k he had cut. "These
darned bits of wood." Then he raised the lichen, which had been
carefully loosened, and revealed the gaping rift in the tree-trunk
beneath it. "Our cache," he added. "Say, maybe when spring breaks
there's things might make it so you can't get along up here. You see,
it's a chance. You can't just say. Maybe I'm scared. Anyway, I got a
notion you might need me in a hurry. I'm scared for you. That's it. I'm
scared for you. Well? You've got your boys. Either of 'em could make
this place in the winter. Here, grab this little old stick. I'll keep
the other. It's just a token. I've set your name on it. Well, send it
along up, and cache it in this cache, and when I come along and find it
here, instead of you, at the break of spring, I'll know you're held up
and need me, and you can gamble your big white soul I'll beat the trail
to your help like a cyclone in a hurry. Oh, I know. You'll guess nothing
can happen that way. But it's just my notion, and you're going to kind
of humour me. Git that? When I find that token set in this cache I'll
make up the river just as hard as hell'll let me."

In spite of her confidence Keeko accepted the stick the boy passed to
her and sat gazing at it. It was then that she discovered the lettering
that had been cut on it. There were just two words in letters crudely
formed: "LITTLE KEEKO."

For a while her eyes dwelt upon them absorbing all the tenderness they
conveyed. Then, in a moment, all the truth in her, the woman, roused
into active purpose. She handed it back to him.

"You've given me the wrong token," she said, with a laugh. "I need one
with your name on it."

She held out her hand and Marcel passed her the other half of the stick.
It was inscribed with the single word: "MARCEL." Instantly the girl rose
from her seat and moved away.

"We best get back to camp," she said.

It was her woman's defence. Another few moments and Keeko knew she would
have been powerless before her own passionate emotion.

She led the way to the head of the path which went down to the little
camp on the foreshore below.

* * * * *

Marcel was standing beside the tree which had become the centre of all
things for him. The grey night sky had remained. It had only deepened
its threat with the dawn. But the reality of the moment was nothing to
the desolate winter that had settled upon his heart.

The farewell lay behind him. He was alone, desperately alo