sual wood
stove connected up to the protruding stove-pipe. A smouldering fire was
burning between two large sandstone blocks, which, in turn, supported a
cooking pot. An uncultured Indian of the forests would have demanded
greater comfort for his resting moments.

But Father Adam had no concern for comfort of body. He needed his
blankets and his fire solely to support life against the bitterness of
the night air. For the rest the barest, hardest food kept the fire of
life burning in his lean body.

Squatting on his upturned box he gazed out upon the sunlit stream below
him. His dark eyes were full of a pensive calm. His body was inclining
forward, supported by arms folded across his knees. An unlit pipe thrust
in the corner of his mouth was the one touch that defeated the efforts
of his flowing hair and dark beard to suggest a youthful hermit
meditating in the doorway of his retreat.

Bull Sternford was seated on another box at the opposite side of the
doorway. He, too, had a pipe thrust between his strong jaws. But he was
smoking. Beyond the dressings applied to a few abrasions he bore no
signs of his recent battle. But there still burned a curiously fierce
light in his handsome blue eyes.

"You shouldn't have butted in, Father," he said, in a tone which
betrayed the emotion under which he was still labouring. "You just
shouldn't." Then with a movement of irritation: "Oh, I'm not a feller
yearning for homicide. No. It's not that. You know Arden Laval," he went
on, his brows depressing. "Of course you do. You must know him a whole
heap better than I do. Well? Say, I guess that feller hasn't a right to
walk this earth. He boasts the boys he's smashed the life clean out of.
He's killed more fool lumber-jacks than you could count on the fingers
of two hands. He wanted my scalp to hang on his belt. That man's a
murderer before God. But he's beyond the recall of law up here. And he
stops around on the fringe looking for the poor fool suckers who don't
know better than to get within his reach. Gee, it was tough! I'd a holt
on him I wouldn't get in a thousand years, and I'd nearly got the life
out of him. I'd stood for all his dirt weeks on end. He made his set at
me because I'm green and college-bred. But he called me a
'son-of-a-bitch!' Think of it! Oh, I can't rest with that hitting my
brain. It's no use. I'll have to break him. God, I'll break him yet. And
I'll see you aren't around when I do it."

The man's voice ha