erwolf and received no hurt. How he had cowed the boss
with a look, and laid the mighty Stromberg cold in the batting of an
eye.

He himself had, but twenty hours since, seen this man lying helpless
upon the floor of a locked shack, ringed round with roaring flames,
beyond any human possibility of escape.

And here he stood, crippled beyond peradventure of trail-travel, yet
fresh and unfatigued, forty miles from the scene of his burning! A thin
trickle of ice crept downward along his spine and, overmastering all
other emotions, came the desire to be elsewhere.

He slid from the counter and, as his feet touched the floor, his knees
crumpled and he sprawled his length almost at the feet of the man who
could not die.

As a matter of fact, Creed aged materially during his journey to the
door, but to the onlookers his exit seemed a miracle of frantic haste
as he clawed and scrambled the length of the room on hands and knees in
a maudlin panic of terror.

And out into the night, as he ran in the first direction he faced, the
upper most thought in his mind was a blind rage against Moncrossen.

The boss himself was afraid of this man, yet he had sent him, Creed, to
make away with him--alone--in the night! The quavering breath left his
throat in long moans as he ran on and on and on.

"Your friend seems to have been in something of a hurry," ventured
Bill, as Burrage gave a final twist to the old newspaper in which he
was wrapping Fallon's jug.

The storekeeper regarded his customer quizzically and spat with
surprising accuracy into the box.

"Yes," he replied dryly, "Creed, he's mostly in a hurry when they's
strangers about. But to-night he seemed right down _anxious_ thataway."

CHAPTER XXIII

HEAD-LINES

The brute in Moncrossen held subservient the more human emotions, else
he must surely have betrayed his surprise when, twelve hours ahead of
schedule, the greener swung the long-geared tote team to a stand in
front of the office door.

Not only had he made the trip without mishap, but accomplished the
seemingly impossible in persuading Daddy Dunnigan to cook for a log
camp, when in all reason the old man should have scorned the
proposition in a torrent of Irish profanity.

Moncrossen dealt only in facts. Speculation as to cause and effect
found no place in his mental economy. His plan had miscarried. For that
Creed must answer later. The fact that concerned him now was that the
greener continued to