So I trudged along beside him, asking
a question now and then, and listening always. He certainly knew what
would interest me. There was scarcely a thing he said that I would ever
forget. After a while, however, the trail became so steep and rough that
I, at least, had no breath to spare for talking. We climbed and climbed.
The canyon had become a narrow, rocky cleft. Huge stones blocked the
way. A ragged growth of underbrush fringed the stream. Dead pines, with
branches like spears, lay along the trail.

We came upon a little clearing, where there was a rude log-cabin with
a stone chimney. Skins of animals were tacked upon logs. Under the bank
was a spring. The mountain overshadowed this wild nook.

"Wal, youngster, here's my shack. Make yourself to home," said Hiram
Bent.

I was all eyes as we entered the cabin. Skins, large and small, and of
many colors, hung upon the walls. A fire burned in a wide stone grate. A
rough table and some pans and cooking utensils showed evidence of recent
scouring. A bunch of steel traps lay in a corner. Upon a shelf were
tin cans and cloth bags, and against the wall stood a bed of glossy
bearskins. To me the cabin was altogether a most satisfactory place.

"I reckon ye're tired?" asked the hunter. "Thet's some pumpkins of a
climb unless you're used to it."

I admitted I was pretty tired.

"Wal, rest awhile. You look like you hadn't slept much."

He asked me about my people and home, and was so interested in forestry
that he left off his task of the moment to talk about it. I was not long
in discovering that what he did not know about trees and forests was
hardly worth learning. He called it plain woodcraft. He had never heard
of forestry. All the same I hungered for his knowledge. How lucky for me
to fall in with him! The things that had puzzled me about the pines he
answered easily. Then he volunteered information. From talking of the
forest, he drifted to the lumbermen.

"Wal, the lumber-sharks are rippin' holes in Penetier. I reckon they
wouldn't stop at nothin'. I've heered some tough stories about thet
sawmill gang. I ain't acquainted with Leslie, or any of them fellers you
named except Jim Williams. I knowed Jim. He was in Springer fer a while.
If Jim's your friend, there'll be somethin' happenin, when he rounds up
them kidnappers. I reckon you'd better hang up with me fer a while. You
don't want to get ketched again. Your life wasn't much to them fellers.
I think they'd