ad from side to side, questioningly.

"Good!" he said. "Big Rattle off there, Archer's camp over there. I go
there. Good 'nough!"

He hitched his old smooth-bore rifle higher under his arm and
continued his journey. Sacobie had tramped many miles--all the way from
ice-imprisoned Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick. His squaw was hungry.
Sacobie's belt was drawn tight.

During all that weary journey his old rifle had not banged once,
although few eyes save those of timberwolf and lynx were sharper in the
hunt than Sacobie's. The Indian was reeling with hunger and weakness,
but he held bravely on.

A white man, no matter how courageous and sinewy, would have been prone
in the snow by that time.

But Sacobie, with his head down and his round snowshoes padding!
padding! like the feet of a frightened duck, raced with death toward the
haven of Archer's cabin.

Archer was dreaming of a Christmas-time in a great faraway city when
he was startled by a rattle of snowshoes at his threshold and a soft
beating on his door, like weak blows from mittened hands. He sprang
across the cabin and pulled open the door.

A short, stooping figure shuffled in and reeled against him. A rifle in
a woollen case clattered at his feet.

"Mer' Christmas! How-do?" said a weary voice.

"Merry Christmas, brother!" replied Archer. Then, "Bless me, but it's
Sacobie Bear! Why, what's the matter, Sacobie?"

"Heap tired! Heap hungry!" replied the Micmac, sinking to the floor.

Archer lifted the Indian and carried him over to the bunk at the farther
end of the room. He filled his iron-pot spoon with brandy, and inserted
the point of it between Sacobie's unresisting jaws. Then he loosened the
Micmac's coat and shirt and belt.

He removed his moccasins and stockings and rubbed the straight thin feet
with brandy.

After a while Sacobie Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at Archer.

"Good!" he said. "John Archer, he heap fine man, anyhow. Mighty good to
poor Injun Sacobie, too. Plenty tobac, I s'pose. Plenty rum, too."

"No more rum, my son," replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug
against the log wall, and corking the bottle, "and no smoke until you
have had a feed. What do you say to bacon and tea! Or would tinned beef
suit you better?"

"Bacum," replied Sacobie.

He hoisted himself to his elbow, and wistfully sniffed the fumes of
brandy that came from the direction of his bare feet. "Heap waste of
good rum, me t'ink," he said.

"Y