big muscles set and his jaw tightened as the idea of revenge
flashed across his mind.

A man does not learn to outwit successfully the keen senses of the
denizens of the woods without finding it easy to solve a problem such
as the one which Malcolm now faced. For all that, he decided not to
approach too close till dark what he was now sure was a hut, for the
way the smoke rose was quite unlike that from an open fire. Having,
therefore, plenty of time, he made a long and cautious detour till he
had at last completely encircled the spot. There were the marks of one
pair of snow racquets only on the snow. The trail was possibly three
days old. No snow had fallen for several days. "Reckon he is taking a
good spell with that catch of his."

This much he knew. He knew the stranger was in or close to the tilt.
He was not trapping, though he had been inside the circle for several
days, and he had no dogs.

As it fell dark, Malcolm fully expected to see a light in the hut,
but not a twinkle showed through the single-pane window light, which
he had located from his hiding-place.

Now he was crawling nearer. There was no chance of his being seen, as
the moon had not yet risen and it was very dark among the trees. A
light wind had risen, rustling the firs and spruces above his head.
The fire worried him. Why had it almost died out? Heaven knows it was
cold enough to need one, for with all his warm blood Malcolm himself
was shivering. What could it mean?

Suddenly he heard some one move inside. Then came the noise of sticks
hitting a tin camp-stove and a sudden blaze flared up, burnt for a
minute or two, and apparently went out again. Whoever it was must be
ill, or hurt. He had no big billets or he wouldn't be firing with
twigs.

It could not do any harm now to enter, and Malcolm strode noisily to
the door and peered inside.

A man's weak voice greeted him. "Who's there? For God's sake, come
in."

"My name's Malcolm McCrea. Where's your light?"

"Haven't got one. I've no candle either," came the answer. "Had an
accident three days ago with my gun, and nearly blew my foot off. My
leg's swelled up something wonderful."

The voice, feeble almost to a whisper, conveyed no information as to
the man's identity, except that the Scotchman's quick ear detected
that there was resentment somehow mixed with satisfaction that a
rescuer had come.

"I've a drop of kerosene in my nonny-bag," was all Malcolm said, "but
it's scarce,