Adventure (magazine)/Volume 51/Number 5/The River Trail

by Leslie McFarlane

 

IKE the bears in the mountain country to the north, Wakina sleeps in the winter time; also, like the bears, it wakens with the break-up and is lazily active until the snow falls again. It slumbers drearily under winter snows, rousing to activity with the first caressing winds of spring—rouses to the only activity which justifies its existence.

The River Trail
A Complete Novelette
by Leslie McFarlane

Wakina is not a town, not a village, not even a hamlet, for the true hamlet varies little with the seasons. It is on the railway, but it has no station, merely a weatherbeaten hut whereon hangs a tin sign, with the name of the place upon it. Bored passengers on the transcontinental trains, if they glance at the sign at all, wonder idly why men live in such forsaken places.

The Missabi, flowing north from the railway toward James Bay, supplies the answer. For Wakina is a fur trading post and, although in winter it slumbers, in the summer it becomes atune with nature and even grows; crude hovels and tents springing up to extend its meager borders. With the break-up come the Indians, debouching from the vast, mysterious lands of the Missabi, with their fat, placid wives, their brown, quarrelsome children and, most important of all, their furs.

They come to the long, low trading store, an architectural nonentity, which was a source of profound amazement to them when it was first built, and there they traffic with a gravity appropriate to the magnificence about them.

They hand over their bundles of furs, treasure trove from the winter silences, lapse into gloom when the factor deducts the amount of the previous season's debt from their credit, then brighten up as they gutturally discuss the merits of the guns, the traps, the blankets, the gay bolts of gingham and calico—anything on the crowded shelves that may catch their vagrant fancies. Then, proud in the possession of luxuries from a world other than their own, they live about Wakina for the summer, idling in the pleasant warmth, improvident as the sluggard of fable, until the dry leaves whisper to them in falling that they must turn again their faces to the north.

Wakina was sleeping now, for it was mid-January. The trading store, its wide roof heavy with snow, sprawled in the feeble sunlight, its windows, somber and impassive, staring out over a dead whiteness. Gentle smoke, drifting from a chimney, was the only sign of life. The railway hut, small and a bit pathetic in the solitude, was almost hidden by a huge snowbank. A few shacks, occupied by the Indians in the summer, were now only white mounds near by and, had it not been for the curling smoke above the store, one might have thought Wakina bereft of all living things.

There were two people in the trading store, however. Zotique Larose, a wiry little French Canadian, had appeared from the fringe of pines along the river bank a few minutes before, shouting gruffly to his dogs, which were now sheltered in the stable back of the post, and he now sat with the factor, Hugh Munroe, beside the stove in the big store.

Zotique was puffing with satisfaction at a venerable pipe, a haze of smoke already around him. His mackinaw and moccasins were cast aside and he sat there comfortably, in his shirt sleeves, his stockinged feet near the fire, while Munroe, elaborately casual, tipped back in his chair and waited for Zotique to speak—which would be when Zotique had the chill out of his bones and when the tobacco rendered him content; not before.

So Munroe, a ruddy, broad-shouldered young man, rolled himself a cigaret and whistled idly, as if it mattered not to him if Zotique should decide not to talk at all.

“I go see four, fi' Injuns,” said the French Canadian at last, fingering the stubble of beard on his chin.

“And——”

“All tell same t'ing. Dat feller Joe Moon take away all furs dey got.”

“With money or booze?”

“Mos' time whisky blanc. Sometime money—not much.”

“How far up did you go?”

“Not ver' far. I only go up Spruce Lake, den I go back in from river for see Injuns. All say same t'ing, so I tell me, 'What's de use go any farder?' So I come back an' tol' you.”

“You did right, Zotique. That was all I wanted to know—if Joe Moon was out again this winter.”

“Oh, dat feller out again, you bet. Him worse dan evaire. Dose pore —— of Injun, he get dem so dronk dey not know what dey do and den he go 'way wit' deir fur. Sacre! Dat feller Joe Moon should be pinch, eh?”

Zotique spat against the stove to express his hatred for the villainous Joe Moon, and puffed ferociously at his pipe.

For Joe Moon and his liquor were causing trouble.

THE winter previous, Joe Moon, a great giant of a man, evil, unscrupulous, and wise in all the ways of the north, had come to the Missabi section. Where he had come from no one knew, but so forbidding was Joe Moon, and so callous was he to all the laws of God and man, that none dared inquire.

It was said that he had been hounded out of Northern Quebec by the redcoats. Hard as iron, contemptuous of all the perils of the trails, Joe Moon had arrived in the Missabi region and had turned to a means of livelihood which bade fair to net him a fortune unless the redcoats learned of it and turned their attention to him again.

Going up into the fur country in the depth of winter, Joe Moon took with him whisky blanc to trade with the Indians, and they, weak in the face of temptation, readily gave him their furs for the liquor. Not always was it whisky blanc, quite frequently it was mere rot-gut, and not always did the Indians desire to trade, but a few friendly drinks—and they would part with furs, with anything they had, for more. Joe Moon traveled tirelessly back and forth on many trips, each time bringing out a great load of furs to be sold to the Jewish buyers at the railway, east of Wakina. He avoided the trading post for he knew he was exploiting the Indians without compunction and he knew that he was ruining the fur trade of the Northland Company at Wakina.

“Last season was bad, Zotique,” said Munroe reflectively, as he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I guess she was worse ever seen here, eh?”

“The worst ever. And it looks as if this season will be just as bad.”

“Dat pretty tough for you, yes?”

“It's worse than that.”

It would be pretty tough for him. Munroe, the youngest factor in the service of the Northland Company, was facing a problem which threatened to oust him from a position for which he had worked hard and served well. He had been placed in charge at Wakina the previous winter, after five seasons as assistant in another company post on the line of the railway, and his first year of responsibility had been one of utter failure. It had been so bad that the big chief in Montreal had written him a tart and uncompromising letter, hinting that another such season would mean his finish.

And now Zotique Larose brought him news which seemed to indicate just that consummation.

It was not his fault; but the big chief in Montreal did not look for causes. He looked for results, and the man who could not produce them was cast out forthwith. The Big Chief in Montreal would not have understood if he had been told, how Joe Moon could wreck the once flourishing fur trade at Wakina, but Hugh Munroe could understand it only too well.

He knew that when the Indians came out from the north last break-up, with fewer furs than they had brought out in years, while Indians came out to other posts of the company with the best catch in a decade, it had been because Joe Moon was at work.

The big chief in Montreal could not understand how an independent trader could cut in on the Wakina post to any appreciable degree, for the Indians of the Missabi had traded at Wakina for years, and depended on the post for the necessities of life. They were kept in a fealty of debt, for when they left for their traplines every fall they were invariably in debt to the company for grub and equipment and a considerable quantity of the winter's catch would go toward wiping out that debt the following spring.

They had no disposition to bargain with the independent trader who might go up into the fur country, for prices fluctuate greatly in the fur game and the independents could rarely afford to gamble by offering them higher prices than they would get at the post, so the Indians, being avaricious, played safe and traded where they got the most for their furs—which was at Wakina.

The big chief in Montreal knew these things, and he was right in thinking that the ordinary independent could affect the Wakina trade very little. But Joe Moon was no ordinary trader. When he went up into the fur country after Christmas and visited the traplines all winter long, giving the redskins liquor for their best furs, he left little enough for the Indians to bring to Wakina in the spring. Joe Moon had made money, much money, for he got the furs for a song, and waxed prosperous, while the Northland post at Wakina had the worst year in its history.

The big chief in Montreal couldn't be expected to understand all the ins and outs of this. He looked over typewritten sheets on his desk and saw that the post at Wakina, with Hugh Munroe in charge, had barely shown a profit, and he concluded that Hugh Munroe, however good his past record, was evidently too young for responsibility. He had even grumbled at himself for a soft hearted fool because he had decided to give Munroe another chance, one more season in which to make good or get out. That was the way the big chief in Montreal had looked at the matter.

And now Munroe saw another year of failure looming ahead. He had sent Zotique Larose up into the fur country to see what he could see. And Zotique had seen. There had been some rumors that Joe Moon had taken himself elsewhere at the close of the previous season, and Munroe had held hopes. But plainly, Joe Moon was back again.

The police could help, perhaps. The damage had been already done, the previous season, before Munroe knew of Joe Moon's activities and, while even then his first impulse had been to notify the “mounties,” caution had restrained him. Joe Moon might not come back, and police action could not undo the damage he had done. It would be hard enough to get evidence against him, at that. The punishment for giving liquor to the Indians is severe, but the clam is a veritable chatterbox compared with the redskin questioned as to the source of his liquor.

Mounted Police might roam the Missabi region from end to end and fail to find an Indian who would give evidence against Joe Moon. They would simply become sullen and silent when questioned and no amount of interrogation would wrest from them a word against the trader. So Munroe had decided to keep quiet in the hope that Joe Moon had left for good.

In any case, he did not care to appeal to the police. It was his own fight. To him, there was a savor of weakness, an admission of defeat, in appealing to the law. Even now, when he knew that Joe Moon was back again, he hesitated to notify the mounties. It would mean days of delay, perhaps weeks before Joe Moon could be apprehended, and even if his rival were brought to book at last, it would be too late to save Munroe.

“DAT Injun, Mike, up on Spruce Lake, he tell me he sell Joe Moon ten beaver, eight marten, free fox, for two bottle of booze,” went on Zotique. “I tell him he one big fool. He say he know dat now, but after he drink a leetle he sell everyt'ing he got for more whisky. Same way wit' all de oders.”

Munroe nodded. He remembered the Indian, Mike, up on Spruce Lake. The redskin had come to Wakina last break-up with a few beaver and mink, and a collection of muskrat skins which Joe Moon had refused to buy, and all else he had to show for his winter's trapping had been penitent countenance and some empty bottles. The furs had not paid his debt to the trading post for the food and supplies which he had brought up into the bush with him the previous fall, he had lived in rank poverty all summer and was in deeper debt than ever to the company when he set out again.

There had been other Indians in a similar plight, with the exception of some fortunate souls whom Joe Moon had somehow overlooked and who had, accordingly, lived in the lap of luxury all summer, the envy of their crestfallen and repentant fellows. Munroe remembered giving the Indian from Spruce Lake a severe lecture and he had been duly shamed and admitted his folly. Like the others, he had promised to stay clear of Joe Moon's blandishments in future, and trade only for money or goods, but it was as Zotique said—

“After he drink a leetle he sell everyt'ing he got for more whisky.”

That was where Joe Moon had the edge. Had he been an independent trader, in legitimate competition, he would not have been dangerous, but the liquor altered everything.

“And you think it'll be the same old story, eh, Zotique?” said Munroe. “The Indians will come down here in the spring without enough furs to make it worth while dealing with them.”

“Same t'ing as last year,” grunted Zotique, tapping his pipe on the edge of his chair and reaching for the can of tobacco near by. “Mebbe a lot of dem Injuns not even pay deir debt. Next fall dey want more supply an' want for you trust dem.”

