, but which were now
lost to him forever. And as he looked, other thoughts crowded his
brain; thoughts of his father, and the scorn of their parting; thoughts
of the girl, of her words, and of his own boast: "_I_ can beat the
game! And I will beat it--now!... And some day you will know."

His anger rose against the man whose own flesh and blood he was, who
had driven him from home with words of bitter sarcasm, and against the
girl and her sneering repudiation of him. He leaped to his feet and
shook a clenched fist to the southward:

"I told you I would make good!" he roared, "and, by God, I will! I am a
McKim--do you hear? I am a McKim--and I shall make good!"

He reached for the bottle and placed it beside him on the pine table.
He did not pour out the whisky, for he did not fear it--only if he
drank it need he fear.

Just one little drink, and he was lost--and he knew this. And now he
knew that he would never take that drink--and he looked at the bottle
and laughed--laughed as the girl had laughed when she sent him from her
forever.

"It's no go, old boy," he smiled, apostrophizing John Barleycorn. "I
served you long--and well. But I quit. You would not believe that I
quit, and came out here to get me. And you almost got me. Almost, but
not quite, John, for I have quit for good and all. We can still be
friends, only now I am the master and you are the servant, and to start
out with, I am going to pour half of you over my blistered feet."

He recovered the packet from the floor and looked long at the picture.
"And some day you will know," he repeated, as he returned it to his
pocket.

Thus did the lonely girl in a far distant city unconsciously win a
silent victory for the man she loved--and who loved her.

CHAPTER XIII

ON THE TOTE-ROAD

Very early in the morning on the day of the storm which had been
welcomed by the lumber-jacks of the Blood River camp, old Wabishke
started over his trap-line.

The air was heavy with the promise of snow, and one by one the Indian
took up his traps and hung them in saplings that they might not be
buried.

After the storm, with the Northland lying silent under its mantle of
white, and the comings and goings of the fur-bearers recorded in
patterns of curious tracery, Wabishke would again fare forth upon the
trap-line.

With wise eyes and the cunning of long practice, he would read the sign
in the snow, and by means of craftily concealed iron jaws and innocent