. If by that time its appetite had not
revived, only the new foundations and the light task of filling in.
Perhaps then he would relieve himself of half his staff; he was
suddenly aware of the strain of such a lawless crew. Unexpectedly and
without precedent he found himself anticipating the six months' winter
rest.

His excited joy had been assuming peculiar expression. Sitting down
for more than a few minutes at a time became a strain. He insisted on
helping Tressa with the housework, and his interest in the books they
were reading was so perfunctory that Conrad and Tressa went on to the
end without bothering about his attention. Not infrequently he
strolled down to the river bottom and paced up and down beneath the
trestle. Again he would walk out on the sleepers above the quicksands
and glory in the solidity beneath his feet.

One evening when Conrad had gone to the Police barracks to make a
report on recent trifling but significant occurrences, and to complete
plans for a more systematic protection of the trestle now that it was
nearing completion, Torrance moved his chair to the open doorway and
sat dreaming.

"You haven't locked the stable yet," Tressa reminded him, breaking a
long silence.

He laughed recklessly. "What's the need? We'll be away in a month.
Big Chief gets 'em then. Funny if they were stolen. You bet the
Indian would find them."

"Don't be too sure of things, daddy. Adrian doesn't feel as
comfortable as you do--or want to make yourself think you do."

He whirled about in his chair, scowling. "What do you mean--'make
myself think I do'?"

She looked him steadily in the eye. "I don't believe you're as easy as
you make out. The trees are thick ahead yet."

"It's you, saying things like that, makes me moody," he returned
sulkily.

Tressa rose to find something in her room, and her father turned back
to the out-of-doors with an impatient exclamation.

In reality he was no more easy about things than Adrian. It was the
gripping anxiety of it made him struggle to convince himself. But it
was not the quicksands he feared, as Tressa supposed, but the bohunks.
Things were going too smoothly in bulk--the disturbing incidents were
so trifling and ineffectual. Accustomed to difficulties, the absence
of friction since the tragedy of the falling log was oppressive to him.
It was unnatural. Koppy was too tractable, the camp too peaceful. In
the idleness of those days he had time t