“I know. They'll want us to trust them for supplies so they can go up and trap more furs for Joe Moon, and we lose our money. They don't mean to do it, but once Joe Moon heaves in sight with his booze they forget us altogether.”

“An' if you not give dem Injuns debt next fall, what can dey do? Dey jus' move away somewhere else and you get no trade at all.”

“He gets us coming and going.”

“Bot' ways.”

Truly, Joe Moon held the upper hand. The full realization of this was beginning to dawn upon the factor. Through no fault of his own, he was being slowly and inevitably brought face to face with defeat, all by an enemy he had never seen, an enemy whom, it appeared, he could not fight.

“What can we do about it, Zotique?”

The French Canadian shrugged his shoulders. The factor's problems were not his. It was not for him to suggest or advise. He was sorry for Munroe, for he had a shrewd inkling of the consequences to the factor should the season's trade fail again, but so far as he was concerned he could not see that there was anything else to do but sit tight and hope that the gods of the wilderness saw to it that Joe Moon happily froze to death some bitter night or otherwise met a swift and sudden doom which would automatically solve the problem.

Munroe did not expect a reply. He tapped the arm of the chair with his fingers and looked moodily at the ceiling, while Zotique puffed away at his pipe.

He seemed utterly helpless. Up in the fur country Joe Moon was making away with the pelts, spring and another failure at the post were drawing nearer, and all he could do was sit there and await the inevitable.

He wondered if he dared fight Joe Moon at his own game, go up the Missabi and buy from the Indians direct; he wondered if it would be of any use. For he could not stoop to the methods of Joe Moon, there could be no trading in liquor; he would have to rely on cash purchases.

Would it be worth the risk, he asked himself? For there would be risk. He would be dismissed from the service were it known that he deserted the post in midwinter, no matter how high his motives or how excellent his intentions. The company had always done business in the old way, maintaining the dignity of a buyer always in a known place. They had seen too many ambitious independent buyers start out to compete with them, and end up in failure. The Wakina factors stayed in their posts and let the Indians come to them.

Well, reflected Munroe, he would be dismissed in any case if he waited for spring to come and had to turn in another bad report. Anything would be better than merely waiting passively for that to happen. He could, at least, put up a fight for the trade.

“ZOTIQUE,” he said. “I'm thinking of going up there and buying furs myself.”

Zotique grunted, and shook his head.

“No good—unless you bring whisky blanc.”

“No, I won't give booze for their furs. I'd pay cash. Next to a bottle of liquor there's nothing like a roll of greenbacks, to an Indian. I know I won't be able to go very far up the river and at the best I won't get many furs if Joe Moon has been ahead of me, but it looks to be the only way out if I don't want to see that room out there as empty as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard next spring.”

He waved his hand toward the storage room at the back, and remembered how appallingly empty it had been the season before. Certainly, he didn't want that to happen again.

“I nevair hear of dis Madame Hubbard,” replied Zotique. “But I don't t'ink you can do ver' much. Who mind store w'en you go 'way?”

He might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, Munroe decided.

“How would you like to mind it, Zotique?”

Zotique's eyes widened and he laughed.

“Me? Me mind store? Dat one big joke.” He chuckled, appreciatively, at the idea.

“I mean it. There's nothing much doing around here in the winter. It isn't often any one comes around. Perhaps there won't be any one before I come back, but if there is, you can handle them.”

Zotique had helped him in the store the previous trading season. He was an honest, slow-going old fellow, and shrewd. While he could not do a great deal of good at the post, at least he would do no harm. He could be relied upon to mind the place for a fortnight at least. For Munroe, after toying with the idea, had definitely decided to make a fortnight's journey up into the fur country, to attempt to salvage something from the wreck of the season's trade, and if the experiment proved successful he would go out again.

Zotique was pleased. The thought of minding the Wakina post, all alone, was attractive.

“Well,” he said, “if you t'ink I can. I do anyt'ing you tol' me. You won't be away ver' long, no?”

“Only a couple of weeks. I'm going to try it anyway, Zotique. I'm hanged if I'm going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs all winter and let Joe Moon beat me. I'm going to give him a fight.”

He got up from his chair and walked briskly out to the little kitchen at the back.

“You go right now?” asked Zotique in astonishment. This young fellow Munroe wasted no time.

“Not right away,” laughed the factor. “First thing in the morning, though. I'm going to pack up some grub and things, and if I don't come back here with some furs my name isn't Munroe. And if I meet this fellow Joe Moon I'll tell him a few things.”

Therein lay much of Munroe's real desire to get up into the fur country. He wanted to meet Joe Moon. He wanted to come to grips with this man who was ruining his fur trade; he did not like the idea of sitting placidly in Wakina all winter long while Joe Moon busied himself with his nefarious traffic in the wilds. He wanted Joe Moon to know that he was fighting back, that he was not going to take his defeat lying down.

He opened a pack sack upon the table and commenced to prepare for his journey. Cold moose meat, tea, sugar, bannock flour; he would not need a great deal of food for he would be among the Indians, but it would be as well to go prepared. Deftly he packed the things he would need, arranging them with an economy of space which showed that he was no neophyte of the trails.

“Dat Joe Moon, he pretty big feller,” observed Zotique, coming into the kitchen to watch the preparations. “He, w'at you say?—tough guy.”

“I don't care how tough he is. I'm not going to let him walk away with all the furs in the Missabi without putting up a scrap for them.”

Zotique looked dubious. He glanced at the tall, sinewy young man who was busying himself with the packing, and he told him self that there was excitement in store for Joe Moon. Although, truly, Joe Moon was a terrible man.

“Some fellow tol' me Joe Moon nearly kill one fur buyer las' winter,” he said. “Fur buyer was try to trade wit' de Injuns too, an' Joe Moon shoot him. He mos' die. You bettair take a gun.”

“Oh, I'm taking a gun all right, but there'll be no shooting. If I meet Joe Moon I'll tell him what I think of him and give him a good licking. If I don't meet him I'll try to get all the furs I can anyway.”

“He ver' bad man.”

“Say, Zotique,” said Munroe, pausing to look at the old man. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No—I not try scare you. But you be ver' careful wit' Joe Moon. I know. I hear 'bout him often.”

“Oh, I'll be careful, all right. Joe Moon will run when he sees me coming,” Munroe laughed.

Brave words, these. Zotique watched Munroe as he carefully bundled up a sleeping bag. The old French Canadian felt a slight quaver of apprehension. These young fellows are so confident. And Joe Moon was a “tough guy.”

II

THE kitchen window was a black mirror reflecting the yellow lamp light as Hugh Munroe moved about next morning in final preparation for his journey north of Wakina. It was not quite dawn; the wind was moaning about the trading post; the shop out in front was in darkness save for a straggling peninsula of lamplight beyond the doorway; the stove was crackling in a dull way, but the little kitchen was very cold.

Munroe's bunk, with the blankets turned back, looked very inviting, and, as he moved about his tasks, he tried to shake off a great depression. There is a chill which comes with the hours approaching dawn of a winter morning, a chill more bitter, more penetrating than any other, a chill which not only permeates the body but the soul, disillusioning, disenheartening, discouraging.

The small hours before winter daylight cast a blight upon the hopes and ambitions of any man who stirs to activity at that time; for then, all endeavors seem futile, all desires empty, all achievements worthless. Was it worth while, after all, he wondered, to try to fight Joe Moon? Would it not be better to give in, when the odds were so hopeless, instead of making this quixotic attempt, which would only intensify the bitterness of defeat?

Zotique Larose was snoring amid his blankets at the other end of the room. There was no long journey out into the darkness for him; and if he wished, Hugh Munroe could go back to his bunk and sleep as well. But there is an instinct in youth against the line of least resistance, an instinct toward the harder course and, although now all Munroe's vainglorious desires to hasten down the river trail and give battle to Joe Moon, appeared strangely useless and futile in this cold, dark morning, he opened the door and lugged out his pack-sack and sleeping bag, piling them on the toboggan, with a dogged determination to go through with his plan, no matter how empty it now appeared.

He returned to the kitchen to find the kettle boiling, and he had breakfast, frying bacon and dipping bread in the hot grease, drinking strong tea, while the blackness of the window behind him mingled almost imperceptibly with a sullen gray and the lamplight grew weaker and the shadows melted. Faint light gradually diffused the gloom of the shop, out in front, where the long windows shyly emerged to view and took on shape.

It was dawn when Munroe finished his meal. He went out into the shop and over to the little safe behind the counter, twiddling mechanically at the combination until he finally pulled the door open. He took out a bundle of bills he had counted out the evening before, a thousand dollars in all, and stuffed them securely in his money belt, then locked the safe again and returned to the kitchen.

The money would be more than ample for the length of his trip, but it was best to be on the safe side; he might have better luck than he expected. He put on his mackinaw and fur cap and pulled on his heavy mittens. Then, with a final glance at the sleeping Larose, he blew out the lamp and strode out of the kitchen into the snow.

There were a few wan stars overhead as he crossed over to the stable and the dogs greeted him, snarling, but he led them out and hitched them to the toboggan. A great stretch of snow merged with a scattering of woods on the dark horizon, far away, bleak and uninviting, and the wide valley of the river extended in irregular curves and twistings into an infinite gloom. A well beaten path led down to the river trail and Munroe turned to it, urging the dogs and, after ineffectual growlings, they bowed to the trail and were away.

Down on the frozen river, where the snow was hard and firm, and the trail led away between the white, winding banks, they settled to their task and sped northward.

The trading post became hidden from view. Dawn gave way to daylight, and the shrouded forms of burnt trees stood out, clear and distinct, along the sloping river borders. A fire had passed across there two seasons before and in the summer those banks were black tangles of desolation but now the snow hid the ruin.

The river trail unfolded before them as they passed projecting points and, here and there, came upon little islands jutting suddenly out of the surrounding whiteness. They had struck a steady, even pace and, when finally the morning wore on and the sun struggled from behind a tattered cloud, Munroe became aglow; the cold was more of an external thing now, that hour of darkness before the beginning of the journey seemed years and years ago; he felt warm and vigorous, and confidence returned to him.

“Moosh!” he cried to his dogs, not that they were lagging, but because the sound of his voice relieved the tension of the loneliness, and he hummed lines of a trail song as they coursed toward the everbeckoning river bends, toward new vistas of the frozen river, with its snow-covered slopes and illimitable stretches of trees ranging high on either side to receding silhouettes against the sky. For they had left the burnt lands behind.

When the sun was overhead he halted by a pine-covered point and let the dogs rest, while he ate his lunch of bread and cold moose meat, after which he smoked a pipe, then shouted to his dogs again and once more plunged into the white silence.

He had long been accustomed to the north, but never had he been able to rid himself of an unfathomable awe in the spectacle of the sweeping reaches of the snows, so inscrutable, so magnificently imbued with a sense of power—where a human being was so small and so impotent that there was something humorous in the mere thought of a man pitting his puny strength against this wilderness.

