buy a\npacket of tea for Mrs. Amos. Jim, not liking the smoke, stayed outside\non the plank sidewalk, and snapped at flies. The child, who was regarded\nas the mascot of Brine\u2019s Rip Mills, was greeted with a fire of solemn\nchaff, which he received with an impartial urbanity.\n\n\u201cOh, quit coddin\u2019 the kiddie, an\u2019 don\u2019t try to be so smart,\u201d growled\nLong Jackson, the Magadavy river-man, lifting his gaunt length from a\npile of axe-handles, and thrusting his fist deep into his trousers\u2019\npocket. \u201cHere, Zeb, give me a box of peppermints for Woolly Billy. He\nhain\u2019t been in to see us this long while.\u201d\n\nHe pulled out a handful of coins and dollar bills, and proceeded to\nselect a silver bit from the collection. The sight was too much for\nWoolly Billy, bursting with his secret.\n\n\u201c_I_ know where there\u2019s _lots_ more money like that,\u201d he blurted out\nproudly, \u201cin a hole in a tree.\u201d\n\nDuring the past twelve months or more there had been thefts of money,\nusually of petty sums, in Brine\u2019s Rip Mills and the neighbourhood, and\nall Tug Blackstock\u2019s detective skill had failed to gain the faintest\nclue to the perpetrator. Suspicions there had been, but all had vanished\ninto thin air at the touch of investigation. Woolly Billy\u2019s amazing\nstatement, therefore, was like a little bombshell in the shop.\n\nEvery one of his audience stiffened up with intense interest.\n\nOne swarthy, keen-featured, slim-waisted, half-Indian-looking fellow,\nwith the shapely hands and feet that mark so many of the Indian\nmixed-bloods, was sitting on a bale of homespun behind Long Jackson, and\nsmoking solemnly with half-closed lids. His eyes opened wide for a\nfraction of a second, and darted one searching glance at the child\u2019s\nface. Then he dropped his lids slowly once more till the eyes were all\nbut closed. The others all stared eagerly at Woolly Billy.\n\nPleased with the interest he had excited, Woolly Billy glanced about\nhim, and shook back his mop of pale curls self-consciously.\n\n\u201c_Lots_ more!\u201d he repeated. \u201cBig handfuls.\u201d\n\nThen he remembered his discretion, his resolve to tell no one but Tug\nBlackstock about his discovery. Seeking to change the subject, he beamed\nupon Long Jackson.\n\n\u201cThank you, Long,\u201d he said politely. \u201cI _love_ peppermints. An\u2019 Jim\nloves them, too.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Where_ did you say that hole in the tree was?\u201d asked Long Jackson,\nreaching for the box that held the peppermints, and ostentatiously\nfilling a generous paper-bag.\n\nWoolly Billy looked apologetic and deprecating.\n\n\u201cPlease, Long, if you don\u2019t mind _very_ much, I can\u2019t tell anybody but\nTug Blackstock _that_.\u201d\n\nJackson laid the bag of peppermints a little to one side, as if to\nconvey that their transfer was contingent upon Woolly Billy\u2019s behaviour.\n\nThe child looked wistfully at the coveted sweets; then his red lips\ncompressed themselves with decision and resentment.\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t tell anybody but Tug Blackstock, _of course_,\u201d said he. \u201cAn\u2019 I\ndon\u2019t want any peppermints, thank you, Long.\u201d\n\nHe picked up his package of tea and turned to leave the shop, angry at\nhimself for having spoken of the secret and angry at Jackson for trying\nto get ahead of Tug Blackstock. Jackson, looking annoyed at the rebuff,\nextended his leg and closed the door. Woolly Billy\u2019s blue eyes blazed.\nOne of the other men strove to propitiate him.\n\n\u201cOh, come on, Woolly Billy,\u201d he urged coaxingly, \u201cdon\u2019t git riled at\nLong. You an\u2019 him\u2019s pals, ye know. We\u2019re all pals o\u2019 yourn, an\u2019 of\nTug\u2019s. An\u2019 there ain\u2019t no harm _at all_, at all, in yer showin\u2019 us this\n\u2019ere traysure what you\u2019ve lit on to. Besides, you know there\u2019s likely\nsome o\u2019 that there traysure belongs to us \u2019uns here. Come on now, an\u2019\ntake us to yer hole in the tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cYe ain\u2019t agoin\u2019 to git out o\u2019 this here store, Woolly Billy, I tell ye\nthat, till ye promise to take us to it right off,\u201d said Long Jackson\nsharply.\n\nWoolly Billy was not alarmed in the least by this threat. But he was so\nfurious that for a moment he could not speak. He could do nothing but\nstand glaring up at Long Jackson with such fiery defiance that the\ngood-natured mill-hand almost relented. But it chanced that he was one\nof the sufferers, and he was in a hurry to get his money back. At this\npoint the swarthy woodsman on the bale of homespun opened his narrow\neyes once again, took the pipe from his mouth, and spoke up.\n\n\u201cQuit plaguin\u2019 the kid, Long,\u201d he drawled. \u201cThe cash\u2019ll be all there\nwhen Tug Blackstock gits back, an\u2019 it\u2019ll save a lot of trouble an\u2019\nmisunderstandin\u2019, havin\u2019 him to see to dividin\u2019 it up fair an\u2019 square.\nLet Woolly Billy out.\u201d\n\nLong Jackson shook his head obstinately, and opened his mouth to reply,\nbut at this moment Woolly Billy found his voice.\n\n\u201cLet me out! Let me out! _Let me out!_\u201d he screamed shrilly, stamping\nhis feet and clenching his little fists.\n\nInstantly a heavy body was hurled upon the outside of the door, striving\nto break it in.\n\nZeb Smith swung his long legs down from the counter hurriedly.\n\n\u201cThe kid\u2019s right, an\u2019 Black Dan\u2019s right. Open the door, Long, an\u2019 do it\nquick. I don\u2019t want that there dawg comin\u2019 through the winder. An\u2019 he\u2019ll\nbe doin\u2019 it, too, in half a jiff.\u201d\n\n\u201cGit along, then, Woolly, if ye insist on it. But no more peppermints,\nmind,\u201d growled Jackson, throwing open the door and stepping back\ndiscreetly. As he did so, Jim came in with a rush, just saving himself\nfrom knocking Woolly Billy over. One swift glance assured him that the\nchild was all right, but very angry about something.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all right, Jim. Come with me,\u201d said Woolly Billy, tugging at the\nanimal\u2019s collar. And the pair stalked away haughtily side by side.\n\n\n                                  III\n\nTug Blackstock arrived the next morning about eleven. Before he had time\nto sit down for a cup of that strenuous black tea which the woodsmen\nconsume at all hours, he had heard from Woolly Billy\u2019s eager lips the\nstory of the hole in the tree beneath the fish-hawk\u2019s nest. He heard\nalso of the episode at Zeb Smith\u2019s store, but Woolly Billy by this time\nhad quite forgiven Long Jackson, so the incident was told in such a way\nthat Blackstock had no reason to take offence.\n\n\u201cLong tried _hard_,\u201d said the child, \u201cto get me to tell where that hole\nwas, but I _wouldn\u2019t_. And Black Dan was awful nice, an\u2019 made him stop\nbotherin\u2019 me, an\u2019 said I was quite right not to tell _anybody_ till you\ncame home, coz you\u2019d know just what to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cH\u2019m!\u201d said the Deputy-Sheriff thoughtfully, \u201cLong\u2019s had a lot of money\nstole from him, so, of course, he wanted to git his eyes on to that hole\nquick. But \u2019tain\u2019t like Black Dan to be that thoughtful. Maybe he\n_hasn\u2019t_ had none taken.\u201d\n\nWhile he was speaking, a bunch of the mill-hands arrived at the door,\nword of Blackstock\u2019s return having gone through the village.\n\n\u201cWe want to go an\u2019 help ye find that traysure, Tug,\u201d said Long Jackson,\nglancing somewhat sheepishly at Woolly Billy. A friendly grin from the\nchild reassured him, and he went on with more confidence:\n\n\u201cWe tried to git the kiddie to tell us where \u2019twas, but wild steers\nwouldn\u2019t drag it out o\u2019 him till you got back.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s right, Long,\u201d agreed Blackstock, \u201cbut it don\u2019t need to be no\nexpedition. We don\u2019t want the whole village traipsin\u2019 after us. You an\u2019\nthree or four more o\u2019 the boys that\u2019s lost money come along, with Woolly\nBilly an\u2019 me, an\u2019 the rest o\u2019 you meet us at the store in about a couple\no\u2019 hours\u2019 time. Tell any other folks you see that I don\u2019t want \u2019em\nfollerin\u2019 after us, because it may mix up things\u2014an\u2019 anyways, I don\u2019t\nwant it, see!\u201d\n\nAfter a few moments\u2019 hesitation and consultation the majority of the\nmill-hands turned away, leaving Long Jackson and big Andy Stevens, the\nblue-eyed giant from the Oromocto (who had been one of the chief\nvictims), and MacDonald, and Black Saunders, and Black Dan (whose name\nhad been Dan Black till the whim of the woodsmen turned it about).\nBlackstock eyed them appraisingly.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know as _you\u2019d_ bin one o\u2019 the victims too, Dan,\u201d he remarked.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t ye, Tug?\u201d returned Black with a short laugh. \u201cWell, I didn\u2019t say\nnawthin about it, coz I was after doin\u2019 a leetle detective work on me\nown, an\u2019 mebbe I\u2019d \u2019ave got in ahead o\u2019 ye if Woolly Billy here hadn\u2019t\na\u2019 been so smart. But I tell ye, Tug, if that there traysure\u2019s the lot\nwe\u2019re thinkin\u2019 it is, there\u2019d ought ter be a five-dollar bill in it what\nI\u2019ve marked.\u201d\n\n\u201cH\u2019m!\u201d grunted the Deputy, hastily gulping down the last of his tea, and\nrising to his feet. \u201cBut Woolly Billy an\u2019 me _and_ Jim\u2019s a combination\npretty hard to git ahead of, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019.\u201d\n\nAs the party neared the bluff whereon the tree of the fish-hawk\u2019s nest\nstood ragged against the sky, the air grew rank with the pungent odour\nof skunk. Now skunks were too common in the region of Brine\u2019s Rip Mills\nfor that smell, as a rule, to excite any more comment than an occasional\ndisgusted execration when it became too concentrated. But to-day it drew\nmore than passing attention. MacDonald sniffed intently.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s deuced queer,\u201d said he, \u201cbut I\u2019ve noticed that there\u2019s always been\na smell of skunk round when anybody\u2019s lost anything. Did it ever strike\nyou that way, Tug?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, some!\u201d assented the Deputy curtly.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a skunk, all right, that\u2019s been takin\u2019 our money,\u201d said big Andy,\n\u201cef he _don\u2019t_ carry his tail over his back.\u201d\n\nEvery one of the party was sniffing the tainted air as if the familiar\nstench were some rare perfume\u2014all but Jim. He had had an encounter with\na skunk, once in his impulsive puppy days, and the memory was too\npainful to be dwelt upon.\n\nAs they climbed the slope, one of the fish-hawks came swooping down from\nsomewhere high in the blue, and began circling on slow wings about the\nnest.\n\n\u201cThat cross old bird doesn\u2019t like visitors,\u201d remarked Woolly Billy.\n\n\u201cYou wouldn\u2019t, neether, Woolly Billy, if you was a fish-hawk,\u201d said\nJackson.\n\nArrived at the tree, Woolly Billy pointed eagerly to a slightly broken\npiece of bark a little above the height of the Deputy\u2019s head.\n\n\u201c_There\u2019s_ the hole!\u201d he cried, clapping his hands in his excitement as\nif relieved to find it had not vanished.\n\n\u201cKeep off a bit now, boys,\u201d cautioned Blackstock. Drawing his long\nhunting-knife, he carefully loosened the bark without letting his hand\ncome in contact with it, and on the point of the blade laid it aside\nagainst the foot of the trunk.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t any of you tech it,\u201d he admonished.\n\nThen he slipped his hand into the hole, and felt about.\n\nA look of chagrin came over his face, and he withdrew his hand\u2014empty.\n\n\u201cNothin\u2019 there!\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cIt was there yesterday morning,\u201d protested Woolly Billy, his blue eyes\nfilling with tears.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, of course,\u201d agreed Blackstock, glancing slowly around the\ncircle of disappointed faces.\n\n\u201cSomebody from the store\u2019s been blabbin\u2019,\u201d exclaimed Black Dan, in a\nloud and angry voice.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 why not?\u201d protested Big Andy, with a guilty air. \u201cWe never said\nnawthin\u2019 about keepin\u2019 it a secret.\u201d\n\nIn spite of their disappointment, the mill-hands laughed. Big Andy was\nnot one to keep a secret in any case, and his weakness for a certain\npretty widow who kept the post-office was common comment. Big Andy\nresponded by blushing to the roots of his blonde hair.\n\n\u201cJim!\u201d commanded the Deputy. And the big black dog bounded up to him,\nhis eyes bright with expectation. The Deputy picked him up, and held him\naloft with his muzzle to the edges of the hole.\n\n\u201cSmell that,\u201d he ordered, and Jim sniffed intently. Then he set him down\nand directed him to the piece of bark. That, too, Jim\u2019s nose\ninvestigated minutely, his feathered tail slowly wagging.\n\n\u201cSeek him,\u201d ordered Blackstock.\n\nJim whined, looked puzzled, and sniffed again at the bark. The\ninformation which his subtle nose picked up there was extremely\nconfusing. First, there was the smell of skunk\u2014but that smell of skunk\nwas everywhere, dulling the keenness of his discrimination. Then, there\nwas a faint, faint reminiscence of Woolly Billy. But there was Woolly\nBilly, at Tug Blackstock\u2019s side. Certainly, there could be no reason for\nhim to seek Woolly Billy. Then there was an elusive, tangled scent,\nwhich for some moments defied him. At last, however, he got a clue to\nit. With a pleased bark\u2014his way of saying \u201cEureka!\u201d\u2014he whipped about,\ntrotted over to big Andy Sevens, sat down in front of him, and gazed up\nat him, with tongue hanging and an air of friendly inquiry, as much as\nto say: \u201cHere I am, Andy. But I don\u2019t know what Tug Blackstock wants me\nto seek you for, seein\u2019 as you\u2019re right here alongside him.\u201d\n\nBig Andy dropped his hand on the dog\u2019s head familiarly; then noticing\nthe sudden tense silence of the party, his eyes grew very big and round.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019re you all starin\u2019 at _me_ fer, boys?\u201d he demanded, with a sort of\nuneasy wonder.\n\n\u201cAx Jim,\u201d responded Black Dan, harshly.\n\n\u201cI reckon old Jim\u2019s makin\u2019 a mistake fer once, Tug,\u201d drawled Long\nJackson, who was Andy\u2019s special pal.\n\nThe Deputy rubbed his lean chin reflectively. There could be no one more\nabove suspicion in his eyes than this transparently honest young giant\nfrom the Oromocto. But Jim\u2019s curious action had scattered to the winds,\nat least for a moment, a sort of hypothesis which he had been building\nup in his mind. At the same time, he felt dimly that a new clue was\nbeing held out to him, if he could only grasp it. He wanted time to\nthink.\n\n\u201cWe kin all make mistakes,\u201d he announced sententiously. \u201cCome here, Jim.\nSeek \u2019im, boy, seek \u2019im.\u201d And he waved his hand at large.\n\nJim bounced off with a joyous yelp, and began quartering the ground,\nhither and thither, all about the tree. Big Andy, at a complete loss for\nwords, stood staring from one to another with eyes of indignant and\nincredulous reproach.\n\nSuddenly a yelp of triumph was heard in the bushes, a little way down\ntowards the lake, and Jim came racing back with a dark magenta article\nin his mouth. At the foot of the tree he stopped, and looked at\nBlackstock interrogatively. Receiving no sign whatever from his master,\nwhose face had lit up for an instant, but was now as impassive as a\nhitching-post, he stared at Black Dan for a few seconds, and then let\nhis eyes wander back to Andy\u2019s face. In the midst of his obvious\nhesitation the Oromocto man stepped forward.\n\n\u201cDurned ef that ain\u2019t one o\u2019 my old mittens,\u201d he exclaimed eagerly,\n\u201cwhat Sis knit fer me. I\u2019ve been lookin\u2019 fer \u2019em everywheres. Bring it\nhere, Jim.\u201d\n\nAs the dog trotted up with it obediently, the Deputy intervened and\nstopped him. \u201cYou shall have it bime-by, Andy,\u201d said he, \u201cef it\u2019s yourn.\nBut jest now I don\u2019t want nobody to tech it except Jim. Ef you\nacknowledge it\u2019s yourn\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201c_Of course_ it\u2019s mine,\u201d interrupted Andy resentfully. \u201cAn\u2019 I want to\nfind the other one.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo do I,\u201d said Blackstock. \u201cDrop it, Jim. Go find the other mitt.\u201d\n\nAs Jim went ranging once more through the bushes, the whole party moved\naround to the other side of the tree to get out of the downpour of the\nnoon sun. As they passed the magenta mitten Black Dan picked it up and\nexamined it ostentatiously.\n\n\u201cHow do ye know it\u2019s _yourn_, Andy?\u201d he demanded. \u201cThere\u2019s lots of\nmagenta mitts in the world, I reckon.\u201d\n\nTug Blackstock turned upon him.\n\n\u201cI said I didn\u2019t want no one to tech that mitt,\u201d he snapped.\n\n\u201cOh, beg pardon, Tug,\u201d said Dan, dropping the mitt. \u201cI forgot. \u2019S\u2019pose\nit might kind o\u2019 confuse Jim\u2019s scent, gittin\u2019 another smell besides\nAndy\u2019s on to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt might,\u201d replied the Deputy coolly, \u201can\u2019 then agin, it mightn\u2019t.\u201d\n\nFor a little while every one was quiet, listening to Jim as he crashed\nabout through the bushes, and confidently but unreasonably expecting him\nto reappear with the other mitten. Or, at least, that was what Big Andy\nand Woolly Billy expected. The Deputy, at least, did not. At last he\nspoke.\n\n\u201cI agree with Mac here, boys,\u201d said he, \u201cthat there may be somethin\u2019\nmore\u2019n skunk in this skunk smell. We\u2019ll jest look into it a bit. You all\nkeep back a ways\u2014an\u2019 you, Long, jest keep an eye on Woolly Billy ef ye\ndon\u2019t mind, while I go on with Jim.\u201d\n\nHe whistled to the dog, and directed his attention to a spot at the foot\nof the tree exactly beneath the hole. Jim sniffed hard at the spot, then\nlooked up at his master with tail drooping despondently.\n\n\u201cYes, I know it\u2019s skunk, plain skunk,\u201d agreed the Deputy. \u201cBut I want\nhim. Seek him, Jim\u2014_seek him_, boy.\u201d\n\nThus reassured, Jim\u2019s tail went up again. He started off through the\nbushes, down towards the lake, with his master close behind him. The\nrest of the party followed thirty paces or so behind.\n\nThe trail led straight down to the lake\u2019s edge. Here Jim stopped short.\n\n\u201c_That_ skunk\u2019s a kind o\u2019 water-baby,\u201d remarked Long Jackson.\n\n\u201cOh, do you think so?\u201d queried Woolly Billy, much interested.\n\n\u201cOf course,\u201d answered Jackson. \u201cDon\u2019t you see he\u2019s took to the water?\nNow, yer common, no-account skunk hates wettin\u2019 his fur like pizen.\u201d\n\nThe Deputy examined the hard, white sand at the water\u2019s edge. It showed\nfaint traces of moccasined feet. He pursed his lips. It was an old game,\nbut a good one, this breaking a trail by going into the water. He had no\nway of deciding whether his quarry had turned up the lake shore or down\ntowards the outlet. He guessed at the latter as the more likely\nalternative.\n\nJim trotted slowly ahead, sniffing every foot of ground along the\nwater\u2019s edge. As they approached the outlet the shore became muddy, and\nJackson swung Woolly Billy up on to his shoulder. Once in the outlet,\nthe foreshore narrowed to a tiny strip of bare rock between the water\nand an almost perpendicular bank covered with shrubs and vines. All at\nonce the smell of skunk, which had been almost left behind, returned\nupon the air with fresh pungency. Blackstock stopped short and scanned\nthe bank with narrowed eyes.\n\nA second or two later, Jim yelped his signal, and his tail went up. He\nsniffed eagerly across the ribbon of rock, and then leapt at the face of\nthe bank.\n\nThe Deputy called him off and hurried to the spot. The rest of the\nparty, much excited, closed up to within four or five paces, when a wave\nof the Deputy\u2019s hand checked them.\n\n\u201cPhew!\u201d ejaculated Black Dan, holding his nose. \u201cThere\u2019s a skunk hole in\nthat there bank. Ye\u2019ll be gittin\u2019 somethin\u2019 in the eye, Tug, ef ye don\u2019t\nkeep off.\u201d\n\nBlackstock, who was busy pulling apart the curtain of vines, paid no\nattention, but Long Jackson answered sarcastically:\n\n\u201cYe call yerself a woodsman, Dan,\u201d said he, \u201can\u2019 ye don\u2019t know that the\nhole where a skunk lives _don\u2019t_ smell any. Yer _reel_ skunk\u2019s quite a\ngentleman and keeps his home always clean an\u2019 tidy. Tug Blackstock ain\u2019t\na-goin\u2019 to git nawthin\u2019 in the eye.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I reckon we\u2019d better smoke,\u201d said Black Dan amiably, pulling out\nhis pipe and filling it. And the others followed his example.\n\nBlackstock thrust his hand into a shallow hole in the bank quite hidden\nby the foliage. He drew out a pair of moccasins, water-soaked, and\nhurriedly set them down on the rock. For all their soaking, they reeked\nof skunk. He picked up one on the point of a stick and examined it\nminutely. In spite of all the soaking, the sole, to his initiated eye,\nstill bore traces of that viscous, oily liquid which no water will wash\noff\u2014the strangling exudation of the skunk\u2019s defensive gland. It was just\nwhat he had expected. The moccasin was neat and slim and of medium\nsize\u2014not more than seven at most. He held it up, that all might see it\nclearly.