the old man
left."

"How far is the creek from where the post was?"

"Lemme think," Drummond muttered, and his eyes half closed. "Old man
reckoned Strange made it in a fortnight's march."

"From the creek, or from the place where he was sent? Or do you mean the
double journey?"

"Don't know," Drummond answered dully. "Old man said fortnight. Told you
all I remember."

Then he slipped down in the big chair, his head drooped forward, and he
fell into a drunken sleep. Stormont got up and leaned against the table.
He had borne some strain in the last few minutes, because it had been
obvious that Drummond was overcome by liquor and would soon be unable to
talk, while when he woke up sober he might repent his rashness. Now
Stormont imagined he had told him all he knew, and it ought to be worth
fifty dollars. Lighting a cigar, he waited until his clerk came back,
when he indicated Drummond, who lay, snoring heavily, with his dirty
boots on Stormont's bed.

"Wake the drunken fool and see him home."

Watson had some trouble to get Drummond on his feet and after Stormont
shut the door there was a heavy thud. It looked as if Drummond had
fallen down the stairs, but Stormont smiled. He had done with the
fellow, and if Watson could get him out of the hotel, it did not matter
if he reached home or not. Ringing for the bell-boy, he gave orders
about being called in the morning, as he meant to leave by an early
west-bound train.

CHAPTER XII

ON THE TRAIL

Thirlwell had been to the railroad settlement, and returning with Father
Lucien, camped on the trail not far from the mine. The day had been
unusually warm and at noon the pines dripped in the sun and the snow got
damp. At dusk it began to freeze and a haze hung about the woods and
obscured the moon, but, by contrast with the rigors of winter, Thirlwell
sitting by the camp-fire, felt almost uncomfortably warm. Father Lucien
had taken off his furs and sat with a blanket over his shoulders on a
bundle of dry twigs. Both had hung their moccasins up to dry near the
heap of snapping branches. Wreaths of aromatic smoke slowly drifted past
and faded in the mist.

"One feels spring coming," said Father Lucien. "We have had a foretaste
to cheer us while winter lasts. The sun is moving north, and up here, it
always thrills me to watch the light drive back the dark. One could make
a homily on that."

"The dark soon returns," Thirlwell remarked, "I hate the long nights.