It was a wilderness with all the magic inconsistency of the sea, and there was a fascination about it for, while it could be kind, it was always stern and often ruthless. It was a wilderness prodigal in its gifts to the bold, yet it played no favorites, and could unleash consuming furies to destroy strong man and weakling alike.

There was a life for a man! To gamble with the wilderness for her favors, to risk the impartial doom of her smiting blizzards, her griping cold, her terrific solitudes. He could understand now why men returned again and again to this feverish game, prospectors, trappers, fur traders, succumbing to the fascination. He even had some admiration for Joe Moon, who took the risks of the wilderness, but there was more of contempt, for Joe Moon was moved by greed, and did not gamble fairly.

So ran his thoughts as he followed the river trail, and it was with surprize that finally he saw the river widen out and noticed that the pines along the river banks were giving away to a growth of spruce, which indicated that he was near Spruce Lake where lived that Indian, Mike, who had sold his furs to Joe Moon for two bottles of liquor.

IT WAS midafternoon. He had not anticipated reaching the Indian's shack before nightfall, and he was elated at having made such good time. They emerged on to the small lake and the dogs, sighting the cabin on the opposite shore, increased their speed. In a few minutes they had reached the footpath leading up to the shack and Munroe, leaving his toboggan, walked up the slope while the Indian himself emerged from his shack to greet him.

“'Lo,” said the Indian, whom some humorous factor, years before, had dubbed Michael Angelo, which sobriquet had been shortened to “Mike,” and by which name the redskin had been known among the white men ever since.

He was a fat, sleepy looking Indian, and his nondescript garb of store trousers, moccasins and tattered sweater, would have been surprizing to any one expecting the buckskin accouterments of the movie red man. He grinned broadly as he recognized the factor.

“Good day, Mike,” greeted Munroe, in Siwash, a dialect wherein the Indian and the white man met half way on the unsteady bridge of conversation. “Just came up to pay you a little visit.”

If the Indian was surprized at seeing Munroe away from Wakina at this time of year he gave no sign of it but merely waited, expectantly, to learn the purpose of his call.

“How much fur have you?”

The face of Michael Angelo became overshadowed with a great sadness and he at once became properly ashamed of himself.

“Zotique ask me. I tell him: Joe Moon.”

“Haven't you any left at all? Haven't you been out on your lines since Joe Moon was here?”

The Indian went into his shack and Munroe followed. Although it was small and dirty, Mike was immensely proud of his abode, for he had built it in a good season some years ago. There was a real stove, battered and ancient, but nevertheless a stove, and a window, with real glass. The cabin was well made, of cedar logs brought from a swamp some distance away, and Mike had fashioned an excellent door, with wooden hinges.

But Munroe was not there to admire. Mike took a few furs from the wall and handed them to him. There were two beaver, one marten and some muskrat, all of which the Indian had accumulated since Joe Moon's last visit and, while Munroe had expected it, his heart sank as he looked at the furs.

“All right,” he told Mike. “I'll take them. They'll go on your debt.”

He wasted no time, but bundled up the furs and made a note of the amount in a small notebook he carried, checking it off against the figure of Mike's debt to the company, for he had prepared himself beforehand with this information. Mike looked very solemn; the whole process savored strongly of giving his furs away altogether. With Joe Moon he at least got some liquor.

“If you hadn't traded all your furs to Joe Moon for whisky blanc you might have had your debt cleared up by now,” said Munroe, to emphasize the lesson. “You know you shouldn't drink, Mike. That's why you have so few furs for me now, and if you deal with Joe Moon any more you won't have any at all when you come to Wakina.”

He turned to leave the cabin.

“Where you going now?” asked Mike.

“Down the river. See some more Indians.”

“Joe Moon there,” said the Indian, impassively.

“What of it?”

Mike shrugged his shoulders.

“He no like. Joe Moon bad man.”

Munroe laughed.

“He can't frighten me. I want to meet him.”

Mike grunted a few words in his own tongue, in which Munroe could distinguish some good advice to go back to Wakina and avoid certain death farther on, but he merely grinned cheerfully and left the cabin with the furs, waved good-by to the Indian, who watched him from the doorway, and went back down to his toboggan.

“Away we go again,” he said to his dogs, as he flung down the little bundle of furs, and they turned again toward the river trail.

Spruce Lake disappeared behind and, after he had journeyed for some time, there came a faint glow behind the river bank, which told him that the sun had set. A chill wind swept down the Missabi. Darkness comes quickly in midwinter out in the open, but he made good time, and, when finally he saw a twinkling of light far ahead, he was able to distinguish the outlines of the cabin from which it emanated and he knew he was approaching the cabin of Louis Buckshot.

His dealing with Mike had been no more successful than he had anticipated, but Louis Buckshot was a cautious old half-breed, of whom he had higher hopes. He was a good trapper, he always brought in a big catch, and the previous year he had been among the very few who had resisted the temptation of Joe Moon's liquor. Munroe had hopes that he might have proved as adamant again this season. If Louis Buckshot had a good supply of furs on hand his journey would be worthwhile even if he failed elsewhere.

The darkness grew deeper, and when he finally drove up to Louis Buckshot's cabin, night had fallen. The half-breed opened the door when he heard the dogs, and stood there, peering out in surprize, for visitors were few in the winter time.

“HULLO, Louis,” shouted Munroe. ”It's only me! How about a meal and bed for a tired man?”

The half-breed came out and, recognizing him, grunted a welcome and bent to help Munroe unhitch the dogs. The latter leaped from the harness and showed no disposition to be herded into a small lean-to behind the shack, but the factor snapped his whip over them and spoke sharply, and they finally obeyed. Louis brought out some fish and threw it to the animals. Then Munroe followed him into the shack, while the dogs fought over their meal.

It was a dark, untidy little hovel, and the only light was from an open fire in the center, a hole in the roof disposing of the smoke, and Louis Buckshot's squaw, a massive, ungainly parody of a woman, was bending over a bubbling pot, whence rose an odor of stewing beaver meat. This odor served in some measure to counteract the general foulness of the place but Munroe, although not squeamish, had an impulse to hold his breath as he entered.

Louis Buckshot said nothing, but indicated a soap box upon which Munroe might sit, and himself retired to a bunk in the shadows, where he reclined to contemplate his visitor. Two children peeped out from under the bunk, like shy animals, and another stared solemnly at Munroe from behind a pile of furs in a corner. The squaw, after looking around without show of interest, resumed her duties at the fire.

“You eat?” invited Louis, finally.

He spoke to the woman, who filled a tin pannikin with beaver stew, and handed it to Munroe. Louis took a pannikin himself, the woman produced spoons with great pride, the children emerged from their hiding places and soon all were eating, none with more gusto than their visitor. Munroe, who was hungry after his long journey, took two helpings of the stew and complimented Louis Buckshot, who smiled with satisfaction, as if he had been personally responsible for its excellence.

They washed down the meal with snow water, and then the factor produced his tobacco pouch. Louis Buckshot's eyes lighted up, he moved over and sat down on the floor, gravely accepted tobacco, and they smoked. The squaw bundled the children to bed and retired to the back ground. The men could now talk business.

“Got any fur, Louis?”

“Some.”

“Was Joe Moon here?”

“Him here,” replied Louis, in broken English. “Me no trade.”

“That's good. I'm buying furs now. Show me what you have.”

The half-breed betrayed no surprize, but grunted a command to his squaw, who moved about the shack, gathering the furs, which she placed in a great heap between the two men.

Munroe's eyes brightened. This was better luck. There was a goodly quantity of beaver, some marten and fisher, a few skunk, three fox, among them a black fox skin of surpassing beauty and worth much, and even a wolverine, as well as furs, of minor value. The furs made an imposing heap before him and he strove to appear matter-of-fact.

He inspected the furs and rated their value at current prices, figured for a moment in his note-book and then said:

“These furs clear up your debt, Louis. I give you one hundred dollars besides.”

Now Louis Buckshot had one idiosyncrasy. He did not like paper money. Gold coins, silver coins, articles of trade in the way of blankets and tea and mouth-organs, were all as one to him, but he had a deep-rooted suspicion of paper money. Other Indians and half-breeds took to it quickly enough, but there was a streak of obstinacy in his nature which made him slow in accepting it as part of the scheme of things.

At the trading post he had simply turned in his furs, taken such articles as he desired until the factor told him his credit was gone, taken out new supplies in the fall on credit, and seldom saw money at all. And now, when Munroe felt in his belt and produced a roll of bills, counting out a hundred dollars in tens, he shook his head.

He didn't want any of the white man's money. He was eyeing Munroe's rifle, leaning in a corner. His own rifle was old. Would Munroe give him the rifle for his furs? Munroe would not. He held the money before the half-breed's face but it aroused no emotion. It was merely a handful of paper to him. Some one had once told him that paper money was often bad, that sometimes the trading stores wouldn't accept it, and this had stuck in his memory. Munroe explained how he could buy many things with the money when he came down to the trading post in the spring. Louis Buckshot shook his head.

“No like,” he said, doggedly.

Munroe was desperate. He had to have those furs. He became even more persuasive. He took out two dollar bills and added them to the bundle of money, and this proved too great for further resistance. Louis Buckshot consented to take the money in his hand, held it up to the light, and at last agreed that the deal was closed.

For all his dislike for paper money, he was shrewd enough to know that he had made a better deal than if he had brought the furs to Wakina in the spring. He wondered at Munroe's coming up at this time of year, but it was none of his business.

Munroe sealed the bargain with tobacco, and then tied up the furs in a great bundle with those he had received from the Indian at Spruce Lake. Thus far, his trip had been more successful than he had hoped.

“I leave furs here,” he said to Louis Buckshot.

The furs made a heavy pack and he wished to travel as lightly as possible in the event of making equally heavy purchases farther north. He could not afford to have too heavy a pack on the return journey. Louis Buckshot nodded, so he put the furs carefully away in a comer and then unrolled his sleeping bag.

“I go on again in the morning,” he told the half-breed, as he took off his moccasins.

To his surprize, Louis Buckshot shook his head.

“Joe Moon up river,” he said.

“Joe Moon—Joe Moon—Joe Moon,” declared Munroe. “Every place I go I'm warned about Joe Moon.”

“You no go.”

“Why shouldn't I go?”

“Joe Moon, bad man. He kill you.”

“Don't worry. He won't kill me, Louis.”

“Mebbe,” said the half-breed, going over to his bunk. “You meet Joe Moon tomorrow. He not far. I know. You go back Wakina.”

The half-breed was very earnest, but Munroe passed his words over with a smile. This Joe Moon had evidently built up a fearful reputation. He would meet him tomorrow, Louis Buckshot said. Well, the sooner the better. He crawled into his sleeping bag.

III

MUNROE was on the trail again shortly after dawn next day, and by midafternoon he had visited two other Indians, but with indifferent success. The first had not visited his traplines since Joe Moon's last visit, in fact he had been very sick, from the effects of the rot-gut he had drunk, and he had no furs at all. The ether Indian had a few furs of poor quality and these Munroe bought.