\n\n\u201cDoes this belong to you, Andy Stevens?\u201d he asked.\n\nThere was a jeer from the group, and Big Andy held up an enormous foot,\nwhich might, by courtesy, have been numbered a thirteen. It was a point\nupon which the Oromocto man was usually sensitive, but to-day he was\nproud of it.\n\n\u201cYe\u2019ll hev to play Cinderella, Tug, an\u2019 find out what leetle foot it\nfits on to,\u201d suggested MacDonald.\n\nThe Deputy fished again in the hole. He drew forth a magenta mitten,\ndropped it promptly, then held it up on the point of his stick at arm\u2019s\nlength. It had been with the moccasins. Big Andy stepped forward to\nclaim it, then checked himself.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a mite too strong fer me now,\u201d he protested. \u201cI\u2019ll hev to git Sis\nto knit me another pair, I guess.\u201d\n\nBlackstock dropped the offensive thing beside the moccasins at his feet,\nand reached once more into the hole.\n\n\u201cHe ain\u2019t takin\u2019 no risks this time, boys,\u201d said Blackstock. \u201cHe\u2019s took\nthe swag with him.\u201d\n\nThere was a growl of disappointment. Long Jackson could not refrain from\na reproachful glance at Woolly Billy, but refrained from saying the\nobvious.\n\n\u201cWhat are ye goin\u2019 to do about it, Tug?\u201d demanded Black Dan. \u201cHev ye got\nany kind of a _reel_ clue, d\u2019ye think, now?\u201d\n\n\u201cWait an\u2019 see,\u201d was Blackstock\u2019s noncommittal reply. He picked up the\nmoccasins and mitten again on the point of his stick, scanned the bank\nsharply to make sure his quarry had not gone that way, and led the\nprocession once more down along the rocky shore of the stream. \u201cSeek\nhim,\u201d he said again to Jim, and the dog, as before, trotted on ahead,\nsniffing along by the water\u2019s edge to intercept the trail of whoever had\nstepped ashore.\n\nThe party emerged at length upon the bank of the main stream, and turned\nupwards towards Brine\u2019s Rip. After they had gone about half a mile they\nrounded a bend and came in sight of a violent rapid which cut close\ninshore. At this point it would be obviously impossible for any one\nwalking in the shallow water to avoid coming out upon dry ground. Tug\nBlackstock quickened his pace, and waved Jim forward.\n\nA sharp oath broke from Black Dan\u2019s lips.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve been an\u2019 gone an\u2019 left my \u2019baccy-pooch behind, by the skunk\u2019s\nhole,\u201d he announced. And grumbling under his breath he turned back down\nthe shore.\n\nBlackstock ran on, as if suddenly in a great hurry. Just where the\nshallow water ended, at the foot of the rapid, Jim gave his signal with\nvoice and tail. He raced up the bank to a clump of bushes and began\nthrashing about in them.\n\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ye suppose he\u2019s found there?\u201d asked Big Andy.\n\n\u201cScent, and lots of it. No mistake this time,\u201d announced MacDonald.\n\u201cHain\u2019t ye caught on to Jim\u2019s signs yet?\u201d\n\n\u201cJim,\u201d said the Deputy, sharply but not loud, \u201c_fetch him!_\u201d\n\nJim, with nose in air instead of to the ground, set off at a gallop down\nthe shore in the direction of the outlet.\n\nThe Deputy turned about.\n\n\u201cDan,\u201d he shouted peremptorily. \u201cCome back here. I want ye!\u201d\n\nInstead of obeying, Black Dan dashed up the bank, running like a deer,\nand vanished into the bushes.\n\n\u201c_I knew it!_ That\u2019s the skunk, boys. Go home, you Billy!\u201d cried\nBlackstock, and started after the fugitive. The rest followed close on\nhis heels. But Jackson cried:\n\n\u201cYe\u2019d better call off Jim quick. Dan\u2019s got a gun on him.\u201d\n\nThe Deputy gave a shrill whistle, and Jim, who was just vanishing into\nthe bush, stopped short. At the same instant a shot rang out from the\nbushes, and the dog dropped in his tracks with a howl of anguish.\n\nBlackstock\u2019s lean jaws set themselves like iron. He whipped out his own\nheavy \u201cColt\u2019s,\u201d and the party tore on, till they met Jim dragging\nhimself towards them with a wounded hind-leg trailing pitifully.\n\nThe Deputy gave one look at the big black dog, heaved a breath of\nrelief, and stopped.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tain\u2019t no manner o\u2019 use chasin\u2019 him now, boys,\u201d he decreed, \u201cbecause,\nas we all know, Dan kin run right away from the best runner amongst us.\nBut now I know him\u2014an\u2019 I\u2019ve suspicioned him this two month, only I\ncouldn\u2019t git no clue\u2014_I\u2019ll git him_, never you fear. Jest now, ye\u2019d\nbetter help me carry Jim home, so\u2019s we kin git him doctored up in good\nshape. I reckon Nipsiwaska County can\u2019t afford to lose Mr.\nAssistant-Deputy Sheriff. That there skunk-oil on Dan\u2019s moccasins fooled\n_both_ Jim an\u2019 me, good an\u2019 plenty, didn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut whatever did he want o\u2019 my mitts?\u201d demanded Big Andy.\n\n\u201cNow ye _air_ a sap-head, Andy Stevens,\u201d growled MacDonald, \u201cef ye can\u2019t\nsee _that_!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                       IV. THE TRAIL OF THE BEAR\n\n\n                                   I\n\nThe Deputy Sheriff of Nipsiwaska County had spent half an hour at the\ntelephone. In the backwoods the telephone wires go everywhere. In that\nhalf-hour every settlement, every river-crossing, every lumber-camp, and\nmost of the wide-scattered pioneer cabins had been warned of the flight\nof the thief, Dan Black, nicknamed Black Dan, and how, in the effort to\nsecure his escape, he had shot and wounded the Deputy Sheriff\u2019s big\nblack dog whose cleverness on the trail he had such cause to dread. As\nTug Blackstock, the Deputy Sheriff, came out of the booth he asked after\nJim.\n\n\u201cOh, Black Dan\u2019s bullet broke no bones that time,\u201d replied the village\ndoctor, who had tended the dog\u2019s wound as carefully as if his patient\nhad been the Deputy himself. \u201cIt\u2019s a biggish hole, but Jim\u2019ll be all\nright in a few days, never fear.\u201d\n\nBlackstock looked relieved.\n\n\u201cYe don\u2019t seem to be worryin\u2019 much about Black Dan\u2019s gittin\u2019 away, Tug,\u201d\ngrumbled Long Jackson, who was not unnaturally sore over the loss of his\nmoney.\n\n\u201cNo, I ain\u2019t worryin\u2019 much,\u201d agreed the Deputy, with a confident grin,\n\u201cnow I know Jim ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to lose a leg. As for Black Dan\u2019s gittin\u2019\naway, well, I\u2019ve got me own notions about that. I\u2019ve \u2019phoned all over\nthe three counties, and given warnin\u2019 to every place he kin stop for a\nbite or a bed. He can\u2019t cross the river to get over the Border, for I\u2019ve\nsent word to hev every bridge an\u2019 ferry watched. Black Dan\u2019s cunnin\u2019\nenough to know I\u2019d do jest that, first thing, so he won\u2019t waste his time\ntryin\u2019 the river. He\u2019ll strike right back into the big timber, countin\u2019\non the start he\u2019s got of us, now he\u2019s put Jim out of the game. But I\nguess I kin trail him myself\u2014now I know what I\u2019m trailin\u2019\u2014pretty nigh as\nwell as Jim could. I\u2019ve took note of his tracks, and there ain\u2019t another\npair o\u2019 boots in Brine\u2019s Rip Mills like them he\u2019s wearin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when air ye goin\u2019 to start?\u201d demanded Long Jackson, still inclined\nto be resentful.\n\n\u201cRight now,\u201d replied Blackstock cheerfully, \u201csoon as ye kin git guns and\nstuff some crackers an\u2019 cheese into yer pockets. I\u2019ll want _you_ to come\nalong, MacDonald, an\u2019 you, Long, an\u2019 Saunders, an\u2019 Big Andy, as my\nposse. Meet me in fifteen minutes at the store an\u2019 I\u2019ll hev Zeb Smith\nswear ye in for the job. If Black Dan wants to do any shootin\u2019, it\u2019s\njest as well to hev everythin\u2019 regular.\u201d\n\nThere were not a few others among the mill-hands and the villagers who\nhad lost by Black Dan\u2019s cunning pilferings, and who would gladly have\njoined in the hunt. In the backwoods not even a murderer\u2014unless his\nvictim has been a woman or a child\u2014is hunted down with so much zest as a\nthief. But the Deputy did not like too much volunteer assistance, and\nwas apt to suppress it with scant ceremony. So his choice of a posse was\naccepted without protest or comment, and the chosen four slipped off to\nget their guns.\n\nAs Tug Blackstock had foreseen, the trail of the fugitive was easily\npicked up. Confident in his powers as a runaway, Black Dan\u2019s sole\nobject, at first, had been to gain as much lead as possible over the\nexpected pursuit, and he had run straight ahead, leaving a trail which\nany one of Blackstock\u2019s posse\u2014with the exception, perhaps, of Big\nAndy\u2014could have followed with almost the speed and precision of the\nDeputy himself.\n\nThere had been no attempt at concealment. About five miles back,\nhowever, in the heavy woods beyond the head of the Lake, it appeared\nthat the fugitive had dropped into a walk and begun to go more\ncircumspectly. The trail now grew so obscure that the other woodsmen\nwould have had difficulty in deciphering it at all, and they were amazed\nat the ease and confidence with which Blackstock followed it up, hardly\ndiminishing his stride.\n\n\u201cTug is sure some trailer,\u201d commented Jackson, his good humour now quite\nrestored by the progress they were making.\n\n\u201c_Jim_ couldn\u2019t \u2019a\u2019 done no better himself,\u201d declared Big Andy, the\nOromocto man.\n\nAnd just then Blackstock came abruptly to a halt, and held up his hand\nfor his followers to stop.\n\n\u201cSteady, boys. Stop right where ye are, an\u2019 don\u2019t step out o\u2019 yer\ntracks,\u201d he commanded.\n\nThe four stood rigid, and began searching the ground all about them with\nkeen, initiated eyes.\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019ve got him, so fur, all right,\u201d continued Blackstock, pointing to\na particularly clear and heavy impression of a boot-sole close behind\nhis own feet. \u201cBut here it stops. It don\u2019t appear to go any further.\u201d\n\nHe knelt down to examine the footprint.\n\n\u201cP\u2019raps he\u2019s doubled back on his tracks, to throw us off,\u201d suggested\nSaunders, who was himself an expert on the trails of all the wild\ncreatures.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied Blackstock, \u201cI\u2019ve watched out for that sharp.\u201d\n\n\u201cP\u2019raps he\u2019s give a big jump to one side or t\u2019other, to break his\ntrail,\u201d said MacDonald.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Blackstock with decision, \u201cnor that neither, Mac. This here\nprint is _even_. Ef he\u2019d jumped to one side or the other, it would be\ndug in on that side, and ef he\u2019d jumped forrard, it would be hard down\nat the toe. It fair beats me!\u201d\n\nStepping carefully, foot by foot, he examined the ground minutely over a\nhalf circle of a dozen yards to his front. He sent out his followers\u2014all\nbut Big Andy, who, being no trailer, was bidden to stand fast\u2014to either\nside and to the rear, crawling like ferrets and interrogating every\ngrass tuft, in vain. The trail had simply stopped with that one\nfootprint. It was as if Black Dan had dissolved into a miasma, and\nfloated off.\n\nAt last Blackstock called the party in, and around the solitary\nfootprint they all sat down and smoked. One after another they made\nsuggestions, but each suggestion had its futility revealed and sealed by\na stony stare from Blackstock, and was no more befriended by its author.\n\nAt last Blackstock rose to his feet, and gave a hitch to his belt.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t mind tellin\u2019 ye, boys,\u201d said he, \u201cit beats me fair. But _one_\nthing\u2019s plain enough, Black Dan ain\u2019t _here_, an\u2019 he ain\u2019t likely to\ncome here lookin\u2019 for us. Spread out now, an\u2019 we\u2019ll work on ahead, an\u2019\nsee ef we can\u2019t pick up somethin\u2019. You, Big Andy, you keep right along\nbehind me. There\u2019s an explanation to _everything_\u2014an\u2019 we\u2019ll find this\nout afore long, or my name\u2019s Dennis.\u201d\n\nOver the next three or four hundred yards, however, nothing of\nsignificance was discovered by any of the party. Then, breaking through\na dense screen of branches, Blackstock came upon the face of a rocky\nknoll, so steep, at that point, that hands and feet together would be\nneeded to climb it. Casting his eyes upwards, he saw what looked like\nthe entrance to a little cave.\n\nA whistle brought the rest of the party to his side. A cave always holds\npossibilities, if nothing else. Blackstock spread his men out again, at\nintervals of three or four paces, and all went cautiously up the steep,\nconverging on the entrance. Blackstock, in the centre, shielding himself\nbehind a knob of rock, peered in.\n\nThe place was empty. It was hardly a cave, indeed, being little more\nthan a shallow recess beneath an overhanging ledge. But it was well\nsheltered by a great branch which stretched upwards across the opening.\nBlackstock sniffed critically.\n\n\u201cA bear\u2019s den,\u201d he announced, stepping in and scrutinizing the floor.\n\nThe floor was naked rock, scantily littered with dead leaves and twigs.\nThese, Blackstock concluded, had been recently disturbed, but he could\nfind no clue to what had disturbed them. From the further side,\nhowever\u2014to Blackstock\u2019s right\u2014a palpable trail, worn clear of moss and\nherbage, led off by a narrow ledge across the face of the knoll. Half a\ndozen paces further on the rock ended in a stretch of stiff soil. Here\nthe trail declared itself. It was unmistakably that of a bear, and\nunmistakably, also, a fresh trail.\n\nWaving the rest to stop where they were, Blackstock followed the clear\ntrail down from the knoll, and for a couple of hundred yards along the\nlevel, going very slowly, and searching it hawk-eyed for some sign other\nthan that of bear. At length he returned, looking slightly crestfallen.\n\n\u201cNawthin\u2019 at all but bear,\u201d he announced in an injured voice. \u201cBut that\nbear seems to have been in a bit of a hurry, as if he was gittin\u2019 out o\u2019\nsomebody\u2019s way\u2014Black Dan\u2019s way, it\u2019s dollars to doughnuts. But where was\nBlack Dan, that\u2019s what I want to know?\u201d\n\n\u201cEf _you_ don\u2019t know, Tug,\u201d said MacDonald, \u201cwho _kin_ know?\u201d\n\n\u201cJim!\u201d said the Deputy, rubbing his lean chin and biting off a big\n\u201cchaw\u201d of \u201cblackjack.\u201d\n\n\u201cJim\u2019s sure some dawg,\u201d agreed MacDonald. \u201cThat was the only fool thing\nI ever know\u2019d ye to do, Tug\u2014sendin\u2019 Jim after Black Dan that way.\u201d\n\nBlackstock swore, softly and intensely, though he was a man not given to\nthat form of self-expression.\n\n\u201cBoys,\u201d said he, \u201cI used to fancy myself quite a lot. But now I begin to\nthink Nipsiwaska County\u2019d better be gittin\u2019 a noo Deputy. I ain\u2019t no\nmanner o\u2019 good.\u201d\n\nThe men looked at him in frank astonishment. He had never before been\nseen in this mood of self-depreciation.\n\n\u201cAw, shucks,\u201d exclaimed Long Jackson presently, \u201cthere ain\u2019t a man from\nhere to the St. Lawrence as kin _tech_ ye, an\u2019 ye know it, Tug. Quit yer\njollyin\u2019 now. I believe ye\u2019ve got somethin\u2019 up yer sleeve, only ye won\u2019t\nsay so.\u201d\n\nAt this expression of unbounded confidence Blackstock braced up visibly.\n\n\u201cWell, boys, there\u2019s one thing I _kin_ do,\u201d said he. \u201cI\u2019m goin\u2019 back to\ngit Jim, ef I hev to fetch him in a wheelbarrow. We\u2019ll find out what he\nthinks o\u2019 the situation. I\u2019ll take Saunders an\u2019 Big Andy with me. You,\nLong, an\u2019 Mac, you stop on here an\u2019 lay low an\u2019 see what turns up. But\ndon\u2019t go mussin\u2019 up the trails.\u201d\n\n\n                                   II\n\nJim proved to be so far recovered that he was able to hobble about a\nlittle on three legs, the fourth being skilfully bandaged so that he\ncould not put his foot to the ground. It was obvious, however, that he\ncould not make a journey through the woods and be any use whatever at\nthe end of it. Blackstock, therefore, knocked together a handy litter\nfor his benefit. And with very ill grace Jim submitted to being borne\nupon it.\n\nSome twenty paces from that solitary boot-print which marked the end of\nBlack Dan\u2019s trail, Jim was set free from his litter and his attention\ndirected to a bruised tuft of moss.\n\n\u201cSeek him,\u201d said Blackstock.\n\nThe dog gave one sniff, and then with a growl of anger the hair lifted\nalong his back, and he limped forward hurriedly.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s got it in for Black Dan _now_,\u201d remarked MacDonald. And the whole\nparty followed with hopeful expectation, so great was their faith in\nJim\u2019s sagacity.\n\nThe dog, in his haste, overshot the end of the trail. He stopped\nabruptly, whined, sniffed about, and came back to the deep boot-print.\nAll about it he circled, whimpering with impatience, but never going\nmore than a dozen feet away from it. Then he returned, sniffed long and\nearnestly, and stood over it with drooping tail, evidently quite\nnonplussed.\n\n\u201cHe don\u2019t appear to make no more of it than you did, Tug,\u201d said Long\nJackson, much disappointed.\n\n\u201cOh, give him time, Long,\u201d retorted Blackstock. Then\u2014\u2014\n\n\u201cSeek him! Seek him, good boy,\u201d he repeated, waving Jim to the front.\n\nRunning with amazing briskness on his three sound legs, the dog began to\nquarter the undergrowth in ever-widening half-circles, while the men\nstood waiting and watching. At last, at a distance of several hundred\nyards, he gave a yelp and a growl, and sprang forward.\n\n\u201cGot it!\u201d exclaimed Big Andy.\n\n\u201cGuess it\u2019s only the trail o\u2019 that there b\u2019ar he\u2019s struck,\u201d suggested\nJackson pessimistically.\n\n\u201cJim, stop!\u201d ordered Blackstock. And the dog stood rigid in his tracks\nwhile Blackstock hastened forward to see what he had found.\n\n\u201cSure enough. It\u2019s only the bear,\u201d cried Blackstock, investigating the\ngreat footprint over which Jim was standing. \u201cCome along back here, Jim,\nan\u2019 don\u2019t go foolin\u2019 away yer time over a bear, jest _now_.\u201d\n\nThe dog sniffed at the trail, gave another hostile growl, and\nreluctantly followed his master back. Blackstock made him smell the\nboot-print again. Then he said with emphasis, \u201c_Black Dan_, Jim, it\u2019s\n_Black Dan_ we\u2019re wantin\u2019. Seek him, boy. _Fetch him._\u201d\n\nJim started off on the same man\u0153uvres as before, and at the same point\nas before he again gave a growl and a yelp and bounded forward.\n\n\u201c_Jim_,\u201d shouted the Deputy angrily, \u201ccome back here.\u201d\n\nThe dog came limping back, looking puzzled.\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean by that foolin\u2019?\u201d went on his master severely. \u201cWhat\u2019s\nbears to you? Smell that!\u201d and he pointed again to the boot-print. \u201cIt\u2019s\n_Black Dan_ you\u2019re after.\u201d\n\nJim hung upon his words, but looked hopelessly at sea as to his meaning.\nHe turned and gazed wistfully in the direction of the bear\u2019s trail. He\nseemed on the point of starting out for it again, but the tone of\nBlackstock\u2019s rebuke withheld him. Finally, he sat down upon his dejected\ntail and stared upwards into a great tree, one of whose lower branches\nstretched directly over his head.\n\nBlackstock followed his gaze. The tree was an ancient rock maple, its\nbranches large but comparatively few in number. Blackstock could see\nclear to its top. It was obvious that the tree could afford no\nhiding-place to anything larger than a wild-cat. Nevertheless, as\nBlackstock studied it, a gleam of sudden insight passed over his face.\n\n\u201cJim \u2019pears to think Black Dan\u2019s gone to Heaven,\u201d remarked Saunders\ndrily.\n\n\u201cYe can\u2019t always tell _what_ Jim\u2019s thinkin\u2019,\u201d retorted Blackstock. \u201cBut\nI\u2019ll bet it\u2019s a clever idea he\u2019s got in his black head, whatever it is.\u201d\n\nHe scanned the tree anew and the other trees nearest whose branches\ninterlaced with it. Then, with a sharp \u201cCome on, Jim,\u201d he started\ntowards the knoll, eyeing the branches overhead as he went. The rest of\nthe party followed at a discreet distance.\n\nCrippled as he was, Jim could not climb the steep face of the knoll, but\nhis master helped him up. The instant he entered the cave he growled\nsavagely, and once more the stiff hair rose along his back. Blackstock\nwatched in silence for a moment. He had never before noticed, on Jim\u2019s\npart, any special hostility toward bears, whom he was quite accustomed\nto trailing. He glanced up at the big branch that overhung the entrance,\nand conviction settled on his face. Then he whispered, sharply, \u201cSeek\nhim, Jim.\u201d And Jim set off at once, as fast as he could limp, along the\ntrail of the bear.\n\n\u201cCome on, boys,\u201d called Blackstock to his posse. \u201cEf we can\u2019t find Black\nDan we may as well hev a little bear-hunt to fill in the time. Jim\nappears to hev a partic\u2019lar grudge agin that bear.\u201d\n\nThe men closed up eagerly, expecting to find that Blackstock, with Jim\u2019s\nhelp, had at last discovered some real signs of Black Dan. When they saw\nthat there was still nothing more than that old bear\u2019s trail, which they\nhad already examined, Long Jackson began to grumble.