en really like a prisoner in
his cell, with a ball and chain to his foot. Now he flew along, while
the cold wind whipped his blood, and felt what a delight it was merely
to live. He went on thus for hours, skirting down toward the cliffs that
contained "The Alcove." He rested a while in the afternoon and ate the
last of his rabbit, but before twilight he reached the creek, and stood
at the hidden path that led up to their home.

Henry sat down behind thick bushes and took off his snowshoes. To one
who had never come before, the whole place would have seemed absolutely
desolate, and even to one not a stranger no sign of life would have been
visible had he not possessed uncommonly keen eyes. But Henry had such
eyes. He saw the faintest wisp of smoke stealing away against the
surface of the cliff, and he felt confident that all four were there. He
resolved to surprise them.

Laying the shoes aside, he crept so carefully up the path that he
dislodged no snow and made no noise of any kind. As he gradually
approached "The Alcove" he beard the murmur of voices, and presently, as
he turned an angle in the path, he saw a beam of glorious mellow light
falling on the snow.

But the murmur of the voices sent a great thrill of delight through him.
Low and indistinct as they were, they had a familiar sound. He knew all
those tones. They were the voices of his faithful comrades, the four who
had gone with him through so many perils and hardships, the little band
who with himself were ready to die at any time, one for another.

He crept a little closer, and then a little closer still. Lying almost
flat on the steep path, and drawing himself forward, he looked into "The
Alcove." A fire of deep, red coals glowed in one corner, and disposed
about it were the four. Paul lay on his elbow on a deerskin, and was
gazing into the coals. Tom Ross was working on a pair of moccasins, Long
Jim was making some kind of kitchen implement, and Shif'less Sol was
talking. Henry could hear the words distinctly, and they were about
himself.

"Henry will turn up all right," he was saying. "Hasn't he always done it
afore? Then ef he's always done it afore he's shorely not goin' to break
his rule now. I tell you, boys, thar ain't enough Injuns an' Tories
between Canady an' New Orleans, an' the Mississippi an' the Atlantic, to
ketch Henry. I bet I could guess what he's doin' right at this moment."

"What is he doing, Sol?" asked Paul.

"When I shet my