“Joe Moon down river,” he told Munroe, as the factor was leaving the shack.

“How far?”

“Nogassaw men. Joe Moon there since one day. Everybody drunk now. You not go.”

Munroe knew what he meant by “Nogassaw men.” Joe Moon was at a small Indian village a few miles down the river, where camped old Peter Nogassaw, his sons and their families. Peter Nogassaw was one of the oldest redskins in the Missabi region, and he enjoyed a miniature chieftainship of this family community.

There would be plenty of furs there, for their traplines radiated from the village like the spokes of a wheel, and old Peter saw to it that his sons worked hard all winter long; but if Joe Moon had reached the village before him there was little chance that any furs would be left by now. And if what the Indian told him were true, and they were all drunk by now, there would be trouble among the Nogassaw men.

It is a truism that when an Indian becomes drunk he again becomes a savage. Any acquired traits of character drop from him as a garment; he is crazed, dangerous, and when other Indians become drunk with him they are as animals. In which, of course, they differ not greatly from some white men. But when liquor enters an Indian village, bonds of blood and friendship are broken. Munroe knew that the previous season an Indian youth had brained his grandmother with an axe, and that another had shot his own brother during one of these orgies. There would be trouble among the Nogassaw men, and even danger, but that only lent an added spice to the journey.

“And why shouldn't I go?” he asked, smiling.

The Indian frowned.

“They fight. Mebbe not like you. Mebbe Joe Moon there yet.”

“That's just why I'm going,” replied Munroe, turning to his dogs. The old Indian shrugged his shoulders doubtfully. It was not his affair. The white man was very foolish. He returned to his shack and Munroe again took the river trail.

It was evening before he approached the Nogassaw village. Darkness had fallen, and the black mass of pines along each river bank seemed to close in upon him. There was no moon, there were no stars in the sky, and he feared a storm, but the snow gave off a certain radiance which enabled him to keep to the trail without difficulty, and finally he saw a faint glow far down the river ahead of him, and he knew he was nearing the village of the Nogassaw men.

As he drew closer, the shacks were silhouetted against this red glow, which was from a bonfire, and he could bear shouts, so he knew then that Joe Moon had indeed been in the village and but recently, and that a celebration was in progress.

Despite the fact that it was a bitterly cold night, all the Nogassaw men appeared to be out of doors, and when Munroe drove his dogs up the path from the river he could hear a confused uproar, the screams of a woman, the bawling of children, and hoarse yells of men. Figures were lurching unsteadily to and fro about a bonfire in front of the log huts, and he drove up to the circle of firelight and surveyed the scene. His approach was unnoticed, save by some Indian dogs who set up a tremendous yelping from a small stockade in the background but it was unobserved in the general racket.

Two Indians were rolling in the snow, grunting heavily as they fought, punching and pommeling each other, while an old man, Peter Nogassaw himself, laughed senilely and belabored them with a stick. Three others were watching the fight, arguing drunkenly, and a little over to one side, three others were engaging in preliminaries to another hand to hand battle.

From one of the shacks came the screams of the woman and, as Munroe watched, an Indian staggered out the doorway, a dog-whip in his hand, having presumably beaten his squaw to his entire satisfaction.

There was an indescribable uproar, and it was intensified by the yelling of the children in the other huts. The bonfire roared and crackled, and cast flickering shadows, so that the whole scene had an eerie effect of unreality, like some passing fragment of a nightmare. The Indians were drunk, maudlin, irresponsible, and lurched about in the firelight like evil phantoms of the inferno.

This was Joe Moon's work. Munroe felt a raging resentment against the trader, not because he knew now that he would get no furs from the Nogassaw men, but because Joe Moon had given them the liquor which had reduced them to this state. There was no humor in the spectacle, as there sometimes is in the antics of white men under such conditions; he felt no contempt for the redskins, only pity. For he knew the Indians, and they were like children, shy, quiet and docile children of the wilderness; but now they were savage, inflamed with liquor, and all the repressed savagery of generations was seething to the surface.

As he watched, the three Inidans who had been arguing over to one side, became aware of his presence, and they came over unsteadily toward him. He recognized them, for they had been at Wakina the previous summer, and nodded in greeting.

“Why you come?” asked one, roughly.

“For furs,” Munroe replied shortly, well knowing what the answer would be. “You got furs?”

The Indians looked stupidly at him and shook their heads.

“Joe Moon here,” said one sullenly.

“Has Joe Moon got your furs?”

They looked away from him.

“You go 'way,” said the spokesman, gazing over toward one of the shacks. “Joe Moon not gone.”

So the trader was still in the village. Munroe felt a quickening sense of anticipation, as he realized that he would soon meet his enemy, and he spoke to the Indians again.

“Tell Joe Moon I want to see him.”

The Indians looked at one another, frightened.

“No. You go 'way.”

“Not until I see Joe Moon,” replied Munroe. “Show me where he is.”

“Who speaks of Joe Moon?”

It was a deep booming voice, close at hand, and when they heard it, the Indians turned swiftly and then shrank back toward the fire. A man strode out of the doorway of one of the shacks near by.

HE WAS very tall and broad, and in his great mackinaw, with a massive fur cap upon his head, the effect of his great bulk was heightened and in the flickering light he appeared a veritable giant, towering above all others there. He was clad for the trail, and he was pulling on his fur mittens as he came out of the hut and came over to Munroe.

He was heavy and powerful, and he walked with a slight hunch of his great shoulders, as if his immense size were a burden; and this giant had a visage of singular ferocity, his narrow eyes squinted from under heavy, black brows; he had not shaved for a long while and his black stubble of beard increased the ugliness of his appearance. He seemed to emanate a sense of strength and ruthless power, and there was cruelty in the hard lines of his face.

He came over to Munroe and placed himself directly in front of the factor, gazing at him with sudden suspicion, and then he laughed harshly.

“The factor, eh? From Wakina. You're a long way from home, young fellow. What brings you here?”

“That's my business,” snapped Munroe.

The big man looked at him impassively. “You were speaking of Joe Moon. That's my name.”

“You caused this,” said Munroe, evenly, motioning toward the drunken Indians, who were still fighting and shouting, oblivious to the meeting.

“You say so.”

“I know it. You make them drunk and then take their furs.”

“And what of it?” The trader's voice was metallic.

“Is that fair? Is that fair to the Indians, or to the trading posts?”

Joe Moon bared his uneven teeth as he shoved his shaggy head forward.

“Youngster,” he said, “if it was worth my time I'd break every bone in your body. But you're only a sorehead factor. You're sore because I'm grabbing off the furs you think should come to you. I'm not even going to bother fighting with you.”

And with this, he turned his back on Munroe, leaving the young man feeling somewhat foolish. But if Joe Moon had counted on the factor losing his temper and leaping at him in a frenzy of rage, he was mistaken, for something told Munroe that he was dealing with a dangerous man and that Joe Moon was by no means through with him.

He watched the giant trader walk over to the shadows behind one of the huts and return a moment later, leading his dogs. They were drawing a sled, piled high with bundles, and the factor knew that these bundles were the furs Joe Moon had just received from the Nogassaw men.

“See,” said Joe Moon, pointing at the sled with his dog whip. “I have more furs right here than you'll get if you roam through this country all winter. Stay in Wakina beside the stove, youngster. This is a man's game.”

“Not the way you play it.”

“It doesn't matter how I play it,” retorted Joe Moon. “I get the furs. You don't. That's all that counts.”

He straightened out a few of the bundles on the sled, fumbled with the harness for a moment, then straightened up.

“And now, young fellow,” he said, his voice very low and harsh. “I'm going to leave you something to remember me by.”

So suddenly that Munroe scarcely saw the swift motion of his arm, he raised the dog whip and swung viciously, the lash cutting the factor's face like a red hot iron. The blinding pain of it left Munroe dazed for a moment and then, through a red mist, he saw Joe Moon, laughing cruelly, swing the whip for another blow, and once more the lash cut a livid weal.

He charged at the trader in blind fury and swung for Joe Moon's face, but his fist merely grazed Joe Moon's shoulder for he stepped to one side, quickly reversing the dog whip as he did, and the heavy handle of the whip, loaded with shot, smashed across Munroe's forehead. The blow was terriffic and the factor staggered and then Joe Moon slugged at him again with the whip handle, a crashing, stunning blow, and he reeled and fell, deprived of all consciousness, sinking into a welter of hot blackness.

There was a wild shouting among the Indians, who staggered over and gabbled gutturally among themselves, for few had noticed the incidents leading up to the clash. Joe Moon, his face savage, stood above the recumbent form of Munroe in the snow. He still clenched the dog whip in his hand, and he glared at the Indians in the firelight.

“Take him away,” he ordered, kicking the factor as he stepped aside. The Indians made not a move, but huddled drunkenly in the fire glow.

“Take him away, I tell you,” he repeated sharply. “Put him in one of the shacks.”

One of the Indians lurched forward and laid hold of Munroe. The factor was quite unconscious. The redskin half dragged, half carried him over to the dark entrance of one of the huts.

“That'll teach him,” muttered Joe Moon, as he turned to his sled.

He caught sight of Munroe's toboggan, some distance away, the dogs lying in their harness in the snow, and he went over to it. The dogs leaped up, snarling, but he lashed about him with the whip and they cowered.

“Not many furs,” he said to himself, as he inspected the toboggan and saw the few pelts Munroe had secured from the last Indian he had visited.

So the factor was trading with the Indians direct!

With a sudden suspicion, he looked over the packs, but found no liquor, and he laughed in contempt for the young fool who would attempt such opposition without bringing liquor for the Indians. But how was he dealing? There were no trading goods on the toboggan. Money? That was it.

He left the toboggan and went over to the shack where Munroe was now lying and, pushing open the door, entered the dark interior. He could hear the factor groaning upon a bunk in the corner and he went over to him. Joe Moon grasped him roughly and felt for his belt, then found what he was seeking—money. Plenty of it. He took out the bills, thumbed them over in the darkness and then went through Munroe's pockets to make sure he had not more. Well, Munroe would do no more trading this trip and Joe Moon was two or three hundred dollars to the good. Perhaps more, for he could not see the bills.

Without money, Munroe would have to return to Wakina. He would get no furs from the men of Nogassaw, and he would certainly be unable to go farther north. Munroe's trading expedition was over. And, after the reception he had been given, Joe Moon reflected that it would be a long time before any factor ventured forth from Wakina to obstruct him.

Good humor returning to him, he returned to his sled, piled high with furs. The matter of the money caused him some slight uneasiness. Munroe might complain to the Mounted Police. Well, let him. He had no evidence. The Indians would be equally open to suspicion of robbing him as he lay unconscious.

He called old Peter Nogassaw over to him and spoke to him.

“See that the white man is kept in the shack. He is asleep. If he wakes up do not let him go away. He may want to follow me. Keep him in the village until morning.”

Old Peter promised.