\n\n\u201cWe kin hunt bear any day,\u201d he growled.\n\n\u201cI guess Tug ain\u2019t no keener after bear this day than you be,\u201d commented\nMacDonald. \u201cHe\u2019s got _somethin\u2019_ up his sleeve, you see!\u201d\n\n\u201cMebbe it\u2019s a tame b\u2019ar, a _trained_ b\u2019ar, an\u2019 Black Dan\u2019s a-ridin\u2019 him\nhorseback,\u201d suggested Big Andy.\n\nBlackstock, who was close at Jim\u2019s heels, a few paces ahead of the rest,\nturned with one of his rare, ruminative laughs.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s quite an idea of yours, Andy,\u201d he remarked, stooping to examine\none of those great clawed footprints in a patch of soft soil.\n\n\u201cBut even _trained_ b\u2019ar hain\u2019t got wings,\u201d commented MacDonald again.\n\u201cAn\u2019 there\u2019s a good three hundred yards atween the spot where Black\nDan\u2019s trail peters out an\u2019 the nearest b\u2019ar track. I guess yer\ninterestin\u2019 hipotheesis don\u2019t quite fill the bill\u2014eh, Andy?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnyways,\u201d protested the big Oromocto man, \u201cye\u2019ll all notice _one_ thing\nqueer about this here b\u2019ar track. It goes _straight_. Mostly a b\u2019ar will\ngo wanderin\u2019 off this way an\u2019 that, to nose at an old root, er grub up a\nbed o\u2019 toad-stools. But _this_ b\u2019ar keeps right on, as ef he had\nimportant business somewhere straight ahead. That\u2019s just the way he\u2019d go\nef some one _was_ a-ridin\u2019 him horseback.\u201d\n\nAndy had advanced his proposition as a joke, but now he was inclined to\ntake it seriously and to defend it with warmth.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Long Jackson, \u201cwe\u2019ll all chip in, when we git our money\nback, an\u2019 buy ye a bear, Andy, an\u2019 ye shall ride it up every day from\nthe mills to the post-office. It\u2019ll save ye quite a few minutes in\ngittin\u2019 _to_ the post-office. It don\u2019t matter about yer gittin\u2019 away.\u201d\n\nThe big Oromocto lad blushed, but laughed good-naturedly. He was so much\nin love with the little widow who kept the post-office that nothing\npleased him more than to be teased about her.\n\nFor the Deputy\u2019s trained eyes, as for Jim\u2019s trained nose, that\nbear-track was an easy one to follow. Nevertheless, progress was slow,\nfor Blackstock would halt from time to time to interrogate some\nclaw-print with special minuteness, and from time to time Jim would stop\nto lie down and lick gingerly at his bandage, tormented by the aching of\nhis wound.\n\nLate in the afternoon, when the level shadows were black upon the trail\nand the trailing had come to depend entirely on Jim\u2019s nose, Blackstock\ncalled a halt on the banks of a small brook and all sat down to eat\ntheir bread and cheese. Then they sprawled about, smoking, for the\nDeputy, apparently regarding the chase as a long one, was now in no\ngreat hurry. Jim lay on the wet sand, close to the brook\u2019s edge, while\nBlackstock, scooping up the water in double handfuls, let it fall in an\nicy stream on the dog\u2019s bandaged leg.\n\n\u201cHev ye got any reel idee to come an\u2019 go on, Tug?\u201d demanded Long Jackson\nat last, blowing a long, slow jet of smoke from his lips, and watching\nit spiral upwards across a bar of light just over his head.\n\n\u201cI hev,\u201d said Blackstock.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 air ye sure it\u2019s a good one\u2014good enough to drag us \u2019way out here\non?\u201d persisted Jackson.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m bankin\u2019 on it,\u201d answered Blackstock.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 so\u2019s Jim, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019,\u201d suggested MacDonald, tentatively.\n\n\u201cJim\u2019s idee an\u2019 mine ain\u2019t the same, exackly,\u201d vouchsafed Blackstock,\nafter a pause, \u201cbut I guess they\u2019ll come to the same thing in the end.\nThey\u2019re fittin\u2019 in with each other fine, so fur!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019ll ye bet that ye\u2019re not mistaken, the both o\u2019 yez?\u201d demanded\nJackson.\n\n\u201cYer wages fur the whole summer!\u201d answered Blackstock promptly.\n\nLong looked satisfied. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe and\nproceeded to refill it.\n\n\u201cOh, ef ye\u2019re so sure as that, Tug,\u201d he drawled, \u201cI guess I ain\u2019t takin\u2019\nany this time.\u201d\n\nFor a couple of hours after sunset the party continued to follow the\ntrail, depending now entirely upon Jim\u2019s leadership. The dog, revived by\nhis rest and his master\u2019s cold-water treatment, limped forward at a good\npace, growling from time to time as a fresh pang in his wound reminded\nhim anew of his enemy.\n\n\u201cHow Jim \u2019pears to hate that bear!\u201d remarked Big Andy once.\n\n\u201cHe does _that_!\u201d agreed Blackstock. \u201cAn\u2019 he\u2019s goin\u2019 to git his own\nback, too, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019, afore long.\u201d\n\nPresently the moon rose round and yellow through the tree-tops, and the\ngoing became less laborious. Jim seemed untiring now. He pressed on so\neagerly that Blackstock concluded the object of his vindictive pursuit,\nwhatever it was, must be now not far ahead.\n\nAnother hour, and the party came out suddenly upon the bank of a small\npond. Jim, his nose to earth, started to lead the way around it, towards\nthe left. But Blackstock stopped him, and halted his party in the dense\nshadows.\n\nThe opposite shore was in the full glare of the moonlight. There, close\nto the water\u2019s edge, stood a little log hut, every detail of it standing\nout as clearly as in daylight. It was obviously old, but the roof had\nbeen repaired with new bark and poles and the door was shut, instead of\nsagging half open on broken hinges after the fashion of the doors of\ndeserted cabins.\n\nBlackstock slipped a leash from his pocket and clipped it onto Jim\u2019s\ncollar.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m thinkin\u2019, boys, we\u2019ll git some information yonder about that bear,\nef we go the right way about inquirin\u2019. Now, Saunders, you go round the\npond to the right and steal up along-shore, through the bushes, to\nwithin forty paces of the hut. You, Mac, an\u2019 Big Andy, you two go round\nsame way, but git well back into the timber, and come up _behind_ the\nhut to within about the same distance. There\u2019ll be a winder on that\nside, likely.\n\n\u201cWhen ye\u2019re in position give the call o\u2019 the big horned owl, not too\nloud. An\u2019 when I answer with the same call twice, then close in. But\nkeep a good-sized tree atween you an\u2019 the winder, for ye never know what\na bear kin do when he\u2019s trained. I\u2019ll bet Big Andy\u2019s seen bears that\ncould shoulder a gun like a man! So look out for yourselves. Long an\u2019\nJim an\u2019 me, we\u2019ll follow the trail o\u2019 the bear right round this end o\u2019\nthe pond\u2014an\u2019 ef I\u2019m not mistaken it\u2019ll lead us right up to the door o\u2019\nthat there hut. Some bears hev a taste in regard to where they sleep.\u201d\n\nAs noiselessly as shadows the party melted away in opposite directions.\n\nThe pond lay smooth as glass under the flooding moonlight, reflecting a\npale star or two where the moon-path grudgingly gave it space.\n\nAfter some fifteen minutes a lazy, muffled hooting floated across the\npond. Five minutes later the same call, the very voice of the wilderness\nat midnight, came from the deep of the woods behind the hut.\n\nBlackstock, with Jackson close behind him and Jim pulling eagerly on the\nleash, was now within twenty yards of the hut door, but hidden behind a\nthick young fir tree. He breathed the call of the horned owl\u2014a mellow,\nmusical call, which nevertheless brings terror to all the small\ncreatures of the wilderness\u2014and then, after a pause, repeated it softly.\n\nHe waited for a couple of minutes motionless. His keen ears caught the\nsnapping of a twig close behind the hut.\n\n\u201cBig Andy\u2019s big feet that time,\u201d he muttered to himself. \u201cThat boy\u2019ll\nnever be much good on the trail.\u201d\n\nThen, leaving Jim to the care of Jackson, he slipped forward to another\nand bigger tree not more than a dozen paces from the cabin. Standing\nclose in the shadow of the trunk, and drawing his revolver, he called\nsharply as a gun-shot\u2014\u201cDan Black.\u201d\n\nInstantly there was a thud within the hut as of some one leaping from a\nbunk.\n\n\u201cDan Black,\u201d repeated the Deputy, \u201cthe game\u2019s up. I\u2019ve got ye\nsurrounded. Will ye come out quietly an\u2019 give yerself up, or do ye want\ntrouble?\u201d\n\n\u201cWaal, no, I guess I don\u2019t want no more trouble,\u201d drawled a cool voice\nfrom within the hut. \u201cI guess I\u2019ve got enough o\u2019 my own already. I\u2019ll\ncome out, Tug.\u201d\n\nThe door was flung open, and Black Dan, with his hands held up, stalked\nforth into the moonlight.\n\nWith a roar Jim sprang out from behind the fir tree, dragging Long\nJackson with him by the sudden violence of his rush.\n\n\u201cDown, Jim, _down_!\u201d ordered Blackstock. \u201cLay down an\u2019 shut up.\u201d And\nJim, grumbling in his throat, allowed Jackson to pull him back by the\ncollar.\n\nBlackstock advanced and clicked the handcuffs on to Black Dan\u2019s wrists.\nThen he took the revolver and knife from the prisoner\u2019s belt, and\nmotioned him back into the hut.\n\n\u201cBein\u2019 pretty late now,\u201d said Blackstock, \u201cI guess we\u2019ll accept yer\nhospitality for the rest o\u2019 the night.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight ye are, Tug,\u201d assented Dan. \u201cYe\u2019ll find tea an\u2019 merlasses, an\u2019 a\nbite o\u2019 bacon in the cupboard yonder.\u201d\n\nAs the rest of the party came in Black Dan nodded to them cordially, a\ngreeting which they returned with more or less sheepish grins.\n\n\u201cExcuse me ef I don\u2019t shake hands with ye, boys,\u201d said he, \u201cbut Tug here\nsays the state o\u2019 me health makes it bad for me to use me arms.\u201d And he\nheld up the handcuffs.\n\n\u201cNo apologies needed,\u201d said MacDonald.\n\nLast of all came in Long Jackson, with Jim. Blackstock slipped the\nleash, and the dog lay down in a corner, as far from the prisoner as he\ncould get.\n\nIn a few minutes the whole party were sitting about the tiny stove,\ndrinking boiled tea and munching crackers and molasses\u2014the prisoner\njoining in the feast as well as his manacled hands would permit. At\nlength, with his mouth full of cracker, the Deputy remarked:\n\n\u201cThat was clever of ye, Dan\u2014durn\u2019 clever. I didn\u2019t know it was in ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot half so clever as you seein\u2019 through it the way you did, Tug,\u201d\nresponded the prisoner handsomely.\n\n\u201cBut darned ef _I_ see through it _now_,\u201d protested Big Andy in a\nplaintive voice. \u201cIt\u2019s just about as clear as mud to _me_. Where\u2019s your\nwings, Dan? An\u2019 where in tarnation is that b\u2019ar?\u201d\n\nThe prisoner laughed triumphantly. Long Jackson and the others looked\nrelieved, the Oromocto man having propounded the question which they had\nbeen ashamed to ask.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s jest this way,\u201d explained Blackstock. \u201cWhen we\u2019d puzzled Jim\nyonder\u2014an\u2019 he _was_ puzzled at us bein\u2019 such fools\u2014ye\u2019ll recollect he\nsat down on his tail by that boot-print, an\u2019 tried to work out what we\nwanted of him. I was tellin\u2019 him to seek Black Dan, an\u2019 yet I was\ncallin\u2019 him back off that there bear-track. _He_ could smell Black Dan\nin the bear-track, but we couldn\u2019t. So we was doin\u2019 the best we could to\nmix him up.\n\n\u201cWell, he looked up into the big maple overhead. Then I saw where Black\nDan had gone to. He\u2019d jumped (that\u2019s why the boot-print was so heavy),\nan\u2019 caught that there branch, an\u2019 swung himself up into the tree. Then\nhe worked his way along from tree to tree till he come to the cave. I\nsaw by the way Jim took on in the cave that Black Dan had been _there_\nall right. For Jim hain\u2019t got no special grudge agin bear. Says I to\nmyself, ef Jim smells Black Dan in that bear trail, then Black Dan must\n_be_ in it, that\u2019s all!\n\n\u201cThen it comes over me that I\u2019d once seen a big bear-skin in Dan\u2019s room\nat the Mills, an\u2019 as the picture of it come up agin in my mind, I\nnoticed how the fore-paws and legs of it were missin\u2019. With that I\nlooked agin at the trail, as we went along, Jim an\u2019 me. An\u2019 sure enough,\nin all them tracks there wasn\u2019t one print of a hind-paw. _They were all\nfore-paws._ Smart, very smart o\u2019 Dan, says I to myself. Let\u2019s see them\ningenious socks o\u2019 yours, Dan.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re in the top bunk yonder,\u201d said Black Dan, with a weary air. \u201cAn\u2019\nmy belt and pouch, containin\u2019 the other stuff, that\u2019s all in the bunk,\ntoo. I may\u2019s well save ye the trouble o\u2019 lookin\u2019 for it, as ye\u2019d find it\nanyways. I was _sure_ ye\u2019d never succeed in trackin\u2019 me down, so I\ndidn\u2019t bother to hide it. An\u2019 I see now ye _wouldn\u2019t_ \u2019a\u2019 got me, Tug,\nef it hadn\u2019t \u2019a\u2019 been fer Jim. That\u2019s where I made the mistake o\u2019 my\nlife, not stoppin\u2019 to make sure I\u2019d done Jim up.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Dan,\u201d said Blackstock, \u201cye\u2019re wrong there. Ef you\u2019d done Jim up I\u2019d\nhave caught ye jest the same, in the long run, fer I\u2019d never have quit\nthe trail till I _did_ git ye. An\u2019 when I got ye\u2014well, I\u2019d hev forgot\nmyself, mebbe, an\u2019 only remembered that ye\u2019d killed my best friend. Ef\nye\u2019d had as many lives as a cat, Dan, they wouldn\u2019t hev been enough to\npay fer that dawg.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                    V. THE FIRE AT BRINE\u2019S RIP MILLS\n\n\n                                   I\n\nWhen pretty Mary Farrell came to Brine\u2019s Rip and set up a modest\ndressmaker\u2019s shop quite close to the Mills (she said she loved the sound\nof the saws), all the unattached males of the village, to say nothing of\ntoo many of the attached ones, fell instant victims to her charms. They\nwere her slaves from the first lifting of her long lashes in their\ndirection.\n\nTug Blackstock, the Deputy Sheriff, to be sure, did not capitulate quite\nso promptly as the rest. Mary had to flash her dark blue eyes upon him\nat least twice, dropping them again with shy admiration. Then he was at\nher feet\u2014which was a pleasant place to be, seeing that those same small\nfeet were shod with a neatness which was a perpetual reproach to the\nuntidy sawdust strewn roadways of Brine\u2019s Rip.\n\nEven Big Andy, the boyish young giant from the Oromocto, wavered for a\nfew hours in his allegiance to the postmistress. But Mary was much too\ntactful to draw upon her pretty shoulders the hostility of such a power\nas the postmistress, and Big Andy\u2019s enthusiasm was cold-douched in its\nfirst glow.\n\nAs for the womenfolk of Brine\u2019s Rip, it was not to be expected that they\nwould agree any too cordially with the men on the subject of Mary\nFarrell.\n\nBut one instance of Mary\u2019s tact made even the most irreconcilable of her\nown sex sheath their claws in dealing with her. She had come from\nHarner\u2019s Bend. The Mills at Harner\u2019s Bend were anathema to Brine\u2019s Rip\nMills. A keen trade rivalry had grown, fed by a series of petty but\nexasperating incidents, into a hostility that blazed out on the least\noccasion. And pretty Mary had come from Harner\u2019s Bend. Brine\u2019s Rip did\nnot find it out till Mary\u2019s spell had been cast and secured, of course.\nBut the fact was a bitter one to swallow. No one else but Mary Farrell\ncould have made Brine\u2019s Rip swallow it.\n\nOne day Big Andy, greatly daring, and secure in his renovated allegiance\nto the postmistress, ventured to chaff Mary about it. She turned upon\nhim, half amused and half indignant.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she demanded, \u201cisn\u2019t Harner\u2019s Bend a good place to come away\nfrom? Do you think I\u2019d ought to have stopped there? Do I look like the\nkind of girl that _wouldn\u2019t_ come away from Harner\u2019s Bend? And me a\ndressmaker? I just couldn\u2019t _live_, let alone make a living, among such\na dowdy lot of women-folk as they\u2019ve got over there. It isn\u2019t dresses\n_they_ want, but oat-sacks, and you wouldn\u2019t know the difference,\neither, when they\u2019d got them on.\u201d\n\nThe implication was obvious; and the women of Brine\u2019s Rip began to allow\nfor possible virtues in Miss Farrell. The postmistress declared there\nwas no harm in her, and even admitted that she might almost be called\ngood-looking \u201cif she hadn\u2019t such an _awful_ big mouth.\u201d\n\nI have said that all the male folk of Brine\u2019s Rip had capitulated\nimmediately to the summons of Mary Farrell\u2019s eyes. But there were two\nnotable exceptions\u2014Woolly Billy and Jim. Both Woolly Billy\u2019s flaxen mop\nof curls and the great curly black head of Jim, the dog, had turned away\ncoldly from Mary\u2019s first advances. Woolly Billy preferred men to women\nanyhow. And Jim was jealous of Tug Blackstock\u2019s devotion to the\npetticoated stranger.\n\nBut Mary Farrell knew how to manage children and dogs as well as men.\nShe ignored both Jim and Woolly Billy. She did it quite pointedly, yet\nwith a gracious politeness that left no room for resentment. Neither the\nchild nor the dog was accustomed to being ignored. Before long Mary\u2019s\namiable indifference began to make them feel as if they were being left\nout in the cold. They began to think they were losing something because\nshe did not notice them. Reluctantly at first, but by-and-by with\neagerness, they courted her attention. At last they gained it. It was\nundeniably pleasant. From that moment the child and the dog were at\nMary\u2019s well-shod and self-reliant little feet.\n\n\n                                   II\n\nAs summer wore on into autumn the dry weather turned to a veritable\ndrought, and all the streams ran lower and lower. Word came early that\nthe mills at Harner\u2019s Bend, over in the next valley, had been compelled\nto shut down for lack of logs. But Brine\u2019s Rip exulted unkindly. The\nOttanoonsis, fed by a group of cold spring lakes, maintained a steady\nflow; there were plenty of logs, and the mills had every prospect of\nworking full time all through the autumn. Presently they began to gather\nin big orders which would have gone otherwise to Harner\u2019s Bend. Brine\u2019s\nRip not only exulted, but took into itself merit. It felt that it must,\non general principles, have deserved well of Providence, for Providence\nso obviously to take sides with it.\n\nAs August drew to a dusty, choking end, Mary Farrell began to collect\nher accounts. Her tact and sympathy made this easy for her, and women\npaid up civilly enough who had never been known to do such a thing\nbefore, unless at the point of a summons. Mary said she was going to the\nStates, perhaps as far as New York itself, to renew her stock and study\nup the latest fashions.\n\nEvery one was much interested. Woolly Billy\u2019s eyes brimmed over at the\nprospect of her absence, but he was consoled by the promise of her\nspeedy return _with_ an air-gun and also a toy steam-engine that would\nreally go. As for Jim, his feathery black tail drooped in premonition of\na loss, but he could not gather exactly what was afoot. He was further\ntroubled by an unusual depression on the part of Tug Blackstock. The\nDeputy Sheriff seemed to have lost his zest in tracking down evil-doers.\n\nIt was nearing ten o\u2019clock on a hot and starless night. Tug Blackstock,\ntoo restless to sleep, wandered down to the silent mill with Jim at his\nheels. As he approached, Jim suddenly went bounding on ahead with a yelp\nof greeting. He fawned upon a small, shadowy figure which was seated on\na pile of deals close to the water\u2019s edge. Tug Blackstock hurried up.\n\n\u201cYou here, Mary, all alone, at this time o\u2019 night!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cI come here often,\u201d answered Mary, making room for him to sit beside\nher.\n\n\u201cI wish I\u2019d known it sooner,\u201d muttered the Deputy.\n\n\u201cI like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water\nslipping away blindly in the dark,\u201d said Mary. \u201cIt helps one not to\nthink,\u201d she added with a faint catch in her voice.\n\n\u201cWhy should _you_ not want to think, Mary?\u201d protested Blackstock.\n\n\u201cHow dreadfully dry everything is,\u201d replied Mary irrelevantly, as if\nheading Blackstock off. \u201cWhat if there should be a fire at the mill?\nWouldn\u2019t the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get\ncaught asleep in their beds. Oughtn\u2019t there to be more than one night\nwatchman in such dry weather as this? I\u2019ve so often heard of mills\ncatching fire\u2014though I don\u2019t see why they should, any more than houses.\u201d\n\n\u201cMills most generally git _set_ afire,\u201d answered the Deputy grimly.