tched Jean push open the rude
door of the little cabin. Only when Fitzpatrick's voice sounded
did he turn away.

Next morning, the sky had cleared, and there was a considerable
show of activity in the camp, as though some secret orders had been
issued. The men had not much more than finished breakfast when a
trapper, who had been out still-hunting game at sunrise, came
running in at the top of his speed, waving his rifle over his head.
No sooner was he within reach than he was surrounded by a circle
of the curious.

"There's the deuce to pay for somebody, boys," he cried, "for I
just found the body of Indian Tom, old Maria's son, out there in
the woods. A bullet hole in the back did the trick. He was carrying
a gun, but it's still loaded and his cartridge-belt's full, so he
couldn't have done the job himself. I reached him just as he rattled
off, so it wasn't very long ago. Now, I don't know who had it in
for him. He was 'way beyond the sentry lines, and we're twenty
miles from the other camp. ... I wonder it any of the boys were
out in the woods last night?"

Donald, who had not heard the first of the speech, caught the last
sentence, and made inquiries. When he learned the facts, he laughed
shortly.

"Well, boys," he remarked, "I was out in the woods last night; in
fact, I heard the shot that finished Indian Tom off."

"Out in the woods? What were you doing out in the woods in a storm
like that, McTavish?" someone demanded.

Donald hesitated, and bit his lip with vexation. He was trapped.
It was next to the last thing in his mind to let Peter Rainy's
departure and goal become known, and it was the last to let Jean's
name be brought into any of his doings. But he was not a good liar,
and he groped frantically for an adequate answer.

"Come on--out with it! Is it so hard to remember?" drawled Buxton.

Still, Donald could not say anything. He laughed uneasily, and a
flush mounted to his hair.

"I guess, boys," he finally blurted out, "I'd rather not say; it
was a private matter."

The men looked at one another, and were silent. Finally, one,
bolder than the rest, cleared his throat.

"Didn't you give Tom an awful thrashing a little while back?" he
asked, significantly.

The flush became deeper on McTavish's face.

"It's none of your darned business, my friend," he replied, acidly.
"But I'll answer your question. I did give him a good licking, and
he deserved it. How did you find it out?

"I dunno. It