preparation of breakfast the following
morning, the half-breed appeared, followed closely by the old Indian
trapper whose scarred lips broke into a hideous grin at the sight of
Bill.

"This is Wabishke, of whom I spoke," said Jacques, indicating the
Indian. Bill laughingly extended his hand, which the other took.

"Well! If it isn't my friend, the Yankee!" he exclaimed. "Wabishke and
I are old friends. He is the first man I met in the woods." The Indian
nodded, grunted, and pointed to his feet which were encased in a very
serviceable pair of boots.

"Oh, I remember, perfectly," laughed Bill. "Have you still got my
matches?" Wabishke grinned.

"You keel _loup-garou_ with knife?" he asked, as if seeking
corroboration for an unbelievable story.

"I sure did," Bill answered. "The old gal tried to bite me."

The Indian regarded him with grave approval and, stepping to his side,
favored him with another greasy hand-shake, after which ceremony he
squatted by the fire and removing a half-dozen pieces of bacon from the
frying-pan proceeded to devour them with evident relish.

Breakfast over, the three men accompanied by Jeanne set out for the
river, leaving to old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta the work of the camp. Sliding a
canoe into the water, they took their places, Jacques and Wabishke at
the paddles, with Jeanne and Bill seated on the bottom amidships.

Close to the opposite bank the canoe was headed down-stream and, under
the swift, strong strokes of the paddles, glided noiselessly in the
shadows. A few minutes later, at a sign from Jacques who was in the
bow, Wabishke, with a deft twist of his paddle, slanted the canoe
bankward.

With a soft, rustling sound the light craft parted the low hanging
branches of killikinick and diamond willow, and buried its nose in the
soft mud.

Peering through the tangle of underbrush the occupants of the canoe
made out, some fifty yards below their position, a small clearing in
the center of which, just above the high-water mark of the river, was a
small pyramid of logs.

Seated beside the pile, with his back resting against the ends of the
logs, sat a man holding a rifle across his knees.

Bill Carmody's fighting spirit thrilled at the sight. Here at last was
action. Here were the stolen logs of bird's-eye, and guarding them was
Creed!

While the others steadied the canoe he stepped noiselessly onto the
bank, where he sank to his ankles in the mud, and, seizing hold of the
bow shot t