nter seeking to dispose of
venison taken out of season, and Lebolt a company cruiser engaged in
estimating timber to the northward.

It was about this time that Bad Luck, that gaunt specter that lurks
unseen in the shadows and hovers over the little lives of men for the
working of harm, swooped down upon the camp and in a series of untoward
happenings impaired its efficiency and impregnated the atmosphere with
the blight of discontent.

An unprecedented thaw set in, ruining the skidways and reducing the
snow of the forest to a sodden slush that chilled men to the bone as
they floundered heavily about their work.

Reed and Kantochy, two sawyers, were caught by a "kick-back." One of
the best horses was sweenied. A teamster who fell asleep on the top of
his load awoke in the bottom of a ravine with a shattered arm, a dead
horse, and a ruined log-sled. Bill's foot was mashed by a rolling log;
and last, and most far-reaching in its effect, the cook contracted
spotted fever and died in a reverse curve.

Moncrossen raged. From a steady eighty thousand feet a day the output
dropped to seventy, sixty, fifty thousand--and the end was not in
sight. Good-natured banter and friendly tussles among the men gave
place to surly bickering and ugly fist-fighting, and in spite of the
best efforts of the second cook the crew growled sullenly or openly
cursed the grub.

Then it was that Moncrossen knew that something must be done--and that
something quickly. He shifted Stromberg and Fallon to the sawing crew,
made a skidder out of a swamper, and filled his place with a grub-shack
flunky.

Then one afternoon he dropped in upon Bill in the bunk-house, where
that young man sat fuming at his inaction with his foot propped up on
the edge of a bunk.

"How's the foot?" growled the boss.

"Pretty sore," answered Bill, laying aside a magazine. "Swelling is
going down a bit."

"Ever handle horses?"

"Yes, a few."

The boss cleared his throat and proceeded awkwardly.

"I don't like to ask no crippled man to work before he's able," he
began grudgingly. "But things is goin' bad. What with them two pilgrims
that called theirselves sawyers not bein' able to dodge a kick-back,
an' Gibson pickin' a down-hill pull on an iced skidway for to go to
sleep on his load, an' your gettin' pinched, an' the cook curlin' up
an' dyin' on us, an' the whole damned outfit roarin' about the grub,
there's hell to pay all around."

He paused and, receiving n