rejudice, everything except the
lonely little gray woman off there who had waited and longed just as
such another had waited and longed for her, and, inasmuch as Ollie had
suffered before as this boy suffered now, in her words there was a sweet
sympathy and a perfect understanding.

It was very fine, I think, coming so from her, and when the first shock
had passed over he felt that here, among all these rugged men, there was
no one to give him the comfort he craved except this child of the
dance-halls. Compassion and sympathy he could get from any of us, but he
was a boy and this was his first grief, so he yearned for something
more, something subtler, perhaps the delicate comprehension of a woman.
At any rate, he wouldn't let her leave him, and the tender-hearted lass
poured out all the best her warm nature afforded.

In a few days he braced up, however, and stood his sorrow like the rest
of us. It made him more of a man in many ways. For one thing, he never
scoffed now at any of the nine women, which, taken as an indication, was
good. In fact, I saw him several times with the Marceau girl, for he
found her always ready and responsive, and came to confide in her rather
than in Martin or me, which was quite natural. Martin spoke about it
first.

"I hate to see 'em together so much," said he. "One of 'em is going to
fall in love, sure, and it won't be reciprocated none. It would serve
him right to get it hard, but if _she's_ hit--it'll be too dam' pitiful.
You an' I will have to combine forces and beat him up, I reckon."

The days were growing long and warm, the hills were coming bare on the
heights, while the snow packed wet at midday when we went into town to
sled out grub for the clean-up. We found everybody else there for the
same purpose, so the sap began to run through the camp. We were loading
at the trading-post the next day when I heard the name of Ollie Marceau.
It was a big-limbed fellow from Alder Creek talking, and, as he showed
no liquor in his face, what he said sounded all the worse. I have heard
as bad many a time without offense, for there is no code of loyalty
concerning these girls, but Ollie had got my sympathy, somehow, and I
resented the remarks, particularly the laughter. So did Prosser, the
Puritan. He looked up from his work, white and dangerous.

"Don't talk that way about a girl," said he to the stranger, and it made
a sensation among the crowd.

I never knew a man before with courage en