\n\u201cThink what it would mean to Harner\u2019s Bend if these mills should git\nburnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But\nyou\u2019re dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it\ndepends on the wind. This time o\u2019 year, an\u2019 as long as it keeps dry,\nwhat wind there is blows mostly _away_ from the houses, so sparks and\nbrands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should\nshift to the south\u2019ard, or thereabouts, yes, there\u2019d be more watchmen\nneeded. I s\u2019pose you\u2019re thinkin\u2019 about your shop while ye\u2019re away?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was thinking about Woolly Billy,\u201d said Mary gravely. \u201cWhat do I care\nabout the old shop? It\u2019s insured, anyway.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll look out for Woolly Billy,\u201d answered Blackstock. \u201cAnd I\u2019ll look\nout for the shop, whether _you_ care about it or not. It\u2019s yours, and\nyour name\u2019s on the door, and anything of yours, anything you\u2019ve touched,\nan\u2019 wherever you\u2019ve put your little foot, that\u2019s something for me to\ncare about. I ain\u2019t no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, or paying\ncompliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads are just\nwonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on \u2019em. Ef\nonly I could think that _you_ could care\u2014that I had anything, _was_\nanything, Mary, worth offering you\u2014\u201d\n\nHe had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his\ngreat arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,\u2014and for a moment,\nwith a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered against\nhim, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as he\nspoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away,\nsprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sob\nviolently.\n\nHe followed her at once. But she thrust out both hands.\n\n\u201cGo away. _Please_ don\u2019t come near me,\u201d she appealed, somewhat wildly.\n\u201cYou don\u2019t understand\u2014_anything_.\u201d\n\nTug Blackstock looked puzzled. He seated himself at a distance of\nseveral inches, and clasped his hands resolutely in his lap.\n\n\u201cOf course, I won\u2019t tech you, Mary,\u201d said he, \u201cif you don\u2019t want me to.\nI don\u2019t want to do _anything_ you don\u2019t want me to\u2014_never_, Mary. But I\nsure don\u2019t understand what you\u2019re crying for. _Please_ don\u2019t. I\u2019m so\nsorry I teched you, dear. But if you knew how I love you, how I would\ngive my life for you, I think you\u2019d forgive me, Mary.\u201d\n\nMary gave a bitter little laugh, and choked her sobs.\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t that, oh no, it isn\u2019t _that_!\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2014I _liked_ it.\nThere!\u201d she panted. Then she sprang to her feet and faced him. And in\nthe gloom he could see her eyes flaming with some intense excitement,\nfrom a face ghost-white.\n\n\u201cBut\u2014I won\u2019t let you make me love you, Tug Blackstock. I won\u2019t!\u2014I won\u2019t!\nI won\u2019t let you change all my plans, all my ambitions. I won\u2019t give up\nall I\u2019ve worked for and schemed for and sold my very soul for, just\nbecause at last I\u2019ve met a real man. Oh, I\u2019d soon spoil your life, no\nmatter how much you love me. You\u2019d soon find how cruel, and hard, and\nselfish I am. An\u2019 I\u2019d ruin my own life, too. Do you think I could settle\ndown to spend my life in the backwoods? Do you think I have no dreams\nbeyond the spruce woods of Nipsiwaska County? Do you think you could\nimprison _me_ in Brine\u2019s Rip? I\u2019d either kill your brave, clean soul,\nTug Blackstock, or I\u2019d kill myself!\u201d\n\nUtterly bewildered at this incomprehensible outburst, Blackstock could\nonly stammer lamely:\n\n\u201cBut\u2014I thought\u2014ye kind o\u2019 liked Brine\u2019s Rip.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Like_ it!\u201d The uttermost of scorn was in her voice. \u201cI hate, hate,\nhate it! I just live to get out into the great world, where I feel that\nI belong. But I must have money first. And I\u2019m going to study, and I\u2019m\ngoing to make myself somebody. I wasn\u2019t born for this.\u201d And she waved\nher hand with a sweep that took in all the backwoods world. \u201cI\u2019m getting\nout of it. It would drive me mad. Oh, I sometimes think it has already\ndriven me half mad.\u201d\n\nHer tense voice trailed off wearily, and she sat down again\u2014this time\nfurther away.\n\nBlackstock sat quite still for a time. At last he said gently:\n\n\u201cI do understand ye now, Mary.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou _don\u2019t_,\u201d interrupted Mary.\n\n\u201cI felt, all along, I was somehow not good enough for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a million miles _too_ good for me,\u201d she interrupted again,\nenergetically.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d he went on without heeding the protest, \u201cI hoped, somehow, that I\nmight be able to make you happy. An\u2019 that\u2019s what I want, more\u2019n anything\nelse in the world. All I have is at your feet, Mary, an\u2019 I could make it\nmore in time. But I\u2019m not a big enough man for you. I\u2019m all yours\u2014an\u2019\nalways will be\u2014but I can\u2019t make myself no more than I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you could, Tug Blackstock,\u201d she cried. \u201cReal men are scarce, in\nthe great world and everywhere. You could make yourself a master\nanywhere\u2014if only you would tear yourself loose from here.\u201d\n\nHe sprang up, and his arms went out as if to seize her. But, with an\neffort, he checked himself, and dropped them stiffly to his side.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m too old to change my spots, Mary,\u201d said he. \u201cI\u2019m stamped for good\nan\u2019 all. I _am_ some good here. I\u2019d be no good there. An\u2019 I won\u2019t never\nresk bein\u2019 a drag on yer plans.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could\u2014you could!\u201d urged Mary almost desperately.\n\nBut he turned away, with his lips set hard, not daring to look at her.\n\n\u201cEf ever ye git tired of it all out there, an\u2019 yer own kind calls ye\nback\u2014as it will, bein\u2019 in yer blood\u2014I\u2019ll be waitin\u2019 for ye, Mary,\nwhatever happens.\u201d\n\nHe strode off quickly up the shore. The girl stared after him till he\nwas quite out of sight, then buried her face in the fur of Jim, who had\nwillingly obeyed a sign from his master and remained at her side.\n\n\u201cOh, my dear, if only you could have dared,\u201d she murmured. At last she\njumped up, with an air of resolve, and wandered off, apparently\naimlessly, into the recesses of the mill, with one hand resting firmly\non Jim\u2019s collar.\n\n\n                                  III\n\nTwo days later Mary Farrell left Brine\u2019s Rip. She hugged and kissed\nWoolly Billy very hard before she left, and cried a little with him,\npretending to laugh, and she took her three big trunks with her, in the\nlong-bodied express waggon which carried the mails, although she said\nshe would not be gone more than a month at the outside.\n\nTug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His only\ncomfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary\u2019s little shop,\nwhich she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon had\nrattled and bumped away out of sight there was a general feeling in\nBrine\u2019s Rip that the whole place had gone flat, like stale beer, and the\nsaws did not seem to make as cheerful a shrieking as before, and Black\nSaunders, expert runner of logs as he was, fell in because he forgot to\nlook where he was going, and knocked his head heavily in falling, and\nwas almost drowned before they could fish him out.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s goin\u2019 to be some bad luck comin\u2019 to Brine\u2019s Rip afore long,\u201d\nremarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s come, Long,\u201d said the Deputy.\n\nThat same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills right\nacross the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except a\nfew light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About a\nweek later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from the\nvillage and straight across the river. And once more a single\nnight-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire.\n\nA little before daybreak on the second night following this change of\nwind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splash\nfrom the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gathered before\nbeing fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman\u2019s voice. As fast as he\ncould stumble over the intervening deals and rubbish he made his way to\nthe spot, waving his lantern and calling anxiously. There was no sign of\nany one in the water. As he searched he became conscious of a ruddy\nlight at one corner of the mill.\n\nHe turned and dashed back, yelling \u201cFire! Fire!\u201d at the top of his\nlungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other corners\nof the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemical extinguisher,\nyelling madly all the while. But he was already too late. The flames\nwere licking up the dry wood with furious appetite.\n\nIn almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole great\nstructure was ablaze, with all Brine\u2019s Rip, in every varying stage of\n_d\u00e9shabille_, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine worked\nheroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, and\nthen turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep them\ndrenched.\n\n\u201cThank God the wind\u2019s in the right direction,\u201d muttered Zeb Smith, the\nstorekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoed\nfervently through the crowd.\n\nIn the meantime, Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do in\nthe way of fighting the fire\u2014the mill being already devoured\u2014was\ninterviewing the distracted watchman.\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d he agreed, \u201cit _was_ a trick to git you away long enough for the\nfires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an\u2019 chucked in a big stick,\nthat\u2019s all. An\u2019, o\u2019 course, you run to help. You couldn\u2019t naturally do\nnothin\u2019 else.\u201d\n\nThe watchman heaved a huge sigh of relief. If Blackstock exonerated him\nfrom the charge of negligence, other people would. And his heart had\nbeen very heavy at being so fatally fooled.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s Harner\u2019s Bend all right, that\u2019s what it is!\u201d he muttered.\n\n\u201cEf only we could prove it,\u201d said Blackstock, searching the damp ground\nabout the edges of the pool, which was lighted now as by day. Presently\nhe saw Jim sniffing excitedly at some tracks. He hurried over to examine\nthem. Jim looked up at him and wagged his tail, as much as to say, \u201cSo\n_you\u2019ve_ found them, too! Interesting, ain\u2019t they?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ye make o\u2019 that?\u201d demanded Blackstock of the watchman.\n\n\u201c_Boy\u2019s_ tracks, sure,\u201d said the latter at once.\n\nThe footprints were small and neat. They were of a double-soled\nlarrigan, with a low heel of a single welt.\n\n\u201cNone of _our_ boys,\u201d said Blackstock, \u201cwear a larrigan like that,\nespecially this time o\u2019 year. One could run light in that larrigan, an\u2019\nthe sole\u2019s thick enough to save the foot. An\u2019 it\u2019s good for a canoe,\ntoo.\u201d\n\nHe rubbed his chin, thinking hard.\n\n\u201cYesterday,\u201d said the watchman, \u201cI mind seem\u2019 a young half-breed, he\nlooked like a slip of a lad, very dark complected, crossin\u2019 the road\nhalf-a-mile up yonder. He was out o\u2019 sight in a second, like a shadder,\nbut I mind noticin\u2019 he had on larrigans\u2014an\u2019 a brown slouch hat down over\nhis eyes, an\u2019 a dark red handkerchief roun\u2019 his neck. He was a stranger\nin these parts.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would account for the voice, like a woman\u2019s,\u201d said Blackstock,\nfollowing the tracks till they plunged through a tangle of tall bush.\n\u201cAn\u2019 here\u2019s the handkerchief,\u201d he added triumphantly, grabbing up a dark\nred thing that fluttered from a branch. \u201cHarner\u2019s Bend knows somethin\u2019\nabout that boy, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019. Now, Bill, you go along back, an\u2019 don\u2019t\nsay nothin\u2019 about this, _mind_! Me an\u2019 Jim, we\u2019ll look into it. Tell old\nMrs. Amos and Woolly Billy not to fret. We\u2019ll be back soon.\u201d\n\nHe slipped the leash into Jim\u2019s collar, gave him the red handkerchief to\nsmell, and said, \u201cSeek him, Jim.\u201d And Jim set off eagerly, tugging at\nthe leash, because the trail was so fresh and plain to him, and he hated\nto be held back.\n\nThe trail led around behind the village, and back to the river bank\nabout a mile below. There it followed straight down the shore. It was\nevident to Blackstock that his quarry would have a canoe in hiding some\ndistance further down. There was no time to be lost. It was now almost\nfull daybreak, and he could follow the trail by himself. After all, it\nwas only a boy he had to deal with. He could trust Jim to delay him, to\nhold him at bay. He loosed the leash, and Jim bounded forward at top\nspeed. He himself followed at a leisurely loping stride.\n\nAs he trotted on, thinking of many things, he took out the red\nhandkerchief and examined it again. He smelt it curiously. His nose was\nkeen, like a wild animal\u2019s. As he sniffed, a pang went through him,\nclutching at his heart. He sniffed again. His long stride shortened. He\ndropped into a walk. He thought over, word by word, his conversation\nwith Mary that night beside the mill. His face went grey. After a brief\nstruggle he shouted to Jim, trying to call him back. But the eager dog\nwas already far beyond hearing. Then Blackstock broke into a desperate\nrun, shouting from time to time. He thought of Jim\u2019s ferocity when on\nthe trail.\n\nMeanwhile, the figure of a slim boy, very light of foot, was speeding\nfar down the river bank, clutching a brown slouch hat in one hand as he\nran. He had an astonishing crop of hair, wound in tight coils about his\nhead. He was panting heavily, and seemed nearly spent. At last he\nhalted, drew a deep sigh of relief, pressed his hands to his heart, and\nplunged into a clump of bushes. In the depth of the bushes lay a small\nbirch-bark canoe, carefully concealed. He tugged at it, but for the\nmoment he was too weary to lift it. He flung himself down beside it to\ntake breath.\n\nIn the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding down the\nshore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big black dog was\ngalloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouth set itself\nso hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edge of the\nbushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe.\n\n\u201cJim,\u201d said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged in\nthrough the bushes. The youth\u2019s stern lips relaxed. He slipped the knife\nback into its sheath, and fondled the dog, which was fawning upon him\neagerly.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019d never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I\u2019d done?\u201d\nsaid he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his lithe\nyoung body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water\u2019s\nedge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, where Jim\nhad been licking it.\n\nBefore stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap of\npaper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something,\nsealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it \u201cprivate,\u201d and gave it\nto Jim, who took it in his mouth.\n\n\u201cGive that to Tug Blackstock,\u201d ordered the youth clearly. Then he kissed\nthe top of Jim\u2019s black head, pushed off, and paddled away swiftly down\nriver. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shore at a gallop to\nmeet his master.\n\nHalf-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim\u2019s\nmouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty. He\ntore open the letter. It said:\n\nYes, I did it. I had to do it. But _you_ could have saved me, if you\u2019d\n_dared_\u2014for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.\u2014Mary.\n\nA month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containing\nan air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But it\ncontained no address. And Brine\u2019s Rip said that Tug Blackstock had been\nbested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out who burnt\ndown the mills.\n\n\n\n\n                   VI. THE MAN WITH THE DANCING BEAR\n\n\n                                   I\n\nOne day there arrived at Brine\u2019s Rip Mills, driving in a smart trap\nwhich looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, an\nimposing gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan,\ngauntleted gloves, immaculate linen, shining boots, and a well-fitting\nmorning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminations\nof travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocle so\nsecurely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had been born\nthere.\n\nHis red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust of\nthe village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like wooden\nstructure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of the\nCONTINENTAL HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so he\nsat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience, for some one to come\nout to him.\n\nIn a few moments the landlord strolled forth in his shirt-sleeves,\nchewing tobacco, and inquired casually what he could do for his visitor.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m looking for Mr. Blackstock\u2014Mr. J. T. Blackstock,\u201d said the stranger\nwith lofty politeness. \u201cWill you be so good as to direct me to him?\u201d\n\nThe landlord spat thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he was not\nunduly impressed by the stranger\u2019s appearance.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder,\u201d he\nanswered, pointing with his thumb. \u201cLast house towards the river. Lives\nwith old Mrs. Amos\u2014him an\u2019 Woolly Billy.\u201d\n\nThe stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in front\nof the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman, with\nkind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitual concentration,\nappeared in the doorway and gave him courteous greeting.\n\n\u201cMr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say,\u201d returned\nthe stranger with extreme affability, descending from the trap.\n\n\u201cThe same,\u201d assented Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch the horse to\na fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring the\nresplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock\u2019s side to superintend the\nhitching. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shock of\npale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped to stare\nat the visitor.\n\nThe latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny, swift and intent,\nthen turned to his host.\n\n\u201cI am extraordinarily glad to meet you, Mr. Blackstock,\u201d he said,\nholding out his hand. \u201cIf, as I surmise, the name of this little boy\nhere is Master George Harold Manners Watson, then I owe you a debt of\ngratitude which nothing can repay. I hear that you not only saved his\nlife, but have been as a father to him, ever since the death of his own\nunhappy father.\u201d\n\nBlackstock\u2019s heart contracted. He accepted the stranger\u2019s hand cordially\nenough, but was in no hurry to reply. At last he said slowly:\n\n\u201cYes, Stranger, you\u2019ve got Woolly Billy\u2019s reel name all O. K. But why\nshould _you_ thank me? Whatever I\u2019ve done, it\u2019s been for Woolly Billy\u2019s\nown sake\u2014ain\u2019t it, Billy?\u201d\n\nFor answer, Woolly Billy snuggled up against his side and clutched his\ngreat brown hand adoringly, while still keeping dubious eyes upon the\nstranger.\n\nThe latter took off his gloves, laughing amiably.\n\n\u201cWell, you see, Mr. Blackstock, I\u2019m only his uncle, and his only uncle\nat that. So I have a right to thank you, and I see by the way the child\nclings to you how good you\u2019ve been to him. My name is J. Heathington\nJohnson, of Heathington Hall, Cramley, Blankshire. I\u2019m his mother\u2019s\nbrother. And I fear I shall have to tear him away from you in a great\nhurry, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome inside, Mr. Johnson,\u201d said Blackstock, \u201can\u2019 sit down. We must talk\nthis over a bit. It is kind o\u2019 sudden, you see.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to seem unsympathetic,\u201d said the visitor kindly, \u201cand I\nknow my little nephew is going to resent my carrying him off.\u201d (At these\nwords Woolly Billy began to realize what was in the air, and clung to\nBlackstock with a storm of frightened tears.) \u201cBut you will understand\nthat I have to catch the next boat from New York\u2014and I have a\nthirty-mile drive before me now to the nearest railway station. _You_\nknow what the roads are! So I\u2019m sure you won\u2019t think me unreasonable if\nI ask you to get my nephew ready as soon as possible.\u201d\n\nBlackstock devoted a few precious moments to quieting the child\u2019s sobs\nbefore replying. He remembered having found out in some way, from some\npapers in the drowned Englishman\u2019s pockets or somewhere, that the name\nof Woolly Billy\u2019s mother, before her marriage, was not Johnson, but\nO\u2019Neil. Of course that discrepancy, he realized, might be easily\nexplained, but his quick suspicions, sharpened by his devotion to the\nchild, were aroused.