nto the
palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and
fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, "I think you'll find the
use of the weed which grows on this hillside," with a jerk of his head
upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, "has
its advantages."

"Maybe," said Grey contemptuously.

"I doubt it," said Robb, with a pleasant smile.

The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe and emitted a cloud of
pungent smoke from between his lips. The others had lit up. But the
odour of the trapper's weed quickly dominated the atmosphere. He
talked rapidly now.

"You folks who travel the main trails don't see much of what is going
on in the mountains--the real life of the mountains," he said. "You
have no conception of the real dangers which these hills contain. Yes,
sir, they're hidden from the public eye, and only get to be known
outside by reason of the chance experience of the traveller who
happens to lose his way, but is lucky enough to escape the pitfalls
with which he finds himself surrounded. I could tell you some queer
yarns of these hills."

"Travellers' tales," suggested Grey, with a yawn and a disparaging
smile. "I have heard some."

"Yes," said Robb, "there are queer tales afloat of adventures
encountered by travellers journeying from the valley to the coast. But
they're chiefly confined to wayside robbery, and are of a very sordid,
everyday kind. No doubt your experiences are less matter-of-fact and
more romantic. By Jove, I feel jolly comfy. Not much like turning
out."

"That's how it takes me," said Smith quietly, but with a quick glance
at the speaker. "But idleness won't boil my pot. It's a remarkable
thing that I've felt wonderfully energetic these last few days, and
now that I have to turn out I should prefer to stop where I am. I
s'pose it's human nature."

He gazed upon his audience with a broad smile.

At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated the thick sides
of the dugout. Rainy-Moon was preparing for the start. Doubtless the
brilliant change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers
of the north.

"That's curious-smelling stuff you're smoking," said Grey, rousing
himself with an effort after a moment's dead silence. "What do you
call it?"

"Can't say--a weed," said Zachary Smith, glancing down his nose towards
the bowl of his pipe. "Not bad, is it? Smells of almonds--tastes like
nutty sherry."

Grey stifled