The Indians had returned to their drinking and were again arguing and fighting about the fire, as if there had been no interruption whatever. One of them was dragging a small boy out of a near-by shack and was kicking him, a parental privilege which aroused not even a casual glance from the others, although the youngster squealed unmercifully.

“Noisy hounds,” grunted Joe Moon to himself, and then, shouting to his dogs, he sped out of the circle of firelight into the snowy darkness, up the river trail.

IV

THROUGH a confusion of aching darkness, Munroe gradually regained his senses, but he lay on the crude bunk for a long while. His head ached fiercely and a consuming lethargy possessed him. He tried to remember the details of his encounter with Joe Moon and he was overcome with a dull sense of defeat. He groaned involuntarily and tried to struggle to a sitting posture.

There was a rustling in the darkness as he moved, and then a whisper.

“White man—hurt?”

It was in the dialect, and he peered through the gloom but could only distinguish a vague form near by. It had been a woman's voice—one of the squaws.

“Not bad. What happened?” he said.

“Joe Moon,” she whispered.

Joe Moon! At every turn he heard the name of the rascally trader, always spoken in that same tone of fearful respect.

“He hit you.”

“Did Joe Moon go away?”

“He go.”

So the trader had left the Nogassaw village. Well, reflected Munroe, he would go out and see to his dogs and then be on his way in the morning. The Indians would net refuse him shelter for the night, in spite of their drunken state. He and Joe Moon would meet again.

Painfully he got up and went over to the door, feeling about for the crude latch. But the woman whispered again.

“Stay,” she said. “They hurt you.”

He could hear the loud voices of the Indians outside, but he laughed shortly. The squaw had reason to be afraid of them, no doubt, but he did not. He shoved open the door and stepped outside.

The Indians were still continuing their carouse, but their numbers had diminished, some having staggered into the huts for drunken slumber, but those who remained were si ill quarreling about the fire; two were wrangling about the slight remaining contents of a bottle. As Munroe stood there for a moment, looking at them, one caught sight of him and spoke quickly to the others. They all turned and stared soddenly at the factor, then advanced unsteadily toward him.

“Back,” ordered one, pointing at the door behind him.

“Where did Joe Moon go?”

They shook their heads obstinately, and crowded about him, five in number, old Peter Nogassaw gabbling rapidly in Ojibway. Munroe gathered that he was ordering him to go back into the shack but he stepped ahead and, as he did so, one of the other Indians snatched out a knife, and confronted him, his eyes glinting dangerously. The redskin was very drunk, but the knife was very bright and sharp, so Munroe told himself he must be careful.

“I stay here tonight,” he said.

The old Indian, Peter, nodded vigorously and then motioned to the shack again.

“I feed my dogs,” went on Munroe quietly.

“No,” grunted old Peter. “You stay.”

The man with the knife came closer and one of the others lifted a heavy stick, and together they shoved him back to the doorway.

Munroe was minded to oppose them, but he was outnumbered and they were recklessly drunk, so he made a pretense of agreement and stepped abruptly back into the shack again. He could hear them talking when he went inside and then one man sat down heavily against the door, plainly as a guard. He was a prisoner.

He went back to the bunk and sat down. He intended to remain in the village overnight anyway, so there was no use making trouble for himself, and he could easily get away in the morning. But he fretted about his dogs, for they had not been fed; perhaps the Indians would look after them.

Then the woman whispered again.

“Joe Moon go. Take money.”

For a moment, Munroe did not understand. Take money? Then, on sudden thought, he felt quickly for his belt. It was empty. The big roll of bills had disappeared.

This was serious. Joe Moon's purpose was plain. Without money, Munroe would be forced to turn back to Wakina, abandon his trip altogether. He was beaten. Joe Moon had won a complete victory—this time.

“Which way did Joe Moon go?” he whispered.

“Up river.”

“Up?”

“Take same trail you come.”

This was a new angle. He had assumed that Joe Moon would cut across country from the village, toward the railway. And then he remembered that the trader had not been successful with Louis Buckshot on his previous visit. Perhaps he was making a second attempt.

With this thought, Munroe was galvanized to action. He would have to return by the river trail in any case, for Joe Moon had seen to it that he was unable to proceed farther. Plainly, the trader had ordered the Indians to detain Munroe in order that he might not be inconveniently close on his trail, counting on a good twelve hours' start in all probability.

But why not outguess Joe Moon and overtake him? Munroe's head still pained him and he had a lively desire to meet Joe Moon again. His enemy had not only clubbed him senseless but had robbed him, destroying his chances of further trading and effectually crushing Munroe's hopes of salvaging something from the wreck of the winter's fur trade.

He peeped out through a cranny of the door and saw that the guard had fallen over in the snow, fast asleep. The squaw crept close behind him as he watched. Then he could see her loom darkly beside him and he pointed to the sleeping guard.

“He'll freeze,” he explained. “I go now. You bring him in.”

She whispered assent and, very quietly, he opened the door again, inch by inch, and looked out. The bonfire had been neglected and had died down so that the immediate circle of light was small in scope. The Indians were continuing their interminable wrangling and were not looking his way, so he crept cautiously out into the snow. He was unobserved.

There was a small patch of fight between the doorway and the inviting shadow of the trees, but he slipped across it like a ghost, and then went over to his toboggan. It was where he had left it, and the dogs were lying in their harness.

He looked back toward the fire. The dark shapes were still there in the semi-circle of the huts, and their voices sounded gruff and maudlin. He reached cautiously down and grasped the collar of the lead dog.

As he did so, the others leaped up, yelping. At the noise, the Indians beyond the fire, turned and saw him.

“Ho,” shouted one, and then the Indians staggered over toward him. Munroe turned the lead dog toward the trail to the river, and spoke to him, sharply.

There was a clamor of shouting behind him.

“Moosh!”

He flung himself flat upon the toboggan and, as he did so, a heavy stick whirled past him and was buried in the snow. The dogs rushed down the path and then a knife clattered on to the toboggan, missing him by a few inches. The toboggan swayed from side to side, and he had a confused impression of dark figures in the fire glow, as he looked behind, the Indians jabbering excitedly. Then the Nogassaw village was obliterated by the tall pine trees and he was speeding swiftly and silently over the snow of the river trail.

IT was very cold, but there was no wind. A canopy of black sky descended into the diminishing grayness of the white expanse of river before him.

Somewhere out in that great darkness was Joe Moon, doubtless far ahead by now, but Joe Moon was at a certain disadvantage. He did not know that Munroe was in pursuit. And it was a grim, dogged pursuit, for he was determined to follow Joe Moon if the chase led him to the railway. He had forgotten the cold, he had forgotten that he was tired and hungry and that his head still ached from the pain of those blows the trader had dealt him—he had forgotten all that in the thrill of being hot on the trail of his enemy.

For over an hour the toboggan sped over the snow, but then Munroe noticed that his dogs were lagging. They had been on the trail all day and had not been fed. One of them was whining a bit, but in his eagerness he snapped the whip over their heads and, for a while, they regained the old pace, but at last they began to falter again.

He realized that, no matter how ready he was to travel all night in pursuit, he could not disregard his dogs. So, grudging the loss of time, he let them stop. He loosened the harness and, taking frozen fish from one of his packs, fed them. They wolfed the meal and promptly curled up in the snow to sleep, so Munroe unrolled his sleeping bag and did likewise.

It was still dark when he wakened. He did not think he had lost a great deal of time. If the trader had planned to visit Louis Buckshot again he could do no trade until daytime. So Munroe clambered out of his sleeping bag, ate a cold breakfast, hitched up the dogs again and once more took the trail.

Darkness gave way to the gray fight of approaching dawn as he resumed the pursuit. The sky over the tree-tops was like slate, unbroken, ominous. There was only a faint illumination to mark the appearance of the sun, and the eternal silence of the wilderness seemed heavy and intense, as if invisible forces of peril were gathering.

As Munroe noted the sullen dullness of the dawn he frowned, for it was evident that a storm was rising. But it was still a long way off, for there was no wind, there were no telltale wraiths of snow scurrying across the frozen surface of the river, and he urged on his dogs. Joe Moon might even now be at Louis Buckshot's cabin, might even delay there for fear of the approaching blizzard, thinking that Munroe would be similarly held back at the Nogassaw village.

He recognized landmarks along the river banks which told him when he was nearing Louis Buckshot's place and finally, when the dogs went around a jutting headland, he saw the ungainly cabin, bleak against the hillside snow. Smoke was curling above the roof.

A tingling excitement possessed him as he thought that Joe Moon might even then be in the shack and, as his dogs toiled up the hill and halted, panting, before the door, he resolved that the trader would have no chance to take him by surprize again.

The cabin was silent as he strode over to the door, but he pounded for admittance.

There was no answer. He pounded vigorously again. He could hear the fire crackling within. Some one must be around. He shoved open the door and stepped inside.

Two long, sinewy arms twined themselves suddenly around him as a heavy form leaped at him from beside the door way, and he was flung violently forward, on the floor of the shack. A knee was dug into the small of his back and, although he struggled desperately, he was powerless, for his assailant had grasped both his arms and was twisting them behind his back so that any movement was fraught with exquisite pain.

He felt something slip tightly over his wrists, fingers fumbled swiftly and then he felt his wrists bound securely together, whereupon his attacker arose, turned him about like a sack of flour and he found himself sitting up, his back against the wall, his wrists tied behind him.

All this time there had been the one thought in his mind. It was Joe Moon who had waited for him and thus cleverly entrapped him, and he condemned himself for his lack of caution. But when he looked up he saw, not the ugly, unshaven visage of the trader, but the brown, immobile features of Louis Buckshot.

The half-breed was breathing heavily from his exertions—for although Munroe had been taken completely by surprize he had struggled with vigor—sat down upon the floor and contemplated him morosely. His wife and the children looked on, frightened and silent, from a corner.

“Well, Louis,” observed Munroe, finally, taking in the situation, but bewildered by the unexpected nature of the attack. “This is a fine way to welcome callers. Mistake me for somebody else.”

Louis Buckshot shook his head and grunted. Munroe caught a whiff of liquor and then, looking over at the crude table, saw a bottle, half full.

Joe Moon had come and gone. Louis Buckshot had fallen at last.

“I wait for you,” said the half-breed, shortly.

“What's the big idea?” asked Munroe. “Come on, Louis. Don't be foolish. Untie me or you'll be sorry for it.”

Louis Buckshot merely shook his head and locked at him, his eyes smoldering, his face stern. He was not drunk, nor yet was he quite sober, and plainly a great change had come over his attitude toward Munroe since the factor's previous visit.

“You try rob me,” he said, at last.

“Rob you?” Munroe stared.

What notion had the half-breed taken now?

Louis Buckshot reached behind into a recess of the logs, and produced a crumpled roll of bills, which he placed on the floor in front of him.

“It no good,” he said.

Munroe did not understand. He looked at the money. It was the money he had paid the half-breed for his furs. No good?

“Of course it's good.”

