despised
him.

They made good use of his ability to "spot" a bird's-eye tree as far as
he could see one, however, an ability shared by few woodsmen, and which
in Creed amounted almost to genius.

The man had never been known to turn his hand to honest work, but as a
timber pirate and peddler of rotgut whisky among the Indians, he had
arisen to comparative affluence.

His hate for the greener was abysmal and unreasoning, and had been
carefully fostered by Moncrossen who, instinctively fearing that the
new man would eventually expose his nefarious double-dealing with his
employer, realized that at the proper time Creed could be induced to do
away with the greener under circumstances that would leave him,
Moncrossen, free from suspicion.

In the framing of Bill Carmody, Stromberg had no part. Moncrossen could
not fathom the big Swede, upon whose judgment and acumen he had come to
rely in the matter of handling and disposing of the stolen timber.

Several times during the winter he had tentatively broached plans and
insinuated means whereby the Swede could "accidentally" remove his
swamper from their path.

The reversing of a hook which would cause a log to roll just at the
right time on a hillside; the filing of a link; the snapping of a
weakened bunk-pin, any one of these common accidents would render them
safe from possible interference.

But to all these suggestions Stromberg turned a deaf ear. The boss even
taunted him with the knock-out he had received at the hands of the
greener.

"That's all right, Moncrossen," he replied; "I picked the fight purpose
to beat him up. It didn't work. He's a better man than me--or you
either--an' you know it. Only he had to lick me to prove it. He chilled
your heart with a look an' a grin--an' the whole crew lookin' on.

"But beatin' up a man is one thing an' murder is another. Appleton's
rich, besides he's a softwood man an' ain't fixed for handlin' veneer,
so I might's well get in on the bird's-eye as let you an' Creed an'
Lebolt steal it all. But I ain't got to the point where I'd murder a
good man to cover up my dirty tracks--an' I never will!"

And so, without consulting Stromberg, Moncrossen bided his time and
laid his plans. And now the time had come. The plan had been gone over
in detail in the little office, and Creed in the edge of the timber
stood ready to carry it out.

Stealthily he slipped into the dense shadows of the scrub and made his
way toward the shac