ery to Thayor, this finding a blind trail in the
forest, but to the trapper it was as plain as a thoroughfare.

"'T won't be long 'fore the old dog'll git down to business this
mornin'," he muttered to Thayor in his low voice, as he steadied him
along a slippery log. "The dog says Freme's allys sot on keepin' up
too high. He thinks them deer is feedin' on what they kin git low down
in the green timber underneath them big slides. I ain't of course,
sayin' nothin' agin Freme. Thar ain't a better starter in these hull
maountins, only him and the old dog ain't allus of the same idee."

Presently Big Shanty Brook flashed ahead of them through the trees,
and the trapper led the way out to a broad pool, a roaring cauldron of
emerald green steaming in mist. Just above it lay a point of
boulders out of which a dense clump of hemlocks struggled for a rough
existence--the boulders about their gnarled roots splitting the course
of the mountain torrent right and left.

"Thar, Mr. Thayor!" shouted the trapper in a voice that could be heard
above the roar of water. "Guess you'll be better off here whar ye kin
see up and down--if the deer comes through here he's liable to cross
jest above whar ye see them cedars noddin' to us, or like's not he'll
take a notion to strike in a leetle mite higher up, and slosh down
till he kin git acrost by them big rocks. Take your time, friend, and
if ye see him comin' your way, let him come on and don't shoot till he
turns and ye kin see the hull bigness of him."

"I'll do my best," returned Thayor above the roar, as he settled
himself behind the pile of driftwood the trapper had indicated. "But
where are you going, Mr. Holt?"

"Me? Oh, further up. 'T ain't likely he'll come my way, but if ye was
to miss him I'll be whar he can't git by without my gittin' the gun
on him if he undertakes to back track up the brook. Let's see!" he
exclaimed, after a moment's hesitation, again casting his keen eyes
over Thayor's vantage point. "Guess ye'd be more comfortable, wouldn't
ye, if ye was to set over thar whar ye won't git sloppin' wet. Gosh!
how she's riz!" he remarked, as Thayor re-settled himself. "If you was
to hear me shoot," said the old man, as he took his leave, "come back
up to whar I be. 'T ain't more 'n half a mile."

Thayor watched the gaunt figure of the trapper as he went off to his
runway, leaping with his long legs from one slippery boulder to the
next, as sure-footed as a goat--watched unt