dors. Hanging from the rafters were several
dozen skins, stretched tightly on trappers' boards, and in various states
of curing. There was also a collection of steel traps, a dog sled and a
jumbled mass of dog harness.

Curing skins was not exactly a novelty to either of the boys but they
knew a valuable skin from an ordinary one and they could not resist the
temptation to look for a possible silver fox. They soon decided that the
trapper who might have collected these furs was one of no great
experience. Roy pointed to the skins, then made signs to the Indian as if
to ask if the skins belonged to him. The man grinned in silence and
punched up his little fire. Roy was examining one of the stretched hides
when he suddenly called to Norman and pointed to a name written with
indelible pencil near the bottom of the board.

"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed the astonished Norman.

The two boys were looking at the scrawl which was plainly "E. O.
Chandler."

"There you are!" exclaimed Roy. "Here's where our friend made his
headquarters. No wonder he knew that the Indians were starving."

There was a light tapping on the floor and the paralyzed and speechless
Indian pointed toward the corner of the room where there were signs of a
bunk. In the gloom the boys went to this place. But they noticed nothing
in particular until the prostrate Indian again lifted his stick upward.
And then, shoved in a crevice between the logs, they saw a soiled and
crumpled envelope. Taking it to the window, they read plainly enough the
address--"E. O. Chandler, Fort McMurray." There was no postmark but in
the upper left hand corner was this printing--"Hill Howell, Contractor,
Centralia, Kansas."

"It's one of the envelopes that Colonel Howell has down in camp,"
exclaimed Roy.

"Yes," answered Norman slowly, "and I'll bet you it's a message that
either Ewen or Miller wrote to Chandler after he left us."

"Do you think we ought to read it?" asked Roy, his fingers grasping the
greasy envelope as if itching to extract the enclosure.

"I reckon it's none of our business," answered Norman, as if with some
regret, "but I'll bet it concerns Colonel Howell and I believe we ought
to take it to him."

Roy turned toward the Indian and made signs of putting the letter in his
pocket. If this meant anything to the helpless man, he gave no sign other
than the same peculiar grin. Roy put the envelope in his pocket and,
making signs of farewell,