osive or angry over the other's
reluctance, he at once began to humor him a bit.

"But there ain't no _speshul_ reason why no one's been up there this
year," he said with a perceptible hush in his tone; "not the reason you
mean, anyway! Las' year it was the fires that kep' folks out, and this
year I guess--I guess it jest happened so, that's all!" His manner was
clearly meant to be encouraging.

Joseph Defago raised his eyes a moment, then dropped them again. A
breath of wind stole out of the forest and stirred the embers into a
passing blaze. Dr. Cathcart again noticed the expression in the guide's
face, and again he did not like it. But this time the nature of the look
betrayed itself. In those eyes, for an instant, he caught the gleam of a
man scared in his very soul. It disquieted him more than he cared to
admit.

"Bad Indians up that way?" he asked, with a laugh to ease matters a
little, while Simpson, too sleepy to notice this subtle by-play, moved
off to bed with a prodigious yawn; "or--or anything wrong with the
country?" he added, when his nephew was out of hearing.

Hank met his eye with something less than his usual frankness.

"He's jest skeered," he replied good-humouredly. "Skeered stiff about
some ole feery tale! That's all, ain't it, ole pard?" And he gave Defago
a friendly kick on the moccasined foot that lay nearest the fire.

Defago looked up quickly, as from an interrupted reverie, a reverie,
however, that had not prevented his seeing all that went on about him.

"Skeered--_nuthin'!_" he answered, with a flush of defiance. "There's
nuthin' in the Bush that can skeer Joseph Defago, and don't you forget
it!" And the natural energy with which he spoke made it impossible to
know whether he told the whole truth or only a part of it.

Hank turned towards the doctor. He was just going to add something when
he stopped abruptly and looked round. A sound close behind them in the
darkness made all three start. It was old Punk, who had moved up from
his lean-to while they talked and now stood there just beyond the circle
of firelight--listening.

"'Nother time, Doc!" Hank whispered, with a wink, "when the gallery
ain't stepped down into the stalls!" And, springing to his feet, he
slapped the Indian on the back and cried noisily, "Come up t' the fire
an' warm yer dirty red skin a bit." He dragged him towards the blaze and
threw more wood on. "That was a mighty good feed you give us an hour or
two back,"