“Me know,” grunted Louis Buckshot obstinately, his eyes flashing with anger.

“But I know it's good. Where do you get that idea?”

“It bad,” replied the half-breed, decidedly. “Joe Moon say.”

A great light dawned on Munroe. Joe Moon had been here. He had told Louis Buckshot that the money the factor had given him for his furs was worthless. Always distrustful of the white man's money, Louis Buckshot had proven only too receptive to the suggestion.

Munroe realized then that he was facing a serious situation, for Louis Buckshot was plainly very angry and, fortified by a few drinks, there was no telling what he might do. He wished his hands were free, for Louis Buckshot might be minded to seek revenge. He must say nothing to stir the half-breed to further anger.

“Joe Moon's crazy,” he laughed. “That money's all right, Louis. You bring that down to Wakina after the break-up and you can buy anything in the store with it. Why should I give you bad money? You use it to buy from me. Have I not always traded fairly with you?”

LOUIS BUCKSHOT thought this over and was evidently disposed to admit that there was something in Munroe's argument, but he clung doggedly to the conviction that the money was bad. He had not wanted to take the money in the first place and then Joe Moon, who had visited him but an hour before, had told him the money was bad. Joe Moon had advised him never to trade with Munroe again; he had said the factor was trying to cheat him.

“It bad,” he said. “You take back.”

“But I can't take it back, Louis.” he argued patiently. “The money is all right.”

Louis Buckshot glowered at him. He indicated the money again.

“No good.”

“Well, if you don't want the money I'll put the value of the furs on your credit at the store. Or I'll bring goods up here next week and trade, if you like.”

“No.”

“Well, what do you want me to do then? Where are the furs?”

“Joe Moon got.”

“What?”

“I sell 'em Joe Moon.” He pointed to the bills again. “Money no good. Joe Moon say. I feel sad for factor try cheat me. Joe Moon give whisky blanc so I take. He go 'way.”

A wave of anger swept over Munroe as he realized what his enemy had done. He was not even to have the satisfaction of returning to Wakina with the furs he had already bought.

“Joe Moon say he take bad money,” went on Louis Buckshot, monotonously. “But I keep.”

Yes, it would be just like the trader to attempt to rob the Indian of the “bad” money too. But why had Louis Buckshot kept it?

“We trade,” he said, by way of explanation, looking dully at the factor. “Come.”

He got up and helped Munroe roughly to his feet, then led the way out of the cabin while the factor, his hands still tied tightly behind his back, followed, wondering what new turn events were taking.

Louis Buckshot went over to Munroe's toboggan and surveyed it in silence. He bent down and handled the packsacks, picked up the rifle and inspected it gravely, looked at the snowshoes, then turned to Munroe.

“You trade bad money wit' me. I trade bad money too,” he said, with the hint of a grim smile lurking about the corners of his mouth.

And then, while Munroe looked on, at first hardly understanding, Louis Buckshot carried out a pantomime of purchasing his entire equipment, from dogs to rifle.

He looked at the dogs, walked around them, nodded with satisfaction, and took a couple of bills from the roll in his hand. He stuffed them in Munroe's pocket.

“I buy dogs,” he said.

“Quit this foolishness, Louis,” ordered Munroe, comprehending and groing angry. “You can't buy these things——”

“I buy,” replied the half-breed.

He inspected the toboggan, which he deemed worthy of only one bill, and he put that in Munroe's pocket. He picked up the rifle and looked at it with evident favor, giving the factor three bills for it and then, with a glance at the packsacks and snowshoes, he gave him the rest of the money.

Louis Buckshot had a primitive sense of justice. The white man had tried to cheat him by giving him bad money for his furs; therefore, it seemed quite logical that he should repay the white man in kind, now that he had the opportunity.

Munroe felt strangely helpless as he realized the import of the procedure, but he was hardly prepared for what followed.

Louis Buckshot picked up the rifle, ascertained that it was loaded, then stepped quickly around and undid the thongs which bound the factor's wrists. He motioned to the river, white and silent below them.

“Go,” he ordered, prodding Munroe with the rifle barrel.

“I won't go. Don't be a fool, Louis. You can't buy my equipment. I don't want your money.”

The half-breed shook his head, and there was no compassion in his face.

“Money bad?” he asked with a sneer.

“You know it's good.”

“You take then,” he said, as if this conclusively settled the affair. “Go.”

Munroe began to realize then that Louis Buckshot really meant to carry through this bargain, and turn him out onto the river without food, without his rifle, without his dogs and toboggan. He looked down the hillside to the trail, which was like an uneven pencil mark on the winding river, and at the leaden sky above the hills, and full understanding of his danger came upon him. It was certain death to venture out on the trail, like this, with a blizzard in the offing.

But Louis Buckshot was not jesting. He was in deadly earnest, and to emphasize it, he followed the factor a few steps, prodding him once more with the rifle barrel. His lips were drawn in a thin, cruel line.

“Go.”

Munroe knew he was beaten. He was bewildered, so swiftly had these events transpired, and there was a determination about the half-breed which brooked no opposition. And then, he was in possession of that rifle, his finger lingering close to the trigger. He would shoot, Munroe knew, at the slightest show of resistance, for he was quivering with a sense of injury and wrong, in the belief that Munroe had tried to cheat him of his furs. His implacable sense of justice demanded that the factor be repaid, literally, in his own coin.

Slowly, he walked down toward the river, with a vague idea that perhaps the half-breed would relent, but there was no sound from behind, and when at last he reached the river trail, he looked back. Louis Buckshot was standing at the top of the hill, the rifle in his grasp and, when Munroe stopped, the half-breed raised the rifle, which rang out clearly.

A bullet kicked up a flurry of snow over to one side. There was no use; Louis Buckshot was in earnest.

Dazed, the factor turned again and trudged off down the river trail, into a white silence under a slate sky.

V

HIS plight was serious. He was alone, without food, on the Missabi, and there were many miles between him and the trading pest, many miles of bleak river, stretching on and on into a pitiless waste.

He had no snowshoes. This was a big handicap, for he could make but slow progress over the river trail; his feet sank through the crust and the snow dragged at his moccasins like deep sand. The tall trees along the river banks locked down on him, impassively, gloomy and forbidding, and a vast whispering emanated from them as the wind stirred their snow laden branches.

There was something grimly ironical in the fact that he had a pocket full of money. Much good would it do him. It might as well be the worthless paper Louis Buckshot thought it was. He would have given all the money he owned for a pair of snow-shoes, for a rifle, for anything that might be of service to him on that terrible trail.

He had one hope. The cabin of the Indian, Michael Angelo, at Spruce Lake, up the river, was a refuge, could he reach it before the brooding storm came up. And a storm was coming. He had not mistaken the signs that morning. The lowering sky showed it, the very trees whispered it. Out on the river, destitute as he was, he would have little chance in a January blizzard, especially if night overtook him and he was still without shelter.

Joe Moon had passed over the trail but a short time before, he observed, for the broad depression of the trader's sled was plainly visible in the snow. But he was not greatly concerned with Joe Moon now; his own danger was too pressing to admit of any other consideration.

He bowed his shoulders to the task of trudging on through that clinging, that dragging snow, toward the ever beckoning, ever receding bends of the wide, white river ahead.

His progress was discouraging. His moccasins seemed to take on weight, each succeeding river bend appeared more difficult to reach than the one before. He struggled against fatigue which was creeping upon him. The moccasins were like leaden weights after a while, but he dared not rest, for the seconds were precious.

The sky was growing darker, and a breeze of deadly innocence swept down the river. It sent the snow scudding before it, like a light filmy veil, and it shook the trees along the river bank to an even greater whispering, nervous and sibilant. Clouds of powdery snow drifted from their branches and hovered like dust in the air.

The trees along the river bank were shivering unceasingly now, and their whispering changed to a moaning as the wind blew steadily, with increasing force, and the air was filled with tiny snow particles whipped up from all sides.

The innocent breeze was the forerunner of other gusts, which continued with gradually increasing force until all the snow of the river was churned to a shifting mist. Munroe had settled down to a dull mechanical stride now, his eyes were fixed on the trail, and he plunged on like an automaton, hearing only the crunch-crunch-crunch, as his feet rose and fell and he drew steadily closer to Spruce Lake, still so far away.

Then came the storm.

There were only a few lazy snow flakes at first, hardly distinguishable from the white dusty whorls blown from the trees and the river, but more came, until Munroe, looking up, was startled to observe that he could no longer see the outlines of the rocky point toward which the trail was winding; it was now only a blur through a swirling of heavy snow flakes—snow flakes which did not drift down pleasantly, but which were driven in white streaks by a bitter, whipping gale.

The wind rose higher, and the snow stung his face, and then it became a hurricane so strident that the snow was now a dense white screen and he could not distinguish the vague shadow of the river point through it at all. Even the trees along the banks became obscured from view and could only be seen dimly as a looming mass on either hand.

The wind shrieked in successive gusts. It roared and howled. It buffeted him furiously. It pounded against him as he struggled forward. There were wild sad sobbings in the upper air, mingled with the whoops of the storm sweeping across the river, as if the storm gods themselves mourned the unleashing of their pitiless monster. A vast threshing sound came from the trees along the river borders. They rocked and swayed before the driving force of the blizzard.

The snow was flung from aloft in thick blinding masses, as if from giant shovels. Munroe could see nothing but snow—a raging whiteness which lashed his face, stormed against his body, crept into every fold of his garments, to the accompaniment of Gargantuan hootings of the mighty wind.

It was very cold, bitterly irresistibly cold. Warmth was sapped from his body, leaving him dull and numb. Against the colossal force of the blizzard he felt as if every effort were futile, but as long as there was strength left in his body he would struggle ahead. The snow had swept over the trail, obliterating it entirely, but he followed a blind course down the centre of the river, through that mass of whiteness, trusting to luck that he would not stumble upon any of those treacherous portions of the river where swift current had thinned the ice and where death was hidden in waiting beneath the surface.

Desperately, indomitably, stumbling forward, with the blizzard beating against his bowed body, Munroe pitted his strength against the overwhelming fury of the storm. He had lost all sense of time. The blizzard raged about him interminably. He knew only that he must go on, must keep moving ahead into that infinity of blinding snow.

He came out upon Spruce Lake at last. The river narrowed at the entrance and high banks loomed up through the snow, from which he realized that he was nearing Michael Angelo's shack, but there was still a quarter of a mile to go. He doubted if he could make it, for he was very weak and miserably cold by then, but he headed instinctively in the direction of the Indian's cabin.

As if furious because he was so near safety, the blizzard seemed to take on redoubled fury. The wind swept down upon him with such titanic force that he reeled and stumbled beneath the blast. His knees weakened. The snow was very deep, and once he sank forward into it, exhausted, feeling unable to go any farther, but he knew that this meant death, and he struggled to his feet again and fought his way a few yards more.

The great trees of the shoreland could be seen as a dark mass ahead and the sight of his goal inspired him to superhuman effort. But his progress was very slow. The blizzard assailed him, malignantly, overwhelmingly.

