ures. She barely kept in sight, so rapidly
did he move.

Sam Davis had smoke pouring from the _Chickamin's_ stack, but the
kitchen pipe lifted no blue column, though it was close to five o'clock.
Benton made straight for the cookhouse. Stella followed, a trifle
uncertainly. A glimpse past Charlie as he came out showed her Matt
staggering aimlessly about the kitchen, red-eyed, scowling, muttering
to himself. Benton hurried to the bunkhouse door, much as a hound might
follow a scent, peered in, and went on to the corner.

On the side facing the lake he found the source of the cook's
intoxication. A tall and swarthy lumberjack squatted on his haunches,
gabbling in the Chinook jargon to a _klootchman_ and a wizen-featured
old Siwash. The Indian woman was drunk beyond any mistaking, affably
drunk. She looked up at Benton out of vacuous eyes, grinned, and
extended to him a square-faced bottle of Old Tim gin. The logger rose to
his feet.

"H'lo, Benton," he greeted thickly. "How's every-thin'?"

Benton's answer was a quick lurch of his body and a smashing jab of his
clenched fist. The blow stretched the logger on his back, with blood
streaming from both nostrils. But he was a hardy customer, for he
bounced up like a rubber ball, only to be floored even more viciously
before he was well set on his feet. This time Benton snarled a curse and
kicked him as he lay.

"Charlie, Charlie!" Stella screamed.

If he heard her, he gave no heed.

"Hit the trail, you," he shouted at the logger. "Hit it quick before I
tramp your damned face into the ground. I told you once not to come
around here feeding booze to my cook. I do all the whisky-drinking
that's done in this camp, and don't you forget it. Damn your eyes, I've
got troubles enough without whisky."

The man gathered himself up, badly shaken, and holding his hand to his
bleeding nose, made off to his rowboat at the float.

"G'wan home," Benton curtly ordered the Siwashes. "Get drunk at your own
camp, not in mine. _Sabe?_ Beat it."

They scuttled off, the wizened little old man steadying his fat
_klootch_ along her uncertain way. Down on the lake the chastised logger
stood out in his boat, resting once on his oars to shake a fist at
Benton. Then Charlie faced about on his shocked and outraged sister.

"Good Heavens!" she burst out. "Is it necessary to be so downright
brutal in actions as well as speech?"

"I'm running a logging camp, not a kindergarten," he snapped angri