for a small mustache; courteous, rather patronizing
but still friendly. Now he was like a surly beast. His eyes were
narrow and greedy,--weasel eyes that at once Bill mistrusted and
disliked. A scowl was at his lips, no more were they in a firm,
straight line. The light and glory of upright manhood, if indeed he had
ever possessed it, had gone from him now. He was a friend and a
companion of Joe and Pete: in a measure at least he was of their own
kind.

When the white man chooses to descend, even the savages of the forest
cannot keep pace with him. Bill knew now why Harold had never written
home. The wilderness had seized him body and soul, but not in the
embrace of love with which it held Bill. Obviously he had taken the
line of least resistance to perdition. He had forgotten the world of
men; in reality he was no longer of it. Bill read the truth--a
familiar truth in the North--in his crafty, stealthy, yet savage face.

He was utterly unkempt and slovenly. His coarse beard covered his lips,
his matted hair was dull with dirt, his skin was scarcely less dark than
that of the Indians themselves. The nails on his hands were foul; the
floor of the house was cluttered with rubbish and filth. It was a
worthy place, this new-built cabin! Even the desolate wastes outside
were not comparable with this.

Yet leering through his degeneracy, his identity could not be mistaken.
Here was the man Virginia had pierced the North to seek.

Harold removed his pipe. "What do you want?" he asked.

For a moment Bill did not answer. His thoughts were wandering afar. He
remembered, when Harold had passed his camp, there had been something
vaguely familiar, a haunting resemblance to a face seen long before.
The same familiarity recurred to him now. But he pushed it away and
bent his mind to the subject in hand. "You're Lounsbury, of course," he
said.

"Sure." This man had not forgotten his name, in the years that he was
lost to men. "I ask you again--what do you want?"

"You've been living on the Yuga. You came up here to trap in my
territory."

The man's hands stirred, ever so little, and the rifle moved on his
knees. "You don't own this whole country." Then he seemed to
take courage from Bill's impassive face. He remembered his stanch
allies--Pete and Joe. "And what if I did?"

"You knew I trapped here. You brought up Joe Robinson and a breed with
you. You meant to clean up this winter--all the furs in