he
took it on three fives and two sixes. When I objected he called me a liar
an' hit me. Them's my beans, or Scotty's!" There was something almost like
murder in the little man's red eyes.

Roscoe remained silent. He did not care to talk, or question. No one had
asked him who he was or whence he came, and he felt no inclination to know
more of the men he had fallen among. Croker finished, wiped his mouth with
his hand, and looked across at Roscoe.

"How about going out with me to get some wood?" he demanded.

"I'm ready," replied Roscoe.

For the first time he took notice of himself. He was lame, and sickeningly
weak, but apparently sound in other ways. The intense cold had not frozen
his ears or feet. He put on his heavy moccasins, his thick coat and fur
cap, and Croker pointed to his rifle.

"Better take that along," he said. "Can't tell what you might see."

Roscoe picked it up and the pack which lay beside it. He did not catch the
ugly leer which the bearded man turned upon Thompson. But Henry did, and
his little eyes grew smaller and blacker. On snowshoes the two men went out
into the storm, Croker carrying an axe. He led the way through the bit of
thin timber, and across a wide open over which the storm swept so fiercely
that their trail was covered behind them as they travelled. Roscoe figured
that they had gone a quarter of a mile when they came to another clump of
trees, and Croker gave him the axe.

"You can cut down some of this," he said. "It's better burning than that
back there. I'm going on for a dry log that I know of. You wait until I
come back."

Roscoe set to work upon a spruce, but he could scarcely strike out a chip.
After a little he was compelled to drop his axe, and lean against the tree,
exhausted. At intervals he resumed his cutting. It was half an hour before
the small tree fell. Then he waited for Croker. Behind him his trail was
already obliterated. After a little he raised his voice and called for
Croker. There was no reply. The wind moaned above him in the spruce tops.
It made a noise like the wash of the sea out on the open Barren. He shouted
again. And again. The truth dawned upon him slowly--but it came. Croker had
brought him out purposely--to lose him. He was saving the bacon and the
cold biscuits back in the cabin. Roscoe's hands clenched tightly, and then
they relaxed. At last he had found what he was after--his book! It would be
a terrible book, if he carried out the idea