Out of the snow, immediately ahead of him, rose a dark bulk. He was so numbed by the cold and the fatigue of his incessant struggle that at first he did not comprehend what it was, and did not greatly care, but as he drew closer he saw that it was a sled, with dogs curled up in the lee of it, in the shelter of a jumble of packs.

It must be Joe Moon's sled, he told himself, as he halted exhausted beside it and leaned against the packs. How came it to be here? He wondered vaguely what had become of Joe Moon, for there was no sign of the trader, and then as he looked ahead he saw something which made him catch his breath.

It was a hole in the ice, a gaping, jagged, black hole, not very large—but large enough for a man to fall through.

So that was what had happened to Joe Moon!

Curiously enough, he felt no elation, merely a mild surprize. In his mind's eye he could picture the scene. The treacherous piece of ice, hidden beneath the snow, worn thin by the current, the sudden breaking, the plunge into the icy water, and quick death. So Joe Moon was gone.

Around him the blizzard raged with unabated fury, but he was sheltered from the wind and snow and, although he had been at the point of exhaustion, he felt strength returning to him even from this slight respite. Mechanically, he fumbled at one of the packs, in search of food.

The pack contained a miscellaneous assortment of articles, not the least of which was a can—a can of Joe Moon's whisky blanc. For once, the trader's whisky served a useful purpose. With stiff fingers, Munroe unscrewed the cap of the can and gulped down a mouthful of the stinging liquor. It burned his lips, but it sent a glow through him, and he had shaken off some of his lassitude when he continued his search of the pack and found a slab of cold meat.

It was hard as hickory, almost frozen, but he broke off a portion of it and ate it hungrily, chewing vigorously at the tough, cold shreds, finding that it revived his energies, and when he took another drink of the fiery whisky, he tied up the pack again and got to his feet. He felt the bitter snow lashing his face once more, but he accepted the challenge, with hope and courage renewed, with strength again to give battle to the storm.

There was a pair of snowshoes on the sled, and he put them on, then grasped the harness and urged the dogs to rise. They only snarled angrily at him, and finally he took the whip and laid about him so that they got up. He let the lead dog pick his own course toward the shore. He knew the animals had a warning sense that would guide them to avoid treacherous ice, but all the same, he kept well at the rear of the sled as the dogs strained at the harness and moved slowly forward.

The lead dog gave the dark splotch in the ice a wide berth, skirting it by many yards, but finally turned in toward the looming trees, and Munroe, still battered and shaken by the storm, but with new energy and the knowledge that he was nearing the shack on the hillside, which meant safety, plunged doggedly on through the driving snow.

VI

JOE MOON had laughed to himself when he left Louis Buckshot's cabin that morning with Munroe's furs.

“That fool factor will have a fine welcome when he calls in here,” he thought, as he swung off up the trail. “Louis is mad enough to kill him after that yarn I gave him about the money. When he gets a few drinks into him he'll be worse.”

The trader was highly satisfied with himself. There would be no more interference from Wakina—not after Munroe's crushing defeat. The factor would return to his post without money, without furs, and with the ill-will of Louis Buckshot. And he, Joe Moon, had accomplished all this in the space of twelve hours. A good night's work! He would be unmolested and unopposed in the Missabi region from then on.

But he had not time to linger long in reflections on his victory, complete as that had been. The sled was too heavily loaded, he soon found. It had been piled high with furs even when he reached Louis Buckshot's place, but with the additional booty he had secured there, the dogs were overburdened.

He had not gone two miles before they were tugging at their harness, and their speed had decreased until they were traveling at little more than a walk. He lashed at them with his whip, for he knew that a blizzard was coming up, but he had counted on reaching the cabin at Spruce Lake long before the storm broke. But the sled, heavy and unwieldy, was proving a serious drawback, and he saw, too late, that he had handicapped his progress by taking that big bundle of furs from Louis Buckshot.

When the first gusts of wind came up and told him that the storm would be upon him shortly, he lashed at the dogs again and again, but they had traveled far and were weary, their tongues were hanging out, and one of them was whining. Joe Moon cursed them for a lazy pack of mongrels and swung the whip over them again, but it produced only a brief spurt, and they settled back to a slow pace once more.

He wished he had not tried to bring out so many furs. Even without the rich prize he had secured at the half-breed's cabin, the load had been heavier than usual; but those furs had proven a temptation too strong to resist.

However, the harm could not be undone. He was perturbed, but not seriously alarmed, for he judged that the blizzard might be even yet some time in breaking, but therein his judgment erred, for it swept down upon him while he was still some distance from the lake. As it came he shouted to his dogs and lashed them again with his long whip.

They came out upon Spruce Lake and, although the blizzard was increasing in fury and snow beat down upon him, Joe Moon felt triumphant for there was only a short distance to go now, and, although the dogs were plainly tired, he judged that they were at least good for the quarter of a mile to Michael Angelo's shack.

He was a powerful man, but the relentless buffetings of the wind, and the bitter cold, began to tell even on Joe Moon. The snow was an opaque, shifting mass, and he could see nothing else, but he set his teeth and the whip rose and fell like a flail upon the struggling dogs.

Then the lead dog looked about him uncertainly, faltered, and stopped.

“You yellow beast,” roared Joe Moon, through the storm, and he lashed the dog unmercifully. The animal showed its teeth, snarling, and cowered beneath the whip, but it refused to budge forward another step. It lay down in the snow, the others doing likewise, and no amount of lashing with the cruel whip would urge them to stumble to their feet again.

Joe Moon cursed and raged, kicked at the dogs, furiously angry. He could not understand it. They had been tired, certainly, but they could well go a hundred yards more to shore. But the lead dog, despite a terrific beating, would not move.

“Stubborn as a mule,” stormed Joe Moon, as he dealt the animal another blow and then cast the whip aside in his temper. He did not want to abandon his sled, but the blizzard had grown so furious that it appeared he would have to go on alone.

Uncertainly, he stepped forward a few paces, and then looked back. To have the dogs give up, when he was so close to shelter! He looked back at them as they cowered into the shelter of the sled and cursed them. Then he turned his face toward the shore and plunged forward into the swirling snow.

He took but two steps. Then he felt his footing shift beneath him, and, above the roar of the storm, sounded an ominous crackling. He threw himself violently ahead, for he knew he had come upon a thin, treacherous spot in the ice, a danger spot the dogs had sensed, and as he plunged the ice gave way beneath him, and he was waist deep in deadly black water.

He had fallen onto firmer ice, for the thin portion was not of great extent, and he lay sprawled there, his legs splashing in the river. The current was swift, the water was very cold. It was only by a miracle that he had escaped total immersion, which would have meant death, but he was able to work himself slowly ahead until he dragged himself out of the chilly water, and lay panting in the snow beside the hole. It had been a narrow escape.

But had he escaped? From waist down, his clothes were soaked and, as if by magic, they began to freeze upon him and, panic-stricken, he struggled to his feet and staggered through the snow toward the shore. His snowshoes were like two blocks of ice upon his stiffening moccasins, encased in frozen snow, and they dragged him down like lead weights.

When he reached the clearing which led up to the cabin, he was shivering. The force of the storm was broken somewhat by the surrounding trees, and he could see the cabin some distance ahead, but a deadly chill was creeping upon him. Every step he took required infinite labor. His garments had become an armor of ice.

He toiled weakly up the slope, his teeth chattering, his lips blue, in his eyes the fear of death, and at last he reached the door. He leaned against it in his exhaustion and fumbled at the thong of moose-hide. His fingers were numb in his heavy mittens as he tugged at it, but finally the door swung open and he staggered into the hut. The cabin was empty and cheerless. Joe Moon cursed the luck that had sent Michael Angelo out on his trapline at this time. The Indian had another shack, far out in the woods, at the end of the line, where he was doubtless now waiting for the blizzard to pass over.

HE BEGAN to feel frightened, for his body was of a horrible numbness now, and he bent and fumbled frantically at the snowshoes and the moccasins, a shapeless, frozen mass upon his feet. From waist down, it was as if he had been carved from ice. His soaked trousers had frozen stiffly, his heavy socks were rigid. He knew too well the danger of leaving on those wet clothes, and he stripped them off him at once.

The cabin was deathly cold, but there was no time to lose. He could light a fire later. Dry clothing was the immediate need. He found a pair of ragged trousers belonging to Michael Angelo, hanging on the wall and, after hastily rubbing his lower limbs dry with a blanket from the bunk, he put them on and then found a pair of thick socks.

He was shivering more violently than ever when he had donned them, for the relief was only temporary and he knew he must have a fire. The shock of the wetting, and the cruel toil of that desperate journey to the cabin had weakened him.

There was birch bark and some wood in a corner, and he quickly piled some in the battered stove, then felt in his pockets for a match. There were none in the mackinaw and then he stepped suddenly over to the trousers he had discarded and there, in a pocket, he found a sodden box of matches, wet, useless.

Terror seized him. He went over to a crude shelf on the wall, where Michael Angelo had an untidy collection of odds and ends, and poked through them. There were no matches there. Not even flint and steel, for the Indian had doubtless taken those materials with him when he went out on the trapline.

He was cold, desperately cold. He must have fire. Joe Moon looked at the stove, with the wood and birch bark merely awaiting a flame, and he scratched the sodden matches against the iron front, hoping that by some miracle they would light. But there was no miracle.

There were matches in his packs, he remembered, but he couldn't go back to the sled. As if to emphasize this conviction, the wind shrieked about the corners of the cabin and the snow threshed against the door. He stumbled over to the little window and looked out. The blizzard was raging with greater fury than before. He could see the tall trees, looming like shadows through the storm, as they rocked and swayed before the sweeping wind.

He turned and began to search the cabin again with frantic abandon in the faint hope of finding a match. He tore the blankets from the bunk and cast them aside, he groveled in corners, again he searched through the pockets of his mackinaw, again he struck wet matches against the stove, and all the while the cold swept over him as remorselessly as a shadow.

The little stove appeared to mock him as he looked at it, in blind, unreasoning panic, and saw the wood and birchbark, cold and dead, but with all the potentialities of warmth and life. The January night would be desperately cold, he knew. He would freeze to death. Even now he was freezing.

“Up against it,” he muttered, as he desisted at length from his vain search and flung himself upon the bunk.

Joe Moon had gambled with the wilderness before, but never had the wilderness held the winning hand as now. Death lurked in the blizzard, death hovered within the chill cabin. Every shriek of the wind had a malicious note of triumph. All the forces of that storm-swept land were conspired in a unity of terrific strength against him. He tried to stamp up and down the cabin, swinging his great arms across his chest to restore circulation, but he was exhausted and the cold had so penetrated his body that he could not maintain the effort. His breath drifted in a white cloud before his haggard face.

It was suicidal to go out to the sled, but it was certain doom to remain. The storm was worse, and every moment he delayed made even the slim chances of securing matches from the sled more remote than ever. His searching fingers came across a coin in one of the pockets of his coat and the gambling instinct in him again rose to the surface.