\n\n\u201cWe are not a rich family, by any means, Mr. Blackstock,\u201d continued the\nstranger, after a pause. \u201cBut we have enough to be able to reward\nhandsomely those who have befriended us. All _possible_ expense that my\nnephew may have been to you, I want to reimburse you for at once. And I\nwish also to make you a present as an expression of my gratitude\u2014not, I\nassure you, as a payment,\u201d he added, noticing that Blackstock\u2019s face had\nhardened ominously. He took out a thick bill-book, well stuffed with\nbank-notes.\n\n\u201cPut away your money, Mr. Johnson,\u201d said Blackstock coldly. \u201cI ain\u2019t\ntaking any, thank you, for what I may have done for Woolly Billy. But\nwhat I want to know is, what authority have you to demand the child?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m his uncle, his mother\u2019s brother,\u201d answered the stranger sharply,\ndrawing himself up.\n\n\u201cThat may be, an\u2019 then again, it mayn\u2019t,\u201d said Blackstock. \u201cDo you think\nI\u2019m goin\u2019 to hand over the child to a perfect stranger, just because he\ncomes and says he\u2019s the child\u2019s uncle? What proofs have you?\u201d\n\nThe visitor glared angrily, but restrained himself and handed Blackstock\nhis card.\n\nBlackstock read it carefully.\n\n\u201cWhat does that prove?\u201d he demanded sarcastically. \u201cIt might not be your\ncard! An\u2019 even if you are \u2018Mr. Johnson\u2019 all right, that\u2019s not proving\nthat Mr. Johnson is the little feller\u2019s uncle! I want legal proof, that\nwould hold in a court of law.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou insolent blockhead!\u201d exclaimed the visitor. \u201cHow dare you interfere\nbetween my nephew and me? If you don\u2019t hand him over at once, I will\nmake you smart for it. Come, child, get your cap and coat, and come with\nme immediately. I have no more time to waste with this foolery, my man.\u201d\nAnd he stepped forward as if to lay hands on Woolly Billy.\n\nBlackstock interposed an inexorable shoulder. The big dog growled, and\nstiffened up the hair on his neck ominously.\n\n\u201cLook here,\u201d said Blackstock crisply, \u201cyou\u2019re goin\u2019 to git yourself into\ntrouble before you go much further, my lad. You jest mind your manners.\nWhen you bring me them proofs, I\u2019ll talk to you, see!\u201d\n\nHe took Woolly Billy\u2019s hand, and turned towards the door.\n\nThe stranger\u2019s righteous indignation, strangely enough, seemed to have\nbeen allayed by this speech. He followed eagerly.\n\n\u201c_Don\u2019t_ be unreasonable, Mr. Blackstock,\u201d he coaxed. \u201cI\u2019ll send you the\ndocuments, from my solicitors, at once. I\u2019m sure you don\u2019t want to stand\nin the dear child\u2019s light this way, and prevent him getting back to his\nown people, and the life that is his right, a day longer than is\nnecessary. Do listen to reason, now.\u201d And he patted his wad of\nbank-notes suggestively.\n\nBut at this stage, Woolly Billy and the big dog having already entered\nthe cottage, Blackstock followed, and calmly shut the door. \u201cYou\u2019ll\nsmart for this, you ignorant clod-hopper!\u201d shouted Mr. Heathington\nJohnson. He clutched the door-knob. But for all his rage, prudence came\nto his rescue. He did not turn the knob. After a moment\u2019s hesitation he\nground his heel upon the doorstep, stalked back to his gig, and drove\noff furiously. The three at the window watched his going.\n\n\u201cWe won\u2019t see _him_ back here again,\u201d remarked the Deputy. \u201c_He_ wasn\u2019t\nno uncle o\u2019 yours, Woolly Billy.\u201d\n\nThat same evening he wrote to a reliable firm of lawyers at Exville,\ntelling them all he knew about Woolly Billy and Woolly Billy\u2019s father,\nand also all he suspected, and instructed them to look into the matter\nfully.\n\n\n                                   II\n\nSeveral weeks went by, and the imposing stranger, as Blackstock had\nanticipated, failed to return with his proofs. Then came a letter from\nthe lawyers at Exville, saying that they had something important to\ncommunicate, and Blackstock hurried off to see them, planning to be away\nfor about a week.\n\nOn the day following his departure, to the delight of all the children\nand of most of the rest of the population as well, there arrived at\nBrine\u2019s Rip Mills a man with a dancing bear. He was a black-eyed,\nswarthy, merry fellow, with a most infectious laugh, and besides his\ntrained bear he possessed a pedlar\u2019s pack containing all sorts of\nup-to-date odds and ends, not by any means to be found in the very\nutilitarian miscellany of Zeb Smith\u2019s corner store.\n\nHe talked a rather musical but very broken lingo that passed for\nEnglish, flashing a mouthful of splendid white teeth as he did so. He\nappeared to be an Italian, and the men of Brine\u2019s Rip christened him a\n\u201cDago\u201d at once. There was no resisting his childlike _bonhomie_, or the\namiable antics of his great brown bear, which grinned through its muzzle\nas if dancing to its master\u2019s merry piccolo were its one delight in\nlife. And the two did a roaring business from the moment they came\nstrolling into Brine\u2019s Rip.\n\n\u201cTony\u201d was what the laughing vagabond called himself, and his bear\nanswered to the name of Beppo. Business being so good, Tony could afford\nto be generous, and he was continually pressing peppermint lozenges upon\nthe rabble of children who formed a triumphal procession for him\nwherever he moved.\n\nWhen Tony\u2019s eyes first fell on Woolly Billy, standing just outside the\ncrowd, with one arm over the neck of the big black dog, he was\ndelighted.\n\n\u201cCom-a here, Bambino, com-a quick!\u201d he cried, holding out some\npeppermints. Woolly Billy liked him at once, and adored the bear, but\nwas too shy, or reserved, to push his way through the other children. So\nTony came to him, leading the bear. Woolly Billy stood his ground, with\na welcoming smile. The big black dog growled doubtfully, and then lost\nhis doubts in curious admiration of the bear, which plainly fascinated\nhim.\n\nWoolly Billy accepted the peppermints politely, and put one into his\nmouth without delay. Then, with an apologetic air, the Italian laid one\nfinger softly on Woolly Billy\u2019s curls, and drew back at once, as if\nfearing he had taken a liberty.\n\n\u201cJim likes the bear, sir, _doesn\u2019t_ he?\u201d suggested Woolly Billy, to make\nconversation.\n\n\u201cEverybody he like-a ze bear. Him vaira good bear,\u201d asserted the bear\u2019s\nmaster, and laughed again, giving the bear a peppermint. \u201cAn\u2019 you one\nvaira good bambino. Ze bear, he like-a you vaira much. See he shak-a you\nze hand\u2014good frens now.\u201d\n\nEncouraged by the warmth of his welcome, the Italian had from the first\nmade a practice of dropping in at certain houses of the village just at\nmeal times\u2014when he was received always with true backwoods hospitality.\nOn Woolly Billy\u2019s invitation he had come to the house of Mrs. Amos. The\nold lady, too rheumatic to get about much out of doors, was delighted\nwith such a unique and amusing guest. To all he said\u2014which, indeed, she\nnever more than half understood\u2014she kept ejaculating, \u201cWell, I never!\u201d\nand \u201cDid ye ever hear the likes o\u2019 that?\u201d\n\nAnd the bear, chained to the gate-post and devouring her\npancakes-and-molasses, thrilled her with a sense of \u201cfurrin parts.\u201d In\nfact, there was no other house at Brine\u2019s Rip where Tony and his bear\nwere made more warmly welcome than at Mrs. Amos\u2019. The only member of the\nhousehold who lacked cordiality was Jim, whose coolness towards Tony,\nhowever, was fully counterbalanced by his interest in the bear. Towards\nTony his attitude was one of armed neutrality.\n\nOn the fourth evening after the arrival of Tony and Beppo, Jim\ndiscovered a most tempting lump of meat in the corner of Mrs. Amos\u2019\ngarden. Having something of an appetite at the moment, he was just about\nto bolt the morsel. But no sooner had he set his teeth into it than he\nconceived a prejudice against it. He dropped it, and sniffed at it\nintently. The smell was quite all right. He turned it over with his paw\nand sniffed at the under side. No, there was nothing the matter with it.\nNevertheless, his appetite had quite vanished. Well, it would do for\nanother time. He dug a hole and buried the morsel, and then went back to\nthe house to see what Woolly Billy and Mrs. Amos were doing.\n\nA little later, just as Mrs. Amos was lighting the lamps in the kitchen,\nthe rattling of a chain was heard outside, followed by the whimpering of\nBeppo, who objected to being tied up to the gate-post when he wanted to\ncome in and beg for pancakes. Woolly Billy ran to the door and peered\nforth into the dusk. After a few moments Tony entered, all his teeth\nagleam in his expansive smile.\n\nHe had a little bag of bon-bons for Woolly Billy\u2014something much more\nfascinating than peppermints\u2014which he doled out to the child one by one,\nas a rare treat. And for himself he wanted a cup of tea, which\nhospitable Mrs. Amos was only too eager to brew for him. Jim, seeing\nthat Woolly Billy was too interested to need _his_ company, got up and\nwent out to inspect the bear.\n\nTony was in gay spirits that evening. In his broken English, and helping\nout his meaning with eloquent gestures, he told of adventures which made\nWoolly Billy\u2019s eyes as round as saucers and reduced Mrs. Amos to\nadmiring speechlessness. He made Mrs. Amos drink tea with him, pouring\nit out for her himself while she hobbled about to find him something to\neat. And once in a while, at tantalizing intervals, he allowed Woolly\nBilly one more bon-bon.\n\nThere was a chill in the night air, so Tony, who was always politeness\nitself, asked leave to close the door. Mrs. Amos hastened also to close\nthe window. Or, rather, she tried to hasten, but made rather a poor\nattempt, and sat down heavily in the big arm-chair beside it.\n\n\u201cMy legs is that heavy,\u201d she explained, laughing apologetically. So Tony\nclosed the window himself, and at the same time drew the curtains. Then\nhe went on talking.\n\nBut apparently his conversation was less interesting than it had been.\nThere came a snore from Mrs. Amos\u2019 big chair. Tony glanced aside at\nWoolly Billy, as if expecting the child to laugh. But Woolly Billy took\nno notice of the sound. He was fast asleep, his fluffy fair head fallen\nforward upon the red table-cloth.\n\nTony looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was not as late as he\ncould have wished, but he had observed that Brine\u2019s Rip went to bed\nearly. He turned the lamp low, softly raised the window, and looked out,\nlistening. There were no lights in the village, and all was silence save\nfor the soft roar of the Rip. He extinguished the lamp, and waited a few\nmoments till his eyes got quite accustomed to the gloom.\n\nAt length he picked up the slight form of Woolly Billy (who was now in a\ndrugged stupor from which he would not awake for hours), and slung him\nover his left shoulder. In his right hand he grasped his short\nbear-whip, with its loaded butt. He stepped noiselessly to the door,\nlistened a few moments, and then opened it inch by inch with his left\nhand, standing behind it, and grasping the whip so as to be ready to\nstrike with the butt. He was wondering where the big black dog was.\n\nThe door was about half open, when a black shape, appearing suddenly,\nlaunched itself at the opening. The loaded butt came crashing down\u2014and\nJim dropped sprawling across the threshold.\n\nFrom the back of the bear Tony now unfastened a small pack, and strapped\nit over his right shoulder. Then he unchained the great beast\nnoiselessly, and led it off to the water-side, to a spot where a heavy\nlog canoe was drawn up upon the beach. He hauled the canoe down, making\nmuch disarrangement in the gravel, launched it, thrust it far out into\nthe water, and noted it being carried away by the current. He had no\nwish to journey by that route himself, knowing that as soon as the crime\nwas discovered, which might chance at any moment, the telephone would\ngive the alarm all down the river.\n\nNext he undid the bear\u2019s chain, and took off its muzzle, and threw them\nboth into the water, knowing that when freed from these badges of\nservitude the animal would wander further and more freely. At first the\ngood-natured creature was unwilling to leave him. Its master, from\npolicy, had always treated it kindly, and fed it well, and it was in no\nhurry to profit by its freedom.\n\nHowever, the man ordered it off towards the woods, enforcing the command\nby a vigorous push and a stroke of the whip. Shaking itself till it\nrealized its freedom, it slouched away a few paces down stream, then\nturned into the woods. The man listened to its careless, crashing\nprogress.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ll find it easy following _that_ trail,\u201d he muttered with\nsatisfaction.\n\nAssured that he had thus thrown out two false trails to distract\npursuers, the man now stepped into the water, and walked up stream for\nseveral hundred yards, till he reached the spot which served as a ferry\nlanding. Here, in the multiplicity of footprints, he knew his own would\nbe indistinguishable to even the keenest of backwood eyes. He came\nashore, slipped through the slumbering village, and plunged into the\nwoods with the assurance of one to whom their mysteries were an open\nbook.\n\nHe was shaping his course\u2014by the stars at present, but by compass when\nit should become necessary\u2014for an inlet on the coast, where there would\nbe a sturdy fishing-smack awaiting him and his rich prize. All was\nworking smoothly\u2014as most plans were apt to work under his swift,\nresourceful hands\u2014and his hard lips relaxed in triumphant\nself-satisfaction. One of the most accomplished and relentless of the\ndesperadoes of the Great North-West, he had peculiarly enjoyed his pose\nas the childlike Tony.\n\nFor hour after hour he pushed on, till even his untiring sinews began to\nprotest. About the edge of dawn Woolly Billy awoke, but, still stupid\nwith the heavy drugging he had received, he did not seem to realize what\nhad happened. He cried a little, asking for Jim, and for Tug Blackstock,\nand for Mrs. Amos, but was pacified by the most trivial excuses. The man\ngave him some sweet biscuits, but he refused to eat them, leaving them\non the moss beside him. He hardly protested even when the man cut off\nhis bright hair, and proceeded to darken what was left with some\nqueer-smelling dye.\n\nWhen the man undressed him and proceeded to stain his face and his whole\nbody, he apparently thought he was being got ready for bed, and to\ncertain terrible threats as to what would happen if he tried to get\naway, or to tell any one anything, he paid no attention whatever. He\nwent to sleep again in the middle of it all.\n\nSatisfied with his job, the man lay down beside him, knowing himself\nsecure from pursuit, and went to sleep himself.\n\nMeanwhile, after lying motionless for several hours, where he had\ndropped across the threshold, Jim at last began to stir. That crashing\nblow, after all, had not fallen quite true. Jim was not dead, by any\nmeans. He staggered to his feet, swayed a few moments, and then, for all\nthe pain in his head, he was practically himself again. He went into the\ncottage, tried in vain to awaken Mrs. Amos in her chair, hunted for\nWoolly Billy in his bed, and at last, realizing something of what had\nhappened, rushed forth in a panic of rage and fear and grief, and\nremorse for a trust betrayed.\n\nIt was a matter of a few minutes to trail the party down to the\nwaterside. Then he darted off after the bear. The latter, grubbing\ndelightedly in a rotten stump, greeted him with a friendly \u201cWoof.\u201d A\nglance and a sniff satisfied Jim that Woolly Billy was not there, and\nhis instinct assured him that the bear was void of offence in the whole\nmatter. He knew the enemy. He darted back to the waterside, ran on up\nstream to the ferry-landing, picked up the trail of Tony\u2019s feet,\nfollowed it unerringly through the confusion of other footprints, and\ndarted silently into the woods in pursuit.\n\nAt daybreak an early riser, seeing the door of Mrs. Amos\u2019 cottage\nstanding open, looked in and saw the old lady still asleep in her chair.\nShe was awakened with difficulty, and could give but a vague account of\nwhat had happened. The whole village turned out. Under the leadership of\nLong Jackson, the big mill-hand who constituted himself Woolly Billy\u2019s\nspecial guardian in Blackstock\u2019s absence, the \u201cDago\u201d and bear were\ntraced down to the waterside.\n\nOf course, it was clear to almost every one that the \u201cDago\u201d\u2014who was now\ndue for lynching when caught\u2014had carried Woolly Billy off down river in\nthe vanished canoe. Instantly the telephones were brought into service,\nand half-a-dozen expert canoeists, in the swiftest canoes to be had,\nstarted off in pursuit. But the more astute of the woods-men\u2014including\nLong Jackson himself\u2014held that this river clue was a false one, a ruse\nto put them off the track. This group went after the bear.\n\nIn an hour or two they found him. And very glad to see them he appeared\nto be. He was getting hungry, and a bit lonely. So without waiting for\nan invitation, with touching confidence he attached himself to the\nparty, and accompanied it back to the village. There Big Andy, who had\nalways had a weakness for bears, took him home and fed him and shut him\nup in the back yard.\n\nIn the meantime Jim, travelling at a speed that the fugitive could not\nhope to rival, had come soon after daybreak to the spot where the man\nand Woolly Billy lay asleep.\n\nHe arrived as soundlessly as a shadow. At sight of his enemy\u2014for he knew\nwell who had carried off the child, and who had dealt that almost fatal\nblow\u2014his long white fangs bared in a silent snarl of hate. But he had\nlearnt, well learnt, that this man was a dangerous antagonist. He\ncrouched, stiffened as if to stone, and surveyed the situation.\n\nHis sensitive nose prevented him from being quite deceived by the\ntransformation in Woolly Billy\u2019s appearance. He was puzzled by it, but\nhe had no doubt as to the child\u2019s identity. Having satisfied himself\nthat the little fellow was asleep, and therefore presumably safe for the\nmoment, he turned his attention to his enemy.\n\nThe man was sleeping almost on his back, one arm thrown above his head,\nhis chin up, his brown, sinewy throat exposed. That bare throat riveted\nJim\u2019s vengeful gaze. He knew well that the man, though asleep and at an\nutter disadvantage, was the most dangerous adversary he could possibly\ntackle.\n\nStep by step, so lightly, so smoothly, that not a twig crackled under\nhis feet, he crept up, his muzzle outstretched, his fangs gleaming, the\nhair rising along his back. When he was within a couple of paces of his\ngoal, the sleeper stirred slightly, as if about to wake up, or growing\nconscious of danger. Instantly Jim sprang, and sank his fangs deep,\ndeep, into his enemy\u2019s throat.\n\nWith a shriek the sleeper awoke, flinging wide his arms and legs\nconvulsively. But the shriek was strangled at its birth, as Jim\u2019s\nimplacable teeth crunched closer. The great dog shook his victim as a\nterrier shakes a rat. There was a choked gurgle, and the threshing arms\nand legs lay still.\n\nJim continued his savage shaking till satisfied his foe was quite dead.\nThen he let go, and turned his attention to Woolly Billy.\n\nThe child was sitting up, staring at him with round eyes of question and\nbewilderment.\n\n\u201cWhere am I, Jim?\u201d he demanded. Then he gazed at the transformation in\nhimself\u2014his clothes and his stained hands. He saw his old clothes tossed\naside, his curls lying near them in a bright, fluffy heap. He felt his\ncropped head. And then his brain began to clear. He had a dim memory of\nthe man cutting his hair and changing his clothes.\n\nUpon his first glimpse of the man, lying there dead and covered with\nblood, he felt a sharp pang of sorrow. He had liked Tony. But the pang\npassed, as he began to understand. If _Jim_ had killed Tony, Tony must\nhave been bad. It was evident that Tony had carried him off, and that\nJim had come to save him. Jim was licking his face now, rapturously, and\nevidently coaxing him to get up and come away.\n\nHe flung his arms around Jim\u2019s neck. Then he saw the biscuits. He\ndivided them evenly between himself and Jim, and ate his portion with\ngood appetite. Jim would not touch his share, so Woolly Billy tucked\nthem into his pocket. Then he got up and followed where Jim was trying\nto lead him, keeping his face averted from the terrible, bleeding thing\nsprawled there upon the moss. And Jim led him safely home.\n\nWhen Tug Blackstock, two days later, returned from his visit to Exville,\nhe brought news which explained why a certain gang of criminals had\nplanned to get possession of Woolly Billy. The child had fallen heir to\nan immense property in England, and an ancient title, and he was to have\nbeen held for ransom. From that moment Blackstock never let him out of\nhis sight, until, with a heavy heart, he handed him over to his own\npeople.\n\nThereafter, as he sat brooding on a log beside the noisy river, with Jim\nstretched at his feet, Tug Blackstock felt that Brine\u2019s Rip, for the\nlack of a childish voice and a head of flaxen curls, had lost all savour\nfor him. And his thoughts turned more and more towards the arguments of\na grey-eyed girl, who had urged him to seek a wider sphere for his\nenergies than the confines of Nipsiwaska County could afford.