ns.
There's not wood enough cut to last a week. You'll freeze, Nan, you
and the baby, and I'm--just nothing."

He took two silver dollars from his pocket, and said, almost savagely,
"There's what we've got to winter on, and me crippled."

But his wife put her hand on his softly. "Don't you give up so, Joe,"
she said. And presently she added: "Next Thursday's Thanksgiving.
We've seen hard times, and we may see harder, but I never knew
Thanksgiving to come yet without something to be thankful
for--never."

Outside the storm continued, fine snow sifting down rapidly. "Pikepole
Pete" found stiff work facing it, and bent low over the red roan's
neck.

"Blue blazes!" he muttered. "Bennett's a good fellow all right, and
he's hurt; but if he hadn't nigh saved my life twice he could get this
critter back himself fer all of me!" He glanced at the dark woods and
drew up suddenly. "The road forks here, and Turner's is yonder--less
than a mile. I'll hitch in his barn a spell and go on later," and he
took the Turner fork.

But at Turner's Pete found two or three congenial spirits--and a jug;
and a few hours later the easy-going fellow was deep in a tipsy sleep
that would last for hours.

The following Sunday morning came bright and clear upon freshly fallen
snow that softened all the ruder outlines of town and field and woods.
Beetle Ring camp lay wrapped in fleecy whiteness.

The camp was late astir, for Sunday was Beetle Ring's day--not of
rest, but of carousal. Two men had started out rather early--the
camp's jug delegation to the Skylark. Presently the men began to
straggle out to the snug row of sheds where the horses were kept.
Posey Breem yawned lazily as he threw open the door of his particular
stall, then suddenly brought himself together with a jerk and stared
fixedly.

"What ails you now, Pose? Seen a ghost?"

"Skid" Thomson stopped with the big measure of feed which he was
carrying.

"No, I've seen no ghost," said Breem slowly, still staring. "Look
here, Skid!" Thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the
measure.

"By George, Pose!" he said. "By--George!"

The news flew over the camp like wildfire. Posey Breem's red roan, the
best horse in the camp, had been stolen! The burly lumbermen came
hurrying from all directions. There was no doubt about it--the horse
was gone, and the snow had covered every trace. There was absolutely
no clue to follow. Silently and sullenly the men filed in to
breakfa