at the
others. Blake's expression was pitiful, but his lips were resolutely
set; Harding's eyes were very keen and determined. Then Benson made a
sign of resignation.

"It looks as if I were beaten. I may as well go to sleep."

He wrapped his blanket round him and lay down near the fire, and soon
afterwards the others crept into the tent. Benson would be warm enough
where he lay and they felt it a relief to get away from him.

Day was breaking when Blake rose and threw fresh wood on the fire, and
as a bright flame leaped up, driving back the shadows, he saw that
Benson was missing. This, however, did not disturb him, because the
man had been restless and they had now and then heard him moving about
at night. When the fire had burned up and he filled the kettle,
without his seeing anything of his friend, he began to grow anxious and
called loudly. There was no answer and he could hear no movement in
the bush. The dark spruces had grown sharper in form; he could see
some distance between the trunks, but everything was still. Then
Harding came out of the tent.

"You had better look if the horses are there," he suggested.

Blake failed to find them near the muskeg, but as the light got clearer
he saw tracks leading through the bush. Following these for a
distance, he came upon the Indian pony, still hobbled, but the other, a
powerful range horse, had gone. Mounting the pony, he rode back to
camp, where he found Harding looking grave.

"The fellow's gone and taken some provisions with him," he said. "He
left this for us."

It was a strip of paper, apparently torn from a pocket-book, with a few
lines written on it. Benson said he regretted having to leave them in
such an unceremonious fashion, but they had given him no choice, and
added that he would leave the horse, hobbled, at a spot about two days'
ride away.

"He seems to think he's showing us some consideration in not riding the
beast down to the settlement," Blake remarked with a dubious smile,
feeling strongly annoyed with himself for not taking more precautions.
With the cunning which the lust for drink breeds in its victims Benson
had outwitted him by feigning acquiescence. "Anyhow," he added, "I'll
have to go after him. We must have the horse, for one thing, but I
suppose we'll lose four days. This is rough on you."

"Yes," agreed Harding, "you must get after him, but don't mind about
me. The man's a friend of yours and I like him; he was