appearing deadfalls, renew with increased confidence in his "winter
set," the world-old battle of skill against instinct.

On the crest of a low ridge at the edge of the old chopping where
Moncrossen's new Blood River tote-road made a narrow lane in the
forest, the Indian paused.

In the stump-dotted clearing, indistinct in the sullen dimness of the
overcast dawn, rotted the buildings of the abandoned log-camp. From one
of these smoke rose. Wabishke decided to investigate, for in the
Northland no smallest detail may pass unaccounted for. Swiftly he
descended the ridge and, gliding silently into the aftergrowth of
spindling saplings that reared their sickly heads among the stumps,
gained the rear of the shack. Noiselessly he advanced, and, peering
between the unchinked logs, surveyed the interior.

A man sat upon the floor near the stove and laboriously applied
bandages to his blistered feet. Near by was a new pack-sack against
which leaned a pair of new high-laced boots toward which the man shot
wrathful glances as he worked.

"_Chechako_," muttered the Indian, and passed around to the door.

A popular-fiction Indian would have glided stealthily into the shack
and, with becoming dignity, have remarked "How."

But Wabishke was just a common Indian--one of the everyday kind, that
may be seen any time hanging about the trading-posts of the
North-country--unimaginative, undignified--dirty. So he knocked loudly
upon the door and waited.

"Come in!" called Carmody, and gazed in surprise at the newcomer, who
stared back at him without speaking. Wabishke advanced to the stove,
and, fumbling in the pocket of his disreputable mackinaw, produced a
very old and black cob-pipe, which he gravely extended toward the
other.

"No, thanks!" said Bill hastily. "Got one of my own."

He eyed with disfavor the short, thick stem, about the end of which was
wound a bit of filthy rag, which served as a mouthpiece for the grip of
the yellow fangs which angled crookedly at the place where a portion of
the lip had been torn away in some long-forgotten combat of the wilds.

"T'bacco," grunted the visitor, with a greasy distortion of the
features which passed for a smile.

"Oh, that's it? Well, here you are."

Carmody produced a bright-colored tin box, which he handed to the
Indian, who squatted upon his heels and regarded its exterior in
thoughtful silence for many minutes, turning it over and over in his
hand and subjecting every ma