m sayin'--a man wid a bum leg was camped in th' shack av
Melton's No. 8, an' th' harses in th' shtable. An' s'posin' some one
shnaked in in th' noight an' stole th' harses on um an' druv 'em to
Hilarity, an' waited f'r th' boss to sind f'r 'em. An' s'posin' a wake
wint by befoor th' boss c'd sind a man down to look up th' team he'd
sint f'r a cook, wid orders to hurry back. An' s'posin' he found th'
bum-legged driver froze shtiff on th' tote-road phwere he'd made out to
hobble a few moiles on his crutch--phwat thin? Why, th' man was a
greener, an', not knowin' how to handle th' team, they'd got away from
um."

Bill followed the Irishman closely, and knew that he spoke with a
purpose. His eyes narrowed, and his lips bent into that cold smile
which the men of the camp had come to know was no smile at all, but a
battle alarm, the more ominous for its silence.

"Do you mean that it is a frame-up? That Moncrossen----" Fallon silenced
him with a motion.

"Whist!" he whispered and glanced sharply about him, then leaned over
and dug a stiffened forefinger into the other's ribs. "Oi don't mane
nothin'. But 'tis about toime they begun bankin' their bird's-eye.

"Creed et dinner in camp, but he never et supper. Him an' th' boss made
medicine in th' office _afther_ th' boss talked to ye. Put two an' two
togither an' Oi've towld ye nothin' at all; but av ye fergit ut Oi'll
see that phwat th' wolves lave av th' bum-legged teamster is buried
proper an' buried deep, an' Oi'll blow in tin dollars f'r a mass f'r
his sowl.

"Av ye _don't_ fergit ut, ye moight fetch back a gallon jug av Hod
Burrage's embalmin' flooid, f'r me inwards is that petrified be th'
grub we've been havin' av late, they moight mishtake ut f'r rale
liquor. Good-by, an' good luck--'tis toime to roll in."

CHAPTER XX

A FIRE IN THE NIGHT

The sledding was good on the tote-road.

The thaw that ruined the iced surface of the skid-ways was followed by
several days of freezing weather that put a hard, smooth finish on the
deep snow of the longer road, over which the runners of the box-bodied
tote-sled slipped with scarcely any resistance to the pull of the
sharp-shod team.

Bill Carmody, snugly bundled in robes in the bottom of the sled, idly
watched the panorama of tree-trunks between which the road twisted in
an endless succession of tortuous windings.

It was not yet daylight when he rounded the bend which was the scene of
his fight with the werwo