“Heads I stay; tails I don't,” he said, and tossed the coin into the air. It fell to the floor with a ringing note. He glanced at it. The head was up.

“One's as bad as the other.”

He would stay in the cabin.

One little match! So small, yet meaning so much to him. But there was not even a particle of food in the cabin, much less a match. He wrapped the blankets from the bunk about him but the gripping chill persisted and his mind was becoming dulled. The cold was overpowering, terrific in its invisible force. He fought against a gradual languor, a vast drowsiness.

Joe Moon felt like a fly, caught in a web of inexorable circumstance. If he had only stayed at Louis Buckshot's cabin! He knew that a storm was approaching. If only he had not taken that last load of furs! If only he had paid heed to the warning of his dogs when they refused to go ahead, knowing somehow of the hidden danger.

Then, when he sat down on the bunk again, cold consuming him, a great lassitude creeping over him, terror in his heart, the door swung suddenly open and Hugh Munroe strode across the threshold. He was covered with snow from head to foot, he carried a rifle, his face was that of a man who has been face to face with death, and to Joe Moon he was an avenging specter.

VII

MONROE leaned against the closed door, too tired from his struggle through the storm to even feel the emotion of surprize at seeing Joe Moon confront him from across the cabin. He could hardly yet realize that he had indeed escaped the blinding, smiting fury of the storm, that the wild, interminable fight with those forces of wind and snow had ended in his favor. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily, but he was not so exhausted, not so chilled, as the shuddering man on the bunk.

Joe Moon gazed at him, apathetically, open-mouthed, and then hope rushed back over him like a flood. To his dulled mind there came such a feeling of elation at seeing another human being in this place, a human being who would certainly have matches, that Munroe was not to him the factor of Wakina, the man he had so wronged and beaten; all those things seemed very trivial and far away in the overwhelming sense of his peril.

“A match!” gasped Joe Moon hoarsely, starting up. “I'm freezing to death—fell in the river—light a fire——”

Munroe fumbled at his mackinaw, and it dropped from his shoulders to the floor, and then he brushed the snow from his streaming face. He did not reply to Joe Moon, but his heart leaped as he realized the plight of his enemy. He flung his mittens on the floor and sat down upon an empty box near by.

He wanted to think. The advantage was in his grasp. How to use it? He was breathing heavily, as if emerging from a stupor. And a stupor it had been, a stupor of incessant, desperate struggling in a maelstrom of snow, a stupor of battling for progress through clouds, sheets, walls of beating snow, a stupor of resistance to mighty, cruhsing winds, a stupor that had seemed so interminable that when he closed his eyes he could still see the swirling snow before him and could almost feel again the buffetings of the wind.

But he was safe. The discovery of Joe Moon's sled had been his deliverance, and now he was in the cabin, the dogs in shelter outside. He had taken Joe Moon's rifle from the sled, on impulse, before entering the cabin and this made him utterly master of the situation. Even without the rifle he felt that he would be the master, for the man across from him was not the powerful brute who had beaten him back in the Nogassaw village, but an exhausted, weakened creature.

“Don't you hear?” Joe Moon was saying in a broken, unearthly voice. “I'm freezing, man. Light the fire—the fire.”

He looked up and stared at Joe Moon, as if seeing him there for the first time. He saw his enemy hunched up on the bunk; he saw the frozen garments, the icy moccasins, the snowshoes, on the floor; he saw the stove, with fragments of dry birch bark and wood sticking out over the open top; he saw that the trader was shivering, and that his face was gray with cold.

“I've no matches, don't you understand?” Joe Moon's voice was high-pitched, almost a cream; Munroe sensed the desperations and the tension behind the words. “For God's sake light the fire. You must have matches!”

A plan was forming in Munroe's mind. Here was his opportunity.

“Yes,” he said. “I have matches.”

He fumbled in his pocket and felt the small metal box.

Strange that it should be Joe Moon who was depending on him like this. Strange that it should be left to him to save Joe Moon by lighting a fire. Strange that it should be for him to help the man who had robbed him, ruined him.

“Light the fire, then! Light the fire!” Joe Moon spat out the words between chattering teeth, and great shudders coursed through his body. “Hurry! Hurry! ——, man, we'll both freeze to death.”

Munroe's fingers touched the box again. So small it was. Just a tiny metal box. But so important. Matches meant life. Joe Moon had none. It was in Munroe's keeping whether or not the fire was lighted.

Into Joe Moon's face had crept a curious expression of bewilderment. He licked his lips, nervously. Was the factor mad? Had the struggle with the blizzard affected his mind, that he should hesitate to light the fire? It was unthnikable.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, getting up unsteadily from the bunk. “Light the fire, you fool! Light it! I'm freezing. I fell in the river, I tell you; know what that means. Hurry!”

Munroe got to his feet and grasped the rifle more tightly.

“If I fight the fire will you promise to get out of the fur country? You know what you've done to our trade with your whisky business. Will you get out? Will you turn your furs over to me and go away from here?”

Understanding dawned upon Joe Moon.

“You fool!” he gasped. “Try to bargain——”

Without warning, he plunged at Munroe.

So sudden was the attack that the factor did not have time to raise the rifle before Joe Moon was upon him, a wild light in his eyes, a look of desperation upon his haggard, unshaven countenance. Munroe ducked instinctively as the trader's great fist swung for his face. The blow was weak and slow, and Munroe regained his coolness, for he realized that Joe Moon was weakened from exhaustion and cold.

He struggled to raise the rifle, but the trader's great body was crushed against him, so he quickly dropped the gun and struck viciously for Joe Moon's face. He could hear a savage grunt as the blow landed and then Joe Moon lashed out with flailing arms and Munroe felt a fist crash against his cheek and he was borne heavily to the floor.

The blow was of no account, but the trader was heavy and Munroe wriggled quickly to get away from him, landing a sharp blow to Joe Moon's stomach as he did so. He heard a sharp smack, and a groan as the trader swung at him blindly and missed, his fist striking the floor.

They had tumbled clear of the rifle, and each thought of it at the same moment and reached desperately for it. Munroe's finger's were closing over the stock when his arm was suddenly swept aside and he saw Joe Moon's great hand above the gun. He gritted his teeth and jabbed at the trader's throat, and Joe Moon gasped in pain and his hand fell impotently above the rifle.

They fought sluggishly, for both were tired and cold, but Moon fought with little strength, little else than the desperate hope of a beaten man. They rolled over and over upon the floor, against the wall, against the stove, and Munroe kicked the rifle out of reach.

He dealt Joe Moon a smashing blow on the mouth, and then his opponent's cold fingers somehow found his throat and clung there like grim death. Munroe lashed out viciously to rid himself of that choking rasp, while Joe Moon, his eyes closed, his breath coming in tearing sobs, clung to him with all his dying strength. Munroe knew that one more blow would finish him and he struck upward, fiercely, with every flagging energy, and he felt a savage joy as his fist crashed full against Joe Moon's jaw and the clutching fingers loosened, and he wrenched himself away.

Swiftly he sprawled out over the floor and grabbed the rifle, but there was little need for it. Joe Moon was beaten.

THE trader lay weakly on the floor, his face bleeding, his huge frame inert. As Munroe got unsteadily to his feet and covered him with the gun he mumbled futile curses and then, opening his eyes, saw the rifle and terror leaped into his face.

“Don't shoot—don't shoot,” he whispered hoarsely. “I'm licked. I'll do anything you want.”

“You'll leave the fur country?”

“I can't,” gasped Joe Moon. “I can't leave—don't make me go—anything at all—but don't make me leave.”

Monroe looked at his enemy, broken in defeat, lying before him, and a swift comprehension crossed his mind.

“What do the police want you for?”

It was a chance shot, but Joe Moon's eyes widened, and he crawled slowly to his knees, shaking his head wearily.

“How do you know?” he mumbled. “How do you know—they're after me?”

“Never mind.” Munroe strove to suppress the elation in his voice. He had stumbled upon Joe Moon's secret. “It's enough that I know. Don't lie, Joe Moon, or I'll put a bullet through you. What are they after you for?”

The trader swayed unsteadily.

“Escape,” he gasped. “I got out of Stony Mountain pen——”

“So you came up here to hide?”

Joe Moon nodded, and then he crawled weakly over to the bunk and collapsed upon it. He was shivering again and Munroe, realizing that he was very cold himself, went over to the stove, still keeping a wary eye upon his enemy. But Joe Moon was beaten.

Munroe took out the box of matches, lighted one, and dropped it into the stove.

The yellowish flame caught the birch bark. It spread rapidly to the sticks of wood, which snapped and burned.

“There's your fire,” he said shortly. “I've got your sled outside.”

Joe Moon made no reply but lay shivering upon the bunk and Munroe, after looking at him for a moment, turned and left the cabin, still carrying the rifle.

He returned a moment later, lugging two packs, which he dropped upon the floor.

“There's grub there, and a sleeping bag,” he said. “We'll at least be comfortable here till morning.”

He wondered how to insure his own safety through the night. Joe Moon might not be as utterly beaten as he looked. The flickering firelight shone upon an object on the wall beside the bunk upon which the trader was lying, and Munroe stepped over to it. The object was one of Michael Angelo's traps, stapled to a log. It was a big trap, with powerful jaws, attached to the staple by a heavy chain and, on a sudden inspiration, he roughly turned Joe Moon over on his side. The trader was too exhausted and beaten to struggle or protest. Monroe pulled his enemy's coat aside and found the waistband of the trousers, then forced apart the jaws of the trap and snapped them over the rough cloth.

Joe Moon was secure. The trap was at his back and so strong were its jaws that it would be difficult, almost impossible, for him to release himself without getting out of his trousers altogether, and this would mean noise. But Munroe had little fear that Moon would try to take advantage of any slumber into which he would fall during the night. Joe Moon was beaten.

“Tomorrow,” he said, standing beside the bunk. “You'll turn over your furs to me. I'll settle for them with the Indians. Then you're going to get out of the country.”

“I'll tell you, I can't” mumbled Joe Moon. “They'll catch me again. They'll send me back—to finish my term.”

“You can take your chances on that. You're lucky to have the chance. For if you don't get out of this country tomormor I'm going to tell the mounties that you're up here.”

Joe Moon started up, and was brought to a sudden stop by the trap.

“You won't do that—you won't tell them——”

“Will you get out then?”

The trader sank back on the bunk again.

“I'll go. I'll get out tomorrow. But don't tell the mounties. You can have the furs—everything—I'll go.”

“That's the way to talk,” said Munroe, going over to one of the packs and commencing to rummage for food. “Just for that you can sleep on the bunk all night. I've got the sleeping bag.”

There was no answer from Joe Moon.

Munroe began to whistle as he took food from the pack. In the morning Joe Moon would go away from the Missabi forever. The trade of the Wakina post was saved.

The blizzard still howled furiously outside but, mingled with its howling, was the exultant crackle of the fire.