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE EAGLE\n\n\nHe sat upon the very topmost perch under the open-work dome of his\nspacious and lofty cage. This perch was one of three or four lopped\nlimbs jutting from a dead tree-trunk erected in the centre of the cage\u2014a\nperch far other than that great branch of thunder-blasted pine,\nout-thrust from the seaward-facing cliff, whereon he had been wont to\nsit in his own land across the ocean.\n\nHe sat with his snowy, gleaming, flat-crowned head drawn back between\nthe dark shoulders of his slightly uplifted wings. His black and yellow\neyes, unwinking, bright and hard like glass, stared out from under his\noverhanging brows with a kind of darting and defiant inquiry quite\nunlike their customary expression of tameless despair. That dull world\noutside the bars of his cage, that hated, gaping, inquisitive world\nwhich he had ever tried to ignore by staring at the sun or gazing into\nthe deeps of sky overhead, how it had changed since yesterday! The\ncurious crowds, the gabbling voices were gone. Even the high buildings\nof red brick or whitish-grey stone, beyond the iron palings of the park,\nwere going, toppling down with a slow, dizzy lurch, or leaping suddenly\ninto the air with a roar and a huge belch of brown and orange smoke and\nscarlet flame. Here and there he saw men running wildly. Here and there\nhe saw other men lying quite still\u2014sprawling, inert shapes on the\nclose-cropped grass, or the white asphalted walks, or the tossed\npavement of the street. He knew that these inert, sprawling shapes were\nmen, and that the men were dead; and the sight filled his exile heart\nwith triumph. Men were his enemies, his gaolers, his opponents, and now\nat last\u2014he knew not how\u2014he was tasting vengeance. The once smooth green\nturf around his cage was becoming pitted with strange yellow-brown\nholes. These holes, he had noticed, always appeared after a burst of\nterrific noise, and livid flame, and coloured smoke, followed by a\nshower of clods and pebbles, and hard fragments which sometimes flew\nright through his cage with a vicious hum. There was a deadly force in\nthese humming fragments. He knew it, for his partner in captivity, a\ngolden eagle of the Alps, had been hit by one of them, and now lay dead\non the littered floor below him, a mere heap of bloody feathers. Certain\nof the iron bars of the cage, too, had been struck and cut through, as\nneatly as his own hooked beak would sever the paw of a rabbit.\n\nThe air was full of tremendous crashing, buffeting sounds and sudden\nfierce gusts, which forced him to tighten the iron grip of his talons\nupon the perch. In the centre of the little park pond, some fifty feet\nfrom his cage, clustered a panic-stricken knot of eight or ten fancy\nducks and two pairs of red-billed coot, all that remained of the flock\nof water-birds which had formerly screamed and gabbled over the pool.\nThis little cluster was in a state of perpetual ferment, those on the\noutside struggling to get into the centre, those on the inside striving\nto keep their places. From time to time one or two on the outer ring\nwould dive under and force their way up in the middle of the press,\nwhere they imagined themselves more secure. But presently they would\nfind themselves on the outside again, whereupon, in frantic haste, they\nwould repeat the man\u0153uvre. The piercing glance of the eagle took in and\ndismissed this futile panic with immeasurable scorn. With like scorn,\ntoo, he noted the three gaunt cranes which had been wont to stalk so\narrogantly among the lesser fowl and drive them from their meals. These\nonce domineering birds were now standing huddled, their drooped heads\nclose together, beneath a dense laurel thicket just behind the cage,\ntheir long legs quaking at every explosion.\n\nAmid all this destroying tumult and flying death the eagle had no fear.\nHe was merely excited by it. If a fragment of shell sang past his head,\nhe never flinched, his level stare never even filmed or wavered. The\nroar and crash, indeed, and the monstrous bufferings of tormented air,\nseemed to assuage the long ache of his home-sickness. They reminded him\nof the hurricane racing past his ancient pine, of the giant waves\nshattering themselves with thunderous jar upon the cliff below. From\ntime to time, as if his nerves were straining with irresistible\nexultation, he would lift himself to his full height, half spread his\nwings, stretch forward his gleaming white neck, and give utterance to a\nshort, strident, yelping cry. Then he would settle back upon his perch\nagain, and resume his fierce contemplation of the ruin that was falling\non the city.\n\nSuddenly an eleven-inch shell dropped straight in the centre of the pool\nand exploded on the concrete bottom which underlay the mud. Half the\npool went up in the colossal eruption of blown flame and steam and\nsmoke. Even here on his perch the eagle found himself spattered and\ndrenched. When the shrunken surface of the pool had closed again over\nthe awful vortex, and the smoke had drifted off to join itself to the\ndark cloud which hung over the city, the little flock of ducks and coot\nwas nowhere to be seen. It simply was not. But a bleeding fragment of\nflesh, with some purple-and-chestnut feathers clinging to it, lay upon\nthe bottom of the cage. This morsel caught the eagle\u2019s eye. He had been\nforgotten for the past two days\u2014the old one-legged keeper of the cages\nhaving vanished\u2014and he was ravenous with hunger. He hopped down briskly\nto the floor, grabbed the morsel, and gulped it. Then he looked around\nhopefully for more. There were no more such opportune tit-bits within\nthe cage, but just outside he saw the half of a big carp, which had been\ntorn in twain by a caprice of the explosion and tossed up here upon the\ngrass. This was just such a morsel as he was craving. He thrust one\ngreat talon out between the bars and clutched at the prize. But it was\nbeyond his reach. Disappointed, he tried the other claw, balancing\nhimself on one leg with widespread wings. Stretch and struggle as he\nwould, it was all in vain. The fish lay too far off. Then he tried\nreaching through the bars with his head. He elongated his neck till he\nalmost thought he was a heron, and till his great beak was snapping\nhungrily within an inch or two of the prize. But not a hair\u2019s-breadth\ncloser could he get. At last, in a cold fury, he gave it up, and drew\nback, and shook himself to rearrange the much dishevelled feathers of\nhis neck.\n\nJust at this moment, while he was still on the floor of the cage, a\nhigh-velocity shell came by. With its flat trajectory it passed just\noverhead, swept the dome of the cage clean out of existence, and whizzed\nonwards to explode, with a curious grunting crash, some hundreds of\nyards beyond. The eagle looked up and gazed for some seconds before\nrealizing that his prison was no longer a prison. The path was clear\nabove him to the free spaces of the air. But he was in no unseemly\nhaste. His eye measured accurately the width of the exit, and saw that\nit was awkwardly narrow for his great spread of wing. He could not essay\nit directly from the ground, his quarters being too straitened for free\nflight. Hopping upwards from limb to limb of the roosting-tree, he\nregained the topmost perch, and found that, though split by a stray\nsplinter of the cage, it was still able to bear his weight. From this\npoint he sprang straight upwards, with one beat of his wings. But the\nwing-tips struck violently against each side of the opening, and he was\nthrown back with such force that only by a furious flopping and struggle\ncould he regain his footing on the perch.\n\nAfter this unexpected rebuff he sat quiet for perhaps half a minute,\nstaring fixedly at the exit. He was not going to fail again through\nmisjudgment. The straight top of the roosting-tree extended for about\nthree feet above his perch, but this extension being of no use to him,\nhe had never paid any heed to it hitherto. Now, however, he marked it\nwith new interest. It was close below the hole in the roof. He flopped\nup to it, balanced himself for a second, and once more sprang for the\nopening, but this time with a short, convulsive beat of wings only half\nspread. The leap carried him almost through, but not far enough for him\nto get another stroke of his wings. Clutching out wildly with stretched\ntalons, he succeeded in catching the end of a broken bar. Desperately he\nclung to it, resisting the natural impulse to help himself by flapping\nhis wings. Reaching out with his beak, he gripped another bar, and so\nsteadied himself till he could gain a foothold with both talons. Then\nslowly, like a dog getting over a wall, he dragged himself forth, and\nstood at last free on the outer side of the bars which had been so long\nhis prison.\n\nBut the first thing he thought of was not freedom. It was fish. For\nperhaps a dozen seconds he gazed about him majestically, and scanned\nwith calm the toppling and crashing world. Then spreading his splendid\nwings to their fullest extent, with no longer any fear of them striking\nagainst iron bars, he dropped down to the grass beside the cage and\nclutched the body of the slain carp. He was no more than just in time,\nfor a second later a pair of mink, released from their captivity in\nperhaps the same way as he had been, came gliding furtively around the\nbase of the cage, intent upon the same booty. He turned his head over\nhis shoulder and gave them one look, then fell to tearing and gulping\nhis meal as unconcernedly as if the two savage little beasts had been\nfield mice. The mink stopped short, flashed white fangs at him in a\nsoundless snarl of hate, and whipped about to forage in some more\nauspicious direction.\n\nWhen the eagle had finished his meal\u2014which took him, indeed, scarcely\nmore time than takes to tell of it\u2014he wiped his great beak meticulously\non the turf. While he was doing so, a shell burst so near him that he\nwas half smothered in dry earth. Indignantly he shook himself, hopped a\npace or two aside, ruffled up his feathers, and proceeded to make his\ntoilet as scrupulously as if no shells or sudden death were within a\nthousand miles of him.\n\nThe toilet completed to his satisfaction, he took a little flapping run\nand rose into the air. He flew straight for the highest point within his\nview, which chanced to be the slender, soaring spire of a church\nsomewhere about the centre of the city. As he mounted on a long slant,\nhe came into the level where most of the shells were travelling, for\ntheir objective was not the little park with its \u201cZoo,\u201d but a line of\nfortifications some distance beyond. Above, below, around him streamed\nthe terrible projectiles, whinnying or whistling, shrieking or roaring,\neach according to its calibre and its type. It seemed a miracle that he\nshould come through that zone unscathed; but his vision was so powerful\nand all-embracing, his judgment of speed and distance so instantaneous\nand unerring, that he was able to avoid, without apparent effort, all\nbut the smallest and least visible shells, and these latter, by the\nfavour of Fate, did not come his way. He was more annoyed, indeed, by\ncertain volleys of _d\u00e9bris_ which occasionally spouted up at him with a\ndisagreeable noise, and by the evil-smelling smoke clouds, which came\nvolleying about him without any reason that he could discern. He flapped\nup to a higher level to escape these annoyances, and so found himself\nabove the track of the shells. Then he made for the church spire, and\nperched himself upon the tip of the great weather-vane. It was exactly\nwhat he wanted\u2014a lofty observation post from which to view the country\nround about before deciding in which direction he would journey.\n\nFrom this high post he noticed that, while he was well above one zone of\nshells, there was still another zone of them screaming far overhead.\nThese projectiles of the upper strata of air were travelling in the\nopposite direction. He marked that they came from a crowded line of\nsmoke-bursts and blinding flashes just beyond the boundary of the city.\nHe decided that, upon resuming his journey, he would fly at the present\nlevel, and so avoid traversing again either of the zones of death.\n\nMuch to his disappointment, he found that his present observation post\ndid not give him as wide a view as he had hoped for. The city of his\ncaptivity, he now saw, was set upon the loop of a silver stream in the\ncentre of a saucer-like valley. In every direction his view was limited\nby low, encircling hills. Along one sector of this circuit\u2014that from\nwhich the shells of the lower stratum seemed to him to be issuing\u2014the\nhill-rim and the slopes below it were fringed with vomiting smoke-clouds\nand biting spurts of fire. This did not, however, influence in the least\nhis choice of the direction in which to journey. Instinct, little by\nlittle, as he sat there on the slowly veering vane, was deciding that\npoint for him. His gaze was fixing itself more and more towards the\nnorth, or, rather, the north-west; for something seemed to whisper in\nhis heart that there was where he would find the wild solitudes which he\nlonged for. The rugged and mist-wreathed peaks of Scotland or North\nWales, though he knew them not, were calling to him in his new-found\nfreedom.\n\nThe call, however, was not yet strong enough to be determining, so,\nhaving well fed and being beyond measure content with his liberty, he\nlingered on his skyey perch and watched the crash of the opposing\nbombardments. The quarter of the town immediately beneath him had so far\nsuffered little from the shells, and the church showed no signs of\ndamage except for one gaping hole in the roof. But along the line of the\nfortifications there seemed to be but one gigantic boiling of smoke and\nflames, with continual spouting fountains of _d\u00e9bris_. This inexplicable\nturmoil held his interest for a few moments. Then, while he was\nwondering what it all meant, an eleven-inch shell struck the church\nspire squarely about thirty feet below him.\n\nThe explosion almost stunned him. The tip of the spire\u2014with the\nweather-cock, and the eagle still clinging to it\u2014went rocketing straight\nup into the air amid a stifling cloud of black smoke, while the rest of\nthe structure, down to a dozen feet below the point of impact, was blown\nto the four winds. Half stunned though he was, the amazed bird kept his\nwits about him, and clutched firmly to his flying perch till it reached\nthe end of its flight and turned to fall. Then he spread his wings wide\nand let go. The erratic mass of wood and metal dropped away, and left\nhim floating, half-blinded, in the heart of the smoke-cloud. A couple of\nviolent wing-beats, however, carried him clear of the cloud; and at once\nhe shaped his course upwards, as steeply as he could mount, smitten with\na sudden desire for the calm and the solitude which were associated in\nhis memory with the uppermost deeps of air.\n\nThe fire from the city batteries had just now slackened for a little,\nand the great bird\u2019s progress carried him through the higher shell zone\nwithout mishap. In a minute or two he was far above those strange flocks\nwhich flew so straight and swift, and made such incomprehensible noises\nin their flight. Presently, too, he was above the smoke, the very last\nwisps of it having thinned off into the clear, dry air. He now began to\nfind that he had come once more into his own peculiar realm, the realm\nof the upper sky, so high that, as he thought, no other living creature\ncould approach him. He arrested his ascent, and began to circle slowly\non still wings, surveying the earth.\n\nBut now he received, for the first time, a shock. Hitherto the most\nastounding happenings had failed to startle him, but now a pang of\nsomething very like fear shot through his stout heart. A little to\nsouthward of the city he saw a vast pale-yellow elongated form rising\nswiftly, without any visible effort, straight into the sky. Had he ever\nseen a sausage, he would have thought that this yellow monster was\nshaped like one. Certain fine cords descended from it, reaching all the\nway to the earth, and below its middle hung a basket, with a man in it.\nIt rose to a height some hundreds of feet beyond the level on which the\neagle had been feeling himself supreme. Then it came to rest, and hung\nthere, swaying slowly in the mild wind.\n\nHis apprehension speedily giving way to injured pride, the eagle flew\nupwards, in short, steep spirals, as fast as his wings could drive him.\nNot till he could once more look down upon the fat back of the\nglistening yellow monster did he regain his mood of unruffled calm. But\nhe regained it only to have it stripped from him, a minute later, with\ntenfold lack of ceremony. For far above him\u2014so high that even his\nundaunted wings would never venture thither\u2014he heard a fierce and\nterrible humming sound. He saw something like a colossal bird\u2014or rather,\nit was more suggestive of a dragon-fly than a bird\u2014speeding towards him\nwith never a single beat of its vast, pale wings. Its speed was\nappalling. The eagle was afraid, but not with any foolish panic. He knew\nthat even as a sparrow would be to him, so would he be to this\nunheard-of sovereign of the skies. Therefore it was possible the\nsovereign of the skies would ignore him and seek a more worthy opponent.\nYes, it was heading towards the giant sausage. And the sausage, plainly,\nhad no stomach for the encounter. It seemed to shrink suddenly; and with\nsickening lurches it began to descend, as if strong hands were tugging\nupon the cords which anchored it to earth. The eagle winged off modestly\nto one side, but not far enough to miss anything of the stupendous\nencounter which he felt was coming. Here, at last, were events of a\nstrangeness and a terror to move even his cool spirit out of its\nindifference.\n\nNow the giant insect was near enough for the eagle to mark that it had\neyes on the undersides of its wings\u2014immense, round, coloured eyes of red\nand white and blue. Its shattering hum shook the eagle\u2019s nerves, steady\nand seasoned though they were. Slanting slightly downwards, it darted\nstraight toward the sausage, which was now wallowing fatly in its\nconvulsive efforts to descend. At the same time the eagle caught sight\nof another of the giant birds, or insects, somewhat different in shape\nand colour from the first, darting up from the opposite direction. Was\nit, too, he wondered, coming to attack the terrified sausage, or to\ndefend it?\n\nBefore he could find an answer to this exciting question, the first\nmonster had arrived directly above the sausage and was circling over it\nat some height, glaring down upon it with those great staring eyes of\nits wings. Something struck the sausage fairly in the back. Instantly,\nwith a tremendous windy roar, the sausage vanished in a sheet of flame.\nThe monster far above it rocked and plunged in the uprush of tormented\nair, the waves of which reached even to where the eagle hung poised, and\nforced him to flap violently in order to keep his balance against them.\n\nA few moments later the second monster arrived. The eagle saw at once\nthat the two were enemies. The first dived headlong at the second,\nspitting fire, with a loud and dreadful rap-rap-rapping noise, from its\nstrange blunt muzzle. The two circled around each other, and over and\nunder each other, at a speed which made even the eagle dizzy with\namazement; and he saw that it was something more deadly than fire which\nspurted from their blunt snouts; for every now and then small things,\nwhich travelled too fast for him to see, twanged past him with a vicious\nnote which he knew for the voice of death. He edged discreetly farther\naway. Evidently this battle of the giants was dangerous to spectators.\nHis curiosity was beginning to get sated. He was on the point of leaving\nthe danger area altogether, when the dreadful duel came suddenly to an\nend. He saw the second monster plunge drunkenly, in wild, ungoverned\nlurches, and then drop head first, down, down, down, straight as a\nstone, till it crashed into the earth and instantly burst into flame. He\nsaw the great, still eyes of the victor staring down inscrutably upon\nthe wreck of its foe. Then he saw it whirl sharply\u2014tilting its rigid\nwings at so steep an angle that it almost seemed about to overturn\u2014and\ndart away again in the direction from which it had come. He saw the\nreason for this swift departure. A flock of six more monsters, of the\nbreed of the one just slain, came sweeping up from the south to take\nvengeance for their comrade\u2019s defeat.\n\nThe eagle had no mind to await them. He had had enough of wonders, and\nthe call in his heart had suddenly grown clear and intelligible.\nMounting still upward till he felt the air growing thin beneath his\nwing-beats, he headed northwards as fast as he could fly. He had no more\ninterest now in the amazing panorama which unrolled beneath him, in the\nthundering and screaming flights of shell which sped past in the lower\nstrata of the air. He was intent only upon gaining the wild solitudes of\nwhich he dreamed. He marked others of the monsters which he so dreaded,\njourneying sometimes alone, sometimes in flocks, but always with the\nsame implacable directness of flight, always with that angry and\nmenacing hum which, of all the sounds he had ever heard, alone had power\nto shake his bold heart. He noticed that sometimes the sky all about\nthese monsters would be filled with sudden bursts of fleecy cloud,\nlooking soft as wool; and once he saw one of these apparently harmless\nclouds burst full on the nose of one of the monsters, which instantly\nflew apart and went hurtling down to earth in revolving fragments. But\nhe was no longer curious. He gave them all as wide a berth as possible,\nand sped on, without delaying to note their triumphs or their defeats.