s. We'll have a couple of new bunks
put in here so that four men can stay with MacDougall and me every
night. The other four, who are not on the working shift, can hunt not
far from the camp, and keep their eyes peeled. Does that look good?"

"Can't be beat," said Henshaw, throwing open the breech of his gun.
"Shall we load?"

"Yes."

The room became ominous with the metallic click of loaded cartridge
clips and the hard snap of released chambers.

Five minutes later Philip stood alone with MacDougall. The loaded
rifles, each with a filled cartridge belt hanging over the muzzle, were
arranged in a row along one of the walls.

"I'll stake everything I've got on those men," he exclaimed. "Mac, did
it ever strike you that when you want REAL men you ought to come north
for them? Every one of those fellows is a northerner, except Cassidy,
and he's a fighter by birth. They'll die before they go back on their
word."

MacDougall rubbed his hands and laughed softly.

"What next, Phil?"

"We must send the swiftest man you've got in camp after Billinger, and
get word to the other parties you sent out as quickly as we can.
They'll probably get in too late. Billinger may arrive in time."

"He's been gone a week. It's doubtful if we can get him back within
three," said MacDougall. "I'll send St. Pierre's cousin, that young
Crow Feather, after him as soon as he can get a pack ready. You'd
better go to bed, Phil. You look like a dead man."

Philip was not sure that he could sleep, notwithstanding the physical
strain he had been under during the past twenty-four hours. He was
filled with a nervous desire for continued action. Only action kept him
from thinking of Jeanne and Thorpe. After MacDougall had gone to stir
up young Crow Feather he undressed and stretched out in his bunk,
hoping that the Scotchman would soon return. Not until he closed his
eyes did he realize how tired he was. MacDougall came in an hour later,
and Philip was asleep. It was nine o'clock when he awoke. He went to
the cook's shanty, ate a hot breakfast of griddle-cakes and bacon,
drank a pint of strong coffee, and hunted up MacDougall. Sandy was just
coming from Thorpe's house.

"He's a queer guinea, that Thorpe," said the engineer, after their
first greeting. "He doesn't pretend to do a pound's work. Notice his
hands when you see him again, Phil. They look as though he had been
drumming a piano all his life. But love o' mighty, how he does make the
O