Winter, after all, caught them in its icy grip far north of where they had planned to be when the cold should really set in. This was due to a variety of circumstances. The slowness of Thorwaldsson’s recovery was one of the retarding influences, which prevented them making the desired speed. After weeks of travel he was still in a comatose condition, and Mr. Hampton feared his brain had been affected by a bullet that ploughed along the left side of his head. The other wounded, although quick to recover, also acted as a hindrance, especially at the first.

Then, too, the season was unusual. Winter arrived weeks ahead of the expected time. And daily, as the ice on stream and river thickened, it became increasingly hard to break a way. Yet the canoes could not be abandoned, for, once snow began to fly, the travelers would have been helpless on land, without sleds or snowshoes. Sleds of a sort could be constructed, of course, and makeshift snowshoes made, too, but neither would be worth much, and the manufacture of them would take a good deal of time.

Two sentries were always posted at night now; one by a fire around which slumbered the prisoners, the other by a fire in the midst of a circle composed of the Hampton and Thorwaldsson parties combined. It was Jack’s turn to keep guard one cold but clear night, after a heavy snowfall, which had caused a great deal of suffering to all, and had brought them, indeed, to the verge of despair. For they were insufficiently clad, even though the skins of many animals slain for food in the past weeks had been saved and roughly cured for wraps; and, in addition, with the closing-in of Winter game had become so scarce that the camp was virtually on the verge of starvation.

Jack was mounting guard by the fire around which lay his friends. One of the Thorwaldsson party, Swenson, did sentry duty by the other fire. Looking across the little space which separated the two parties, Jack could see the huddled figures of the half-breeds lying so close to the fire, which Swenson fed constantly with fuel, that they seemed almost to be in it. Around him the members of his own party were similarly disposed.

With a sigh, Jack arose, caught up an armful of wood and tossed it into the fire. The flames at once shot high and, as if that were a signal, out of the darkness beyond came a robust hail.

“Hello, there. Keep ’er goin’, sonny.”

Into the light of the fire a moment later strode a big fur-clad figure of a man on snowshoes. On his back was a pack which he dropped to the ground with a sigh of relief. Then he leaned his rifle in the crook of an elbow and, pulling off great fur mittens, spread his hands to the blaze, working his fingers gratefully back and forth.

“Cold an’ gittin’ colder,” he announced, casually. “Got a nice fire here.”

Jack was nonplussed. In the first place, to find another wanderer in this wilderness which they believed unpeopled was exciting enough. But to have him walk in casually and without vouchsafing any explanation of his presence took Jack’s breath away for the moment. Yet Jack knew enough of the woodland lore to realize that hospitality is the first law of the wilds, and that questions distinctly would not be in order. He decided the best thing for him would be to wait for the other to take the lead in the conversation.

This the intruder was not slow to do, beginning even as he eased his stiffened fingers in the warmth of the fire.

“Didn’t know there was anybody else in this country,” he said. “Been around here long?”

A look of clumsy craft from under shaggy brows accompanied the question. Jack had to smile to himself.

“No; not long,” he said composedly. “And you?”

“Oh, I been huntin’ an’ trappin’ ’round here,” the other said.

To Jack it seemed the man was an honest enough, even a likeable, type, and yet that he was acting evasively. He decided it would be a good plan to get a more experienced head to help him deal with the situation. None of his party apparently was awake, all being worn out with the terrific strain of the day’s travel. But Art lay near him. In fact, his foot was not six inches from Jack.

Unostentatiously, in order not to attract the newcomer’s attention, Jack moved his foot to a position where with his toe he could tap on Art’s ankles. It was sufficient for the purpose apparently, for, out of the tail of his eye Jack saw Art’s body stiffen and his head lift up slightly from the ground. For what followed, however, he was totally unprepared.

Art sprang to his feet, leaped forward and began thumping the newcomer vigorously on the back.

“Why, you ol’ son-of-a-gun,” he cried. “You ol’ son-of-a-gun.”

“Li’l Artie, or I’m goin’ blind,” cried the other, seizing Art by the hand and pumping up and down.

Jack turned in amazement to Art.

“Why—why—you know each other!” he cried.

“Know each other? Har, har, har,” roared the giant, in a guffaw that aroused the others about the campfire. “Know each other? That’s a good one.”

Mr. Hampton, Farnum, Bob and Frank, Farrell and several of the others gathered around, looking their questions, and Art turned to satisfy them.

“Ever hear o’ Long Jim Golden?” he asked. “Well, this is him—the daggonedest trapper on the face o’ the earth. Ain’t seen him in years since he left Circle City in the rush. Where you been, Jim?”

“Trappin’.” Jim looked around at the interested faces. “You tol’ who I am,” he said. “Now tell me who’s your friends, Artie.”

“Sure,” said Art heartily, effecting introductions. “Here we all are,” he concluded, and then his face fell as he added: “but where we’ll be soon, I don’t know, nor what’s to become of us.”

Long Jim looked first at one, then at another, then his eyes roved over the camp.

“How come?” he asked. “No sleds nor dogs nor snowshoes nor nothin’. How come?”

“Sit here by the fire and I’ll tell you, Jim,” said Art. “The rest o’ you, we won’t bother you none with loud voices. We’ll jest whisper-like. You’ll want to turn in and sleep, so go to it.”

Nothing loath, the others with the exception of Jack, who moved to one side so as not to intrude on