ty, O'Connor, and
himself gone--the Landing was short-handed just at present. There was
an enormous satisfaction in that. But even with a score of men behind
him Kent knew that he would beat them. His hazard, if there was peril
at all, lay in this first day. Only the Police gasoline launch could
possibly overtake them. And with the start they had, he was sure they
would pass the Death Chute, conceal the scow, and take to the untracked
forests north and west before the launch could menace them. After that
he would keep always west and north, deeper and deeper into that wild
and untraveled country which would be the last place in which the Law
would seek for them. He straightened himself and looked at the smoke
again, drifting like gray-white lace between him and the blue of the
sky, and in that moment the sun capped the tall green tops of the
highest cedars, and day broke gloriously over the earth.

For a quarter of an hour longer Kent mopped at the floor of the scow,
and then--with a suddenness that drew him up as if a whip-lash had
snapped behind him--he caught another aroma in the clean,
forest-scented air. It was bacon and coffee! He had believed that
Marette was taking her time in putting on dry footwear and making some
sort of morning toilet. Instead of that, she was getting breakfast. It
was not an extraordinary thing to do. To fry bacon and make coffee was
not, in any sense, a remarkable achievement. But at the present moment
it was the crowning touch to Kent's paradise. She was getting HIS
breakfast! And--coffee and bacon--To Kent those two things had always
stood for home. They were intimate and companionable. Where there were
coffee and bacon, he had known children who laughed, women who sang,
and men with happy, welcoming faces. They were home-builders.

"Whenever you smell coffee and bacon at a cabin," O'Connor had always
said, "they'll ask you in to breakfast if you knock at the door."

But Kent was not recalling his old trail mate's words. In the present
moment all other thoughts were lost in the discovery that Marette was
getting breakfast--for him.

He went to the door and listened. Then he opened it and looked in.
Marette was on her knees before the open door of the stove, toasting
bread on two forks. Her face was flushed pink. She had not taken time
to brush her hair, but had woven it carelessly into a thick braid that
fell down her back. She gave a little exclamation of mock
disappointment when sh