his long knife, and Yan saw
two things that stuck in his memory: first, the knife, which was of
hunting pattern, had a brass Deer on the handle; second, the hand that
grasped it had only three fingers.

"What's that other box in there?"

"That's--that's--only our food box."

"You lie to me, will ye?" and again the stick descended. "Haul it
out."

"I can't."

"Haul it out or I'll choke ye."

Yan tried, but it was too heavy.

"Get out, you useless Pup!" and the tramp walked into the teepee and
gave Yan a push that sent him headlong out on the ground.

The boy was badly bruised, but saw his only chance. The big knife was
there. He seized it, cut the cord on his legs, flung the knife afar
in the swamp and ran like a Deer. The tramp rushed out of the teepee
yelling and cursing. Yan might have gotten away had he been in good
shape, but the tramp's cruelty really had crippled him, and the brute
was rapidly overtaking him. As he sped down the handiest, the south
trail, he sighted in the trees ahead a familiar figure, and yelling
with all his remaining strength, "Caleb! Caleb!! Caleb Clark!!!" he
fell swooning in the grass.

There is no mistaking the voice of dire distress. Caleb hurried up,
and with one impulse he and the tramp grappled in deadly struggle.
Turk was not with his master, and the tramp had lost his knife, so it
was a hand-to-hand conflict. A few clinches, a few heavy blows, and
it was easy to see who must win. Caleb was old and slight. The tramp,
strong, heavy-built, and just drunk enough to be dangerous, was too
much for him, and after a couple of rounds the Trapper fell writhing
with a foul blow. The tramp felt again for his knife, swore savagely,
looked around for a club, found only a big stone, and would have done
no one knows what, when there was a yell from behind, another big man
crashed down the trail, and the tramp faced William Raften, puffing
and panting, with Guy close behind. The stone meant for Caleb he
hurled at William, who dodged it, and now there was an even fight. Had
the tramp had his knife it might have gone hard with Raften, but fist
to fist the farmer had the odds. His old-time science turned the
day, and the desperado went down with a crusher "straight from the
shoulder."

It seemed a veritable battle-field--three on the ground and Raften,
red-faced and puffing, but sturdy and fearless, standing in utter
perplexity.

"Phwhat the divil does it all mane?"

"I'll tell you, Mr