\n\nAt last the earth grew green again below him. The monsters, the smoke,\nthe shells, the flames, the thunders, were gradually left behind, and\nfar ahead at last he saw the sea, flashing gold and sapphire beneath the\nsummer sun. Soon\u2014for he flew swiftly\u2014it was almost beneath him. His\nheart exulted at the sight. Then across that stretch of gleaming tide he\nsaw a dim line of cliffs\u2014white cliffs, such cliffs as he desired.\n\nBut at this point, when he was so near his goal, that Fate which had\nalways loved to juggle with him decided to show him a new one of her\ntricks. Two more monsters appeared, diving steeply from the blue above\nhim. One was pursuing the other. Quite near him the pursuer overtook its\nquarry, and the two spat fire at each other with that strident\nrap-rap-rapping sound which he so disliked. He swerved as wide as\npossible from the path of their terrible combat, and paid no heed to its\noutcome. But, as he fled, something struck him near the tip of his left\nwing.\n\nThe shock went through him like a needle of ice or fire, and he dropped,\nleaving a little cloud of feathers in the air above to settle slowly\nafter him. He turned once completely over as he fell. But presently,\nwith terrific effort, he succeeded in regaining a partial balance. He\ncould no longer fully support himself, still less continue his direct\nflight; but he managed to keep on an even keel and to delay his fall. He\nknew that to drop into the sea below him was certain death. But he had\nmarked that the sea was dotted with peculiar-looking ships\u2014long, narrow,\ndark ships\u2014which travelled furiously, vomiting black smoke and carrying\na white mass of foam in their teeth. Supporting himself, with the last\nounce of his strength, till one of these rushing ships was just about to\npass below him, he let himself drop, and landed sprawling on the deck.\n\nHalf stunned though he was, he recovered himself almost instantly,\nclawed up to his feet, steadied himself with one outstretched wing\nagainst the pitching of the deck, and defied, with hard, undaunted eye\nand threatening beak, a tall figure in blue, white-capped and\ngold-braided, which stood smiling down upon him.\n\n                            * * * * * * * *\n\n\u201cBy Jove,\u201d exclaimed Sub-Lieutenant James Smith, \u201chere\u2019s luck: Uncle\nSam\u2019s own chicken, which he\u2019s sent us as a mascot till his ships can get\nover and take a hand in the game with us: Delighted to see you, old\nbird: You\u2019ve come to the right spot, you have, and we\u2019ll do the best we\ncan to make you comfortable.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                THE MULE\n\n\nThe mule lines at Aveluy were restless and unsteady under the tormented\ndark. All day long a six-inch high-velocity gun, firing at irregular\nintervals from somewhere on the low ridge beyond the Ancre, had been\nfeeling for them. Those terrible swift shells, which travel so fast, on\ntheir flat trajectory, that their bedlam shriek of warning and the\nrending crash of their explosion seem to come in the same breathless\ninstant, had tested the nerves of man and beast sufficiently during the\ndaylight; but now, in the shifting obscurity of a young moon harrowed by\ndriving cloud-rack, their effect was yet more daunting. So far they had\nbeen doing little damage, having been occupied, for the most part, in\nblowing new craters in the old lines, a couple of hundred yards further\neast, which had been vacated only two days before on account of their\ndeep-trodden and intolerable mud. All day our \u2019planes, patrolling the\nsky over Tara Hill and the lines of Regina, had kept the Boche\u2019s airmen\nat such a distance that they could not observe and register for their\nbatteries; and this terrible gun was, therefore, firing blind. But there\ncame a time, during the long night, when it seemed to reach the\nconclusion that its target must be pretty well obliterated. Squatting in\nits veiled lair behind the heights of Ancre, it lifted its raking\nmuzzle, ever so slightly, and put another two hundred yards on to its\nrange.\n\nThe next shell screamed down straight upon the lines. The crash tore\nearth and air. A massive column of black smoke vomited upwards, pierced\nwith straight flame and streaked with flying fragments of mules and\nropes and tether-pegs. Deadly splinters of shell hissed forth from it on\nall sides. The top of the column spread outwards; the base thinned and\nlifted; a raw and ghastly crater, like some Dantesque dream of the mouth\nof Hell, came into view; and there followed a faint, hideous sound of\nnameless things pattering down upon the mud.\n\nNear the edge of the crater stood a big, raw-boned black mule. His team\nmate and the three other mules tethered nearest to him had vanished.\nSeveral others lay about on either side of him, dead or screaming in\ntheir death agonies. But he was untouched. At the appalling shock he had\nsprung back upon his haunches, snorting madly; but the tethering-rope\nhad held, and he had almost thrown himself. Then, after the fashion of\nhis kind, he had lashed out wildly with his iron-shod heels. But he was\ntough of nerve and stout of heart far beyond the fashion of his kind,\nand almost at once he pulled himself together and stood trembling,\nstraining on the halter, his long ears laid back upon his head. Then his\neyes, rolling white, with a green gleam of horror at the centre, took\nnote of the familiar form of his driver, standing by his head and\nfeeling himself curiously, as if puzzled at being still alive.\n\nThis sight reassured the black mule amazingly. His expressive ears\nwagged forward again, and he thrust his frothing muzzle hard against the\nman\u2019s shoulder, as if to ask him what it all meant. The man flung an arm\nover the beast\u2019s quivering neck and leaned himself against him for a\nmoment or two, dazed from the tremendous shock which had lifted him from\nhis feet and slammed him down viciously upon the ground. He coughed once\nor twice, and tried to wipe the reek of the explosion from his eyes.\nThen, coming fully to himself, he hurriedly untethered his charge,\npatted him reassuringly on the nose, loosed the next mule behind him on\nthe lines, and led the two away in haste toward safer quarters. As he\ndid so, another shell came in, some fifty yards to the left, and the\nlines became a bedlam of kicking and snorting beasts, with their\ndrivers, cursing and coaxing, according to their several methods,\nclawing at the ropes and hurrying to get their charges away to safety.\n\nAt any other time the big black mule\u2014an unregenerate product of the\nArgentine, with a temper which took delight in giving trouble to all in\nauthority over him\u2014might have baulked energetically as a protest against\nbeing moved from his place at this irregular hour. But he was endowed\nwith a perception of his own interests, which came rather from the\nhumbler than the more aristocratic side of his ancestry. He was no\nvictim of that childish panic which is so liable, in a moment of\ndesperation, to pervert the high-strung intelligence of the horse. He\nfelt that the man knew just what to do in this dreadful and demoralizing\nsituation. So he obeyed and followed like a lamb; and in that moment he\nconceived an affection for his driver which made him nothing less than a\nchanged mule. His amazing docility had its effect upon the second mule,\nand the driver got them both away without any difficulty. When all the\nrest of the survivors had been successfully shifted to new ground, far\noff to the right, the terrible gun continued for another hour to blow\ncraters up and down the deserted lines. Then it lengthened its range\nonce more, and spent the rest of the night shattering to powder the\nruins of an already ruined and quite deserted street, under the\nimpression that it was smashing up some of our crowded billets. A little\nbefore daylight, however, a shell from one of our forward batteries, up\nbehind Regina Trench, found its way into the lair where the monster\nsquatted, and rest descended upon Aveluy in the bleak autumnal dawn.\n\nThis was in the rain-scourged autumn of 1916, when the unspeakable\ndesolation of the Somme battlefield was a sea of mud. The ruins of the\nvillages\u2014Ovillers, La Boisselle, Pozi\u00e8res, Courcelette, Martinpuich, and\nall the others which had once made fair with flowers and orchards this\nrolling plateau of Picardy\u2014had been pounded flat by the inexorable guns,\nand were now mere islands of firmer ground in the shell-pitted wastes of\nred mire. Men went encased in mud from boots to shrapnel helmet. And it\nwas a special mud of exasperating tenacity, a cement of beaten chalk and\nclay. The few spidery tram-lines ran precariously along the edges of the\nshell-holes, out over the naked, fire-swept undulations beyond Mouquet\nFarm and Courcelette, where they were continually being knocked to\npieces by the \u201cwhizz-bangs,\u201d and tirelessly rebuilt by our dauntless\npioneers and railway troops. Scattered all about this dreadful naked\nwaste behind our front trenches lurked our forward batteries, their\nshallow gun-pits cunningly camouflaged behind every little swell of\ntumbled mud.\n\nThis foul mud, hiding in the deep slime of its shell-holes every kind of\ntrap and putrid horror, was the appropriate ally of the Germans.\nStinkingly and tenaciously and treacherously, as befitted, it opposed\nthe feeding of the guns. Two by two or four by four, according to their\nsize, the shells for the guns had to be carried up from the forward\ndumps in little wicker panniers slung across the backs of horses and\nmules. It was a slow process, precarious and costly, but it beat the\nmud, and the insatiable guns were fed.\n\nAfter the night when the mule-lines at Aveluy were shelled, the big\nblack mule and his driver were put on this job of carrying up shells to\nthe forward batteries. The driver, a gaunt, green-eyed, ginger-haired\nteamster from the lumber camps of Northern New Brunswick, received the\norder with a crooked grin.\n\n\u201cSay your prayers now, Sonny,\u201d he muttered in the mule\u2019s big, waving\near, which came to \u201cattention\u201d promptly to receive his communication.\n\u201cYou\u2019ll be wishing you was back in them old lines at Aveluy afore we\u2019re\nthrough with this job. Fritzy over yonder ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to like you an\u2019 me\none little bit when he gits on to what we\u2019re up to. It ain\u2019t like\nhaulin\u2019 fodder, I tell you that. But I guess we\u2019ve got the nerve all\nright.\u201d\n\nInstead of rolling the whites of his eyes at him, in surly protest\nagainst this familiarity, the black mule responded by nibbling gently at\nthe sleeve of his muddy tunic.\n\n\u201cGeezely Christmas,\u201d murmured the driver, astonished at this evidence of\ngoodwill, \u201cbut it\u2019s queer, now, how a taste o\u2019 shell-fire\u2019ll sometimes\nwork a change o\u2019 heart, even in an Argentino mule. I only hope it\u2019ll\nlast, Sonny. If it does, we\u2019re goin\u2019 to git along fine, you an\u2019 me.\u201d And\nthe next time he visited the canteen he brought back a biscuit or two\nand a slab of sweet chocolate, to confirm the capricious beast in its\nmended manners.\n\nEarly that same afternoon the black mule found himself in new\nsurroundings. He was at the big ammunition dump which lay concealed in\nan obscure hollow near the ruins of Courcelette. He looked with\nsuspicion on the wicker panniers which were slung across his sturdy\nback. Saddles he knew, and harness he knew, but this was a contraption\nwhich roused misgivings in his conservative soul. When the shells were\nslipped into the panniers, and he felt the sudden weight, so out of all\nproportion to the size of the burden, he laid back his long ears with a\ngrunt, and gathered his muscles for a protesting kick. But his driver,\nstanding at his head, stroked his muzzle soothingly and murmured:\n\u201cThere, there, steady, Son! Keep your hair on! It ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to bite\nyou.\u201d\n\nThus adjured, he composed himself with an effort, and the lashing kick\nwas not delivered.\n\n\u201cWhat a persuasive cuss you must be, Jimmy Wright!\u201d said the man who was\nhandling the shells. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t trust you round with my best girl, if\nyou can get a bucking mule locoed that way with your soft sawder.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt ain\u2019t me,\u201d replied the New Brunswicker. \u201cIt\u2019s shell-shock, I guess,\nkind of helped along with chocolate an\u2019 biscuits. He got a bit of a\nshaking up when they shelled the lines at Aveluy night afore last, an\u2019\nhe\u2019s been a lamb ever since. Seems to think _I_ saved his hide for him.\nHe was the very devil to handle afore that.\u201d\n\nFor some way from the dump the journey was uneventful. The path to the\nguns led along a sunken road, completely hidden from the enemy\u2019s\nobservation posts. The dull, persistent rain had ceased for a little,\nand the broad patches of blue overhead were dotted with our droning\naeroplanes, which every now and then would dive into a low-drifting rack\nof grey cloud to shake off the shrapnel of the German \u201cArchies.\u201d Of\nGerman \u2019planes none were to be seen, for they had all sped home to their\nhangars when our fighting squadrons rose to the encounter. The earth\nrocked to the explosions of our 9.2 howitzers ranged about Pozi\u00e8res and\nMartinpuich, and the air clamoured under the passage of their giant\nshells as they went roaring over toward the German lines. Now and again\na vicious whining sound would swell suddenly to a nerve-racking shriek,\nand an enemy shell would land with a massive _cr-r-ump_, and a furious\nblast of smoke and mud would belch upwards to one side or other of the\nsunken road. But none of these unwelcome visitors came into the road\nitself, and neither the black mule nor Jimmy Wright paid them any more\nattention than the merest roll of an eye to mark their billet.\n\n\u201cChange o\u2019 heart hain\u2019t spoiled old Sonny\u2019s nerve, anyhow,\u201d thought the\ndriver to himself, with deep approval.\n\nA little further on and the trail up to \u201cX\u2019s Group,\u201d quitting the\nshelter of the sunken road, led out across the red desolation, in the\nvery eye, as it seemed to the New Brunswicker, of the enemy\u2019s positions.\nIt was a narrow, undulating track, slippery as oil, yet tenacious as\nglue, corkscrewing its laborious way between the old slime-filled\nshell-pits. From the surface of one of these wells of foul-coloured ooze\nthe legs of a dead horse stuck up stiffly into the air, like four posts\non which to lay a foot-bridge. A few yards beyond, the track was cut by\na fresh shell-hole, too new to have collected any water. Its raw sides\nwere streaked red and white and black, and just at its rim lay the\nmangled fragments of something that might recently have been a mule. The\nlong ears of Wright\u2019s mule waved backwards and forwards at the sight,\nand he snorted apprehensively.\n\n\u201cThis don\u2019t appear to be a health resort for us, Sonny,\u201d commented the\nNew Brunswicker, \u201cso we won\u2019t linger, if it\u2019s all the same to you.\u201d And\nhe led the way around the other side of the new shell-hole, the big mule\ncrowding close behind with quivering muzzle at his shoulder.\n\nHowever urgent Wright\u2019s desire for speed, speed was ridiculously\nimpossible. The obstinate pro-German mud was not lightly to be overcome.\nEven on the firmer ridges it clung far above the fetlocks of the black\nmule, and struggled to suck off Wright\u2019s hobnailed boots at every\nlabouring step. Though a marrow-piercing north-easter swept the waste,\nboth man and mule were lathered in sweat. Half their energy had to be\nexpended in recovering themselves from continual slithering slides which\nthreatened to land them in the engulfing horrors of the shell-holes. For\nall that he had so little breath to spare, Jimmy Wright kept muttering\nthrough his teeth strange expletives and objurgations from the\nvocabulary of the lumber camps, eloquent but unprintable, to which the\nblack mule lent ear admiringly. He seemed to feel that his driver\u2019s\nremarks, though he could not understand them, were doubtless such as\nwould command his fullest accord. For his own part he had no means of\nexpressing such sentiments except through his heels, and these were now\nall too fully occupied in their battle with the mud.\n\nBy this time the black mule had become absolutely convinced that his\nfate was in the hands of his ginger-haired driver. Jimmy Wright, as it\nseemed to him, was his sole protection against this violent horror which\nkept bursting and crashing on every hand about him. It was clear to him\nthat Jimmy Wright, though apparently much annoyed, was not afraid.\nTherefore, with Jimmy Wright as his protector he was safe. He wagged his\nears, snorted contemptuously at a 5.9 which spurted up a column of mud\nand smoke some hundred yards to the left, and plodded on gamely through\nthe mud. He didn\u2019t know where he was going, but Jimmy Wright was there,\nand just ahead of his nose, where he could sniff at him; and he felt\nsure there would be fodder and a rub down at the end of the weary road.\n\nIn the midst of these consoling reflections something startling and\ninexplicable happened. He was enveloped and swept away in a deafening\nroar. Thick blackness, streaked with star-showers, blinded him. Though\nhalf-stupefied, he kicked and struggled with all his strength, for it\nwas not in him to yield himself, like a stricken horse, to any stroke of\nFate.\n\nWhen he once more saw daylight, he was recovering his feet just below\nthe rim of an old shell-hole. He gained the top, braced his legs, and\nshook himself vigorously. The loaded panniers thumping heavily upon his\nribs restored him fully to his senses. Snorting through wide red\nnostrils, he stared about him wildly. Some ten paces distant he saw a\ngreat new crater in the mud, reeking with black and orange fumes.\n\nBut where was Jimmy Wright? The mule swept anxious eyes across the waste\nof shell-holes, in every direction. In vain. His master had vanished. He\nfelt himself deserted. Panic began to clutch at his heart, and he\ngathered his muscles for frantic flight. And then he recovered himself\nand stood steady. He had caught sight of a ginger-haired head, bare of\nits shrapnel helmet, lying on the mud at the other side of the\nshell-hole from which he had just struggled out.\n\nHis panic passed at once, but it gave place to anxious wonder. There,\nindeed, was Jimmy Wright, but what was he doing there? His body was\nburied almost to the shoulders in the discoloured slime that half filled\nthe shell-hole. He was lying on his face. His arms were outstretched,\nand his hands were clutching at the slippery walls of the hole as if he\nwere striving to pull himself up from the water. This effort, however,\nseemed anything but successful. The mule saw, indeed, that his protector\nwas slowly slipping deeper into the slime. This filled him with fresh\nalarm. If Jimmy Wright should disappear under that foul surface, that\nwould be desertion complete and final. It was not to be endured.\n\nQuickly but cautiously the mule picked his way around the hole, and\nthen, with sagacious bracing of his hoofs, down to his master\u2019s side.\nBut what was to be done next? Jimmy Wright\u2019s face was turned so that he\ncould not see his would-be rescuer. His hands were still clutching at\nthe mud, but feebly and without effect.\n\nThe mule saw that his master was on the point of vanishing under the\nmud, of deserting him in his extremity. This was intolerable. The\nemergency quickened his wits. Instinct suggested to him that to keep a\nthing one should take hold of it and hold on to it. He reached down with\nhis big yellow teeth, took hold of the shoulder of Jimmy Wright\u2019s tunic,\nand held on. Unfamiliar with anatomy, he at the same time took hold of a\nsubstantial portion of Jimmy Wright\u2019s own shoulder inside the tunic, and\nheld on to that. He braced himself, and with a loud, involuntary snort\nbegan to pull.\n\nJimmy Wright, up to this point, had been no more than half conscious.\nThe mule\u2019s teeth in his shoulder revived him effectually. He came to\nhimself with a yell. He remembered the shell-burst. He saw and\nunderstood where he was. He was afraid to move for a moment, lest he\nshould find that his shoulder was blown off. But no, he had two arms,\nand he could move them. He had his shoulder all right, for something was\npulling at it with quite sickening energy. He reached up his right\narm\u2014it was the left shoulder that was being tugged at\u2014and encountered\nthe furry head and ears of his rescuer.\n\n\u201cSonny!\u201d he shouted. \u201cWell, I\u2019ll be d\u2014\u2014d!\u201d And he gripped fervently at\nthe mule\u2019s neck.\n\nReassured at the sound of his master\u2019s voice, the big mule took his\nteeth out of Wright\u2019s shoulder and began nuzzling solicitously at his\nsandy head.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all right, old man,\u201d said the New Brunswicker, thinking quickly,\nwhile with his left hand he secured a grip on the mule\u2019s headstall. Then\nhe strove to raise himself from the slime. The effort produced no\nresult, except to send a wave of blackness across his brain. Wondering\nsickly if he carried some terrible injury concealed under the mud, he\nmade haste to pass the halter rope under his arms and knot it beneath\nhis chest. Then he shouted for help, twice and again, till his voice\ntrailed off into a whimper and he relapsed into unconsciousness. The\nmule shifted his feet to gain a more secure foothold on the treacherous\nslope, and then stood wagging his ears and gazing down on Jimmy in\nbenevolent content. So long as Jimmy was with him, he felt that things\nwere bound to come all right. Jimmy would presently get up and lead him\nout of the shell-hole, and take him home.\n\nShell after shell, whining or thundering according to their breed,\nsoared high over the hole, but the black mule only wagged his ears at\nthem. His eyes were anchored upon the unconscious sandy head of Jimmy\nWright. Suddenly, however, a sharp voice made him look up. He saw a\ncouple of stretcher-bearers standing on the edge of the shell-hole,\nlooking down sympathetically upon him and his charge. In a second or two\nthey were beside him, skilfully and tenderly extricating Jimmy\u2019s body\nfrom the mud.\n\n\u201cHe ain\u2019t gone west this time,\u201d pronounced one, who had thrust an\nunderstanding hand into the breast of the tunic.\n\nJimmy Wright opened his eyes wide suddenly.\n\n\u201cNot by a d\u2014\u2014d sight I ain\u2019t, Bill!\u201d he muttered rather thickly. Then,\nhis wits and his voice coming clearer, he added: \u201cBut if I ain\u2019t, it\u2019s\nthanks to this here old \u2014\u2014 of an Argentino mule, that come down into\nthis hole and yanked me out o\u2019 the mud, and saved me. Eh, Sonny?\u201d\n\nThe big mule was crowding up so close to him as to somewhat incommode\nthe two men in their task on that treacherous incline. But they warded\noff his inconvenient attentions very gently.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s some mule, all right,\u201d grunted one of the bearers, as they got\nJimmy on to the stretcher and laboriously climbed from the shell-hole.\n\n\n\n\n                        STRIPES THE UNCONCERNED\n\n\nOn the edge of evening, when the last of the light was gathered in the\npale-green upper sky, and all the world of the quiet backwoods clearings\nwas sunken in a soft violet dusk, a leisurely and self-possessed little\nanimal came strolling among the ancient stumps and mossy hillocks of the\nopen upland sheep-pasture. He was about the size of an average cat, but\nshorter of leg, with a long, sharp-muzzled head, and he carried his\nbroad feathery tail very high in a graceful arch, like a squirrel in\ngood humour. Unlike most other creatures of the wild, his colouring was\nsuch as to make him conspicuous rather than to conceal him. He was\nblack, with a white stripe down his face, a white patch on the back of\nhis neck, and a white stripe all the way along each side of his body.\nAnd, also, unlike the rest of the furtive folk, he seemed quite\nunconcerned to hide his movements from observation. Neither was he for\never glancing this way and that, as if on the watch for enemies. Rather\nhe had the air of being content that his enemies should do the\nwatching\u2014and avoid him.\n\nThe skunk\u2014for such was the undignified appellation of this very\ndignified personality of the wilderness\u2014was pleasantly engrossed in his\nown business. That business, at the moment, consisted in catching the\nbig, fat, juicy, copper-brown \u201cJune-bugs\u201d as they emerged from their\nholes in the sod, crawled up the bending grass-stems, and spread their\nwings for their heavy evening flight. It was easy hunting, and he had no\nneed of haste. To snap up these great, slow and clumsy beetles as they\nclung upon the grass-stems was as easy as picking strawberries, and,\nindeed, not altogether dissimilar, as he would nip off the hard, glossy\nwing-cases of the big beetles as one nips off the hull of the berry\nbefore munching the succulent morsel.\n\nHaving slept the day through in his snug burrow, in the underbrush which\nfringed the forest edge of the clearing, he had come forth into the dewy\ntwilight equipped with a fine appetite. He had come with the definite\npurpose of hunting \u201cJune-bugs,\u201d this being the season, all too brief,\nfor that highly-flavoured delicacy. At first he had thought of nothing\nelse; but when he had taken the edge off his hunger, he began to\nconsider the chances of varying his diet. As he seized an unlucky\nbeetle, close to the edge of a flat, spreading juniper bush, a brooding\nground-sparrow flew up, with a startled _cheep_, from under his very\nnose. He dropped the beetle and made a lightning pounce at the bird. But\nher wing had flicked him across the eyes, confusingly, and he missed\nher. He knew well enough, however, what her presence there among the\nwarm grass-tussocks meant. He went nosing eagerly under the juniper\nbush, and soon found a nest with four little brown-mottled eggs in it.\nTiny though they were, they made a tit-bit very much to his taste, all\nthe more so that they were very near hatching. Having licked his jaws\nand fastidiously polished the fur of his shrewd, keen face, he sauntered\noff to see what other delicacies the evening might have in store for\nhim.\n\nA little further on, toward the centre of the pasture, he came upon a\nflat slab of rock, its surface sloping toward the south, its southward\nedge slightly overhanging and fringed with soft grass. He knew the rock\nwell\u2014knew how its bare surface drank in the summer sun all day long, and\nheld the warmth throughout the dew-chill nights. He knew, too, that\nother creatures besides himself might very well appreciate this genial\nwarmth. Stealthily, and without the smallest disturbance of the grassy\nfringe, he sniffed along the overhanging edge of the rock. Suddenly he\nstiffened, and his sharp nose darted in under the rock. Then he jerked\nback, with the writhing tail of a snake between his jaws.\n\nThe prize was a big black-and-yellow garter snake, not far from three\nfeet long,\u2014not venomous, but full of energy and fight. It tried to cling\nto its hiding-place; but the shrewd skunk, instead of attempting to pull\nit out straight, like a cork from a bottle neck, ran forward a pace or\ntwo, and, as it were, \u201cpeeled\u201d it forth. It doubled out, struck him\nsmartly in the face with its harmless fangs, and then coiled itself\nabout his neck and forelegs. There was a moment of confused\nrough-and-tumble, but the skunk knew just how to handle this kind of\nantagonist. Having bitten the reptile\u2019s tail clean through, he\npresently, with the help of his practised little jaws, succeeded in\ngetting hold of it by the back, an inch or two behind the head. This\nended the affair, as a struggle, and the victor proceeded to round off\nhis supper on snake. He managed to put away almost all but the head and\ntail, and then, after a meticulous toilet to fur and paws\u2014for he was as\nfastidiously cleanly as a cat\u2014he sauntered back toward his burrow in the\nunderbrush, to refresh himself with a nap before seeking further\nadventures.\n\nDirectly in his path stood three or four young seedling firs, about two\nfeet high, in a dense cluster. Half a dozen paces beyond this tiny\nthicket a big red fox, belly to earth, was soundlessly stalking some\nquarry, perhaps a mouse, which could be heard ever so faintly rustling\nthe grass-stems at the edge of the thicket. To the skunk, with his\nwell-filled belly, the sound had no interest. He rounded the thicket and\ncame face to face with the fox.\n\nNeither in size, strength, nor agility was he any match for the savage\nred beast which stood in his path, and was quite capable, indeed, of\ndispatching him in two snaps of his long, lean jaws. But he was not in\nthe least put out. Watchful, but cool, he kept straight on, neither\ndelaying nor hastening his leisurely and nonchalant progress. The fox,\non the other hand, stopped short. He was hungry. His hunting was\ninterfered with, for that rustling under the fir-branches had stopped.\nHis fine red brush twitched angrily. Nevertheless, he had no stomach to\ntackle this easy-going little gentleman in the black-and-white stripes.\nShowing his long white teeth in a vindictive but noiseless snarl, he\nstepped aside. And the skunk, glancing back with bright eyes of\nvigilance and understanding, passed on as if the twilight world belonged\nto him. He knew\u2014and he knew his enemy knew as well\u2014that he carried with\nhim a concealed weapon of such potency that no fox, unless afflicted\nwith madness, would ever willingly run up against it.\n\nReaching his burrow in the underbrush without further adventure, he\nfound it empty. His mate and her young ones\u2014now three-quarters\ngrown\u2014were scattered away foraging for themselves over the wide,\nforest-scented clearings. It was a spacious burrow, dug by a sturdy,\nsurly old woodchuck, who, though usually as pugnacious as a badger and\nan obstinate stickler for his rights, had in this case yielded without a\nfight to the mild-mannered little usurper, and humped off in disgust to\nhollow a new abode much deeper in the forest, where such a mischance\nwould not be likely to happen him again. Under the tenancy of the skunk\nfamily the burrow was sweet and dry and daintily kept. With a little\ngrumble of content deep in his throat he curled himself up and went to\nsleep.\n\nWhen he woke and set forth again to renew his foraging, although he had\nonly slept an hour, his vigorous digestion had quite restored his\nappetite. He had no more thought for June-bugs. He wanted bigger game,\nmore red-blooded and with some excitement in it. He thought of the\nfarmyard, half a mile away across the clearings, down over the round of\nthe upland. It was weeks now since he had visited it. There might be\nsomething worth picking up. There might be a mother hen with chickens,\nin a pen which he could find a way into. There might be a hen sitting on\nher clutch of eggs in a stolen nest under the barn. He had discovered in\nprevious seasons that most sitting hens had their nests provided for\nthem in secure places which he could in no way manage to come at. But he\nhad also found that sometimes a foolish and secretive\u2014and very young\u2014hen\nwill _hide_ her nest in some such out-of-the-way place as under the barn\nfloor, where the troublesome human creatures who preside over the\ndestinies of hens cannot get at it. Here she keeps her precious eggs all\nto herself till she has enough to cover comfortably, and then she\nproceeds to the pleasant task of brooding them, and has things all her\nown way till some night-prowler comes along and convicts her, finally\nand fatally, of her folly.\n\nA full moon, large and ruddy like a ripe pumpkin, was just rising behind\nthe jagged black tops of the spruce forest. It threw long, fantastic,\nconfusing shadows across the dewy hillocks of the pasture. Hither and\nthither, in and out and across the barred streaks of light, darted the\nwild rabbits, gambolling as if half beside themselves, as if smitten\nwith a midsummer madness by the capricious magic of the night. But if\nmad, they retained enough sound sense to keep ever at a prudent distance\nfrom the leisurely striped wayfarer who appeared so little interested in\ntheir sport. Though they were bigger than he, they knew that, if they\nshould venture within reach of his pounce, his indifference would vanish\nand his inexorable fangs would be in their throats.\n\nKnowing his utter inability to compete with the speed of the rabbits,\nnow they were wide awake, the skunk hardly noticed their antics, but\nkept on his direct path toward the farmyard. Presently, however, his\nattention was caught by the rabbits scattering off in every direction.\nOn the instant he was all alert for the cause. Mounting a hillock, he\ncaught sight of a biggish shaggy-haired dog some distance down the\npasture. The dog was racing this way and that as crazily, it seemed, as\nthe rabbits, with faint little yelps of excitement and whines of\ndisappointment. He was chasing the rabbits with all his energy; and it\nwas evident that he was a stranger, a new-comer to the wilderness world,\nfor he seemed to think he might hope to catch the fleet-foot creatures\nby merely running after them. As a matter of fact, he had just arrived\nthat same day at the backwoods farm from the city down the river. His\nexperience had been confined to streets and gardens and the chasing of\ncats, and he was daft with delight over the spacious freedom of the\nclearings. The skunk eyed him scornfully, and continued his journey with\nthe unconcern of an elephant.\n\nA moment later the dog was aware of a little, insignificant\nblack-and-white creature coming slowly towards him as if unconscious of\nhis presence. Another rabbit! But as this one did not seem alarmed, he\nstopped and eyed it with surprise, his head cocked to one side in\ninquiry. The skunk half turned and moved off slowly, deliberately, at\nright angles to the path he had been following.\n\nWith a yelp of delight the dog dashed at this easy victim, which seemed\nso stupid that it made no effort to escape. He was almost upon it.\nAnother leap and he would have had it in his jaws. But the amazing\nlittle animal turned its back on him, stuck its tail straight in the\nair, and jerked up its hindquarters with a derisive gesture. In that\ninstant something hot and soft struck the inexperienced hunter full in\nthe face\u2014something soft, indeed, but overwhelming, paralyzing. It\nstopped him dead in his tracks. Suffocating, intolerably pungent, it\nboth blinded him and choked him. His lungs refused to work, shutting up\nspasmodically. Gasping and gagging, he grovelled on his belly and strove\nfrantically to paw his mouth and nostrils clear of the dense, viscous\nfluid which was clogging them. Failing in this, he fell to rooting\nviolently in the short grass, biting and tearing at it and rolling in\nit, till some measure of breath and eyesight returned to him. Thereupon,\nhis matted head all stuck with grass and moss and dirt, he set off\nracing madly for the farm-house, where he expected to get relief from\nthe strange torment which afflicted him. But when he pawed and whined at\nthe kitchen door for admittance, he was driven off with contumely and\nbroomsticks. There was nothing for him to do but slink away with his\nshame to a secluded corner between the wagon-shed and the pig-pen, where\nhe could soothe his burning muzzle in the cool winds and fresh earth. On\nthe following day one of the farm hands, with rude hands and\nunsympathetic comment, scrubbed him violently with liquid soap and then\nclipped close his splendid shaggy coat. But it was a week before he was\nreadmitted to the comfortable fellowship of the farmhouse kitchen.\n\nFor a moment or two, with a glance of triumph in his bright eyes, the\nskunk had watched the paroxysms of his discomfited foe. Then, dropping\nthe tip of his tail into its customary disdainful arch, he had turned\nback towards his burrow. This was a redoubtable foe whom he had just put\nto rout, and he had expended most of his armoury upon him. He had no\nwish to risk another encounter until the potent secretion which he\ncarried in a sac between the powerful muscles of his thighs should have\nhad time to accumulate again. He dropped, for that night, all notion of\nthe distinctly adventurous expedition to the farmyard, contenting\nhimself with snapping up a few beetles and crickets as he went. He was\nlucky enough to pounce upon an indiscreet field-mouse just as she\nemerged from her burrow, and then a few minutes\u2019 digging with his\npowerful and expert fore-paws had served to unearth the mouse\u2019s nest\nwith her half-dozen tiny blind sucklings. So he went home well satisfied\nwith himself. Before re-entering he again made a careful toilet; and as\nthe opening of the sac from which he had projected the potent fluid into\nhis enemy\u2019s face had immediately closed up tight and fast, he carried no\ntrace of the virulent odour with him. Indeed, that fluid was a thing\nwhich he never by any chance allowed to get on to his own fur. Always,\nat the moment of ejecting it, the fur on his thighs parted and lay back\nflat to either side of the naked vent of the sac, and the long tail\ncocked itself up rigidly, well out of the way. It was a stuff he kept\nstrictly for his foes, and never allowed to offend either himself or his\nfriends.\n\nOn entering his burrow he found there his mate and all the youngsters,\ncurled up together in the sleep of good digestion and easy conscience.\nHe curled himself up with them, that the supply of his high-explosive\nmight accumulate during another forty winks.\n\nAbout an hour before the dawn he awoke again, feeling hungry. The rest\nof the family were still sleeping, having gorged themselves, as he might\nhave done had it not been for that encounter with the misguided dog. He\nleft them whimpering contentedly in their cosy slumber, and crept forth\ninto the dewy chill alone, his heart set on mice and such-like\nwarm-blooded game.\n\nThe moon was now high overhead, sailing honey-coloured through a faintly\nviolet sky. The rough pasture, with its stumps and hillocks, was touched\ninto a land of dream.\n\nNow, it chanced that an old bear, who was accustomed to foraging in the\nvalley beyond the cedar swamp, had on this night decided to bring her\ncub on an expedition toward the more dangerous neighbourhood of the\nclearings. She wanted to begin his education in all the wariness which\nis so necessary for the creatures of the wild in approaching the works\nand haunts of man. On reaching the leafy fringe of bushes which fringed\nthe rude rail-fence dividing the forest from the pasture, she cautiously\npoked her head through the leafage, and for perhaps a minute, motionless\nas a stone, she interrogated the bright open spaces with eyes and ears\nand nostrils. The cub, taking the cue from his mother, stiffened to the\nlike movelessness at her side, his bright little eyes full of interest\nand curiosity. There was no sign of danger in the pasture. In fact,\nthere were the merry rabbits hopping about in the moonlight undisturbed.\nThis was a sign of security quite good enough for the wise old bear.\nWith crafty and experienced paws she forced a hole in the fence\u2014leaving\nthe top rail, above the binder, in its place\u2014and led the eager cub forth\ninto the moonlight.\n\nThe special notion of the bear in coming to the pasture was to teach her\ncub the art of finding, unearthing, and catching the toothsome wild\nmice. Keeping along near the fence, she sniffed the tussocky, uneven\ngrass with practised nose. But the first thing she came upon was a\nbumble-bees\u2019 nest. This was far more to her taste than any mice. She\ngave a low call to the cub; but the cub was preoccupied now, sniffing at\nthe rabbit tracks, and lifting himself on his hindquarters to stare\nlongingly at the rabbits, who were hopping off to discreeter distance.\nThe mother did not insist on his coming to watch her tackle the bees\u2019\nnest. After all, he was perhaps a bit young to face the stings of the\nangry bees, and she might as well have the little hoard of honey and\nlarv\u00e6 and bee-bread for herself. The cub wandered off a little way, with\nsome vague notion of chasing the elusive rabbits.\n\nJust then through the edge of the underbrush appeared the skunk,\nstretching himself luxuriously before he started off across the pasture.\nHe saw the bear, but he knew that sagacious beast would pay him no\nattention whatever. He trotted out into the moonlight and pounced upon a\nfat black cricket as an appetizer.\n\nThe cub caught sight of the pretty little striped creature, and came\ndarting clumsily and gaily to the attack. He would show his mother that\nhe could do some hunting on his own account. The striped creature turned\nits back on him and moved off slowly. The cub was delighted. He was just\ngoing to reach out a rude little paw and grab the easy prize. Then the\ninevitable happened. The pretty striped creature gave its stern a\ncontemptuous jerk, and the deluded cub fell in a heap, squealing,\ngasping, choking, and pawing convulsively at the horrible sticky stuff\nwhich filled his mouth and eyes.\n\nJust before the catastrophe occurred, the old bear had looked up from\nher business with the bees, and had uttered a loud _woof_ of warning.\nBut too late. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to try\nany fooling with a skunk. But now her rage at the suffering and\ndiscomfiture of her little one swept away all prudence. With a grunt of\nfury she charged at the offender. One glance at the approaching\nvengeance convinced the skunk that this time he had made a mistake. He\nturned and raced for the underbrush as fast as his little legs would\ncarry him. But that was not fast enough. Just as he was about to dart\nunder the fence, a huge black paw, shod with claws like steel, crashed\ndown upon him, and his leisurely career came to an end.\n\nThe bear, in deep disgust, scraped her reeking paw long and earnestly in\nthe fresh earth beneath the grass, then turned her attention to the\nunhappy cub. She relieved her feelings by giving him a sharp cuff which\nsent him sprawling a dozen feet. Then, relenting, she showed him how to\nclean himself by rooting in the earth. At length, when he could see and\nbreathe once more with some degree of comfort, she indignantly led him\naway back into the depths of the consoling forest.\n\n                Printed in the United States of America.\n\n\n\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Notes\n\n\n--Generated an original cover image, released for free and unrestricted\n  use with this Distributed-Proofreaders-Canada eBook.\n\n--Silently corrected a few palpable typos.\n\n--Retained copyright notice from the printed edition (which is\n  public-domain in the country of publication.)\n\n--In the text version, delimited italicized text with _underscores_ (the\n  HTML version displays the modified font.)","title":"Jim: The Story of a Backwoods Police Dog","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":41098}