k equal to taking to yo' two standing feet."

The entire train force of three men went to gather fuel for the return
trip and, dejectedly, Truedale sat down in the gloom and silence to
await events.

No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomy
thoughts. Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morning
take to--just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attention
and to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank man
leaning against a tree in an attitude so adhesive that he might have
been a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe. It never occurred
to Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him,
but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.

"Hello, friend!"

By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedale
concluded the man was nodding.

"I'm waiting for Jim White."

"So?" The one word came through the darkness without interest.

"Do you happen to know him?"

"Sorter."

"Could you--get me to his place?"

"I reckon. That's what I come ter do."

"I--I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?"

"It's up to--to Jim's place. Can you ride behind me on the mare?
Travelling is tarnation bad."

Once they were on the mare's back, conversation dragged, then died a
natural death. Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-war
romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knocking
unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.

It was nine o'clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, the
lights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short and
definitely.

"I hope White is at home!" Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion.

"I be Jim White!" The man dismounted and stood ready to assist his
guest.

"Welcome, stranger. Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings his
welcome with him."

About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out
toward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce
and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other
light in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed.

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of
himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady
as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt
exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in between
times--bro