be a menace to his scheme.

Had Creed in some manner bungled the job? Or had he passed it up? He
must find out how much the greener knew. The boss guessed that if the
other had unearthed the plot, he would force an immediate crisis.

And so he watched narrowly, but with apparent unconcern, while Bill
climbed from the sled, followed by Daddy Dunnigan. On the hard-packed
snow of the clearing the two big men faced each other, and the
expression of each was a perfect mask to his true emotions.

But the greener knew that the boss was masking, while Moncrossen
accepted the other's guileless expression at its face value, and his
pendulous lips widened into a grin of genuine relief as he greeted the
arrivals.

"Hullo! You back a'ready? Hullo, Dunnigan! I'm sure glad you come;
we'll have some real grub fer a change.

"Hey, LaFranz!" he called to the passing Frenchman. "Put up this team
an' pack the gear to the bunk-house."

As the man drove away in the direction of the stable, Moncrossen
regarded the others largely.

"Come on in an' have a drink, boys," he invited, throwing wide the
door. "How's the foot?"

"Better," replied Bill. "It will be as good as ever in a week."

"I'm glad of that, 'cause I sure am cramped fer hands. I'll let Fallon
break you into sawin' an put Stromberg to teamin'; he's too pot-gutted
fer a sawyer."

Moncrossen produced a bottle as the others seated themselves.

"What--don't drink?" he exclaimed, as Bill passed the bottle to
Dunnigan. "That's so; b'lieve I did hear some one say you didn't use no
booze. Well, every man to his own likin'. Me--about three good, stiff
jolts a day, an' a big drunk in the spring an' fall, is about my gait.
Have a _see_gar." Bill accepted the proffered weed and bit off the end.

"How!" he said, with a short sweep of the arm; then, scratching a match
on the rung of his chair, lighted the unsavory stogie.

Thus each man took measure of the other, and Daddy Dunnigan tilted the
bottle and drank deep, the while he took shrewd measure of both.

* * * * *

It was in the early afternoon of the following day that Bill Carmody
tossed aside his magazine and yawned drowsily. Alone in the bunk-house,
his glance roved idly over the room, with its tiers of empty bunks and
racks of drying garments.

It rested for a moment upon his bandaged foot propped comfortably upon
Fallon's bunk, directly beneath his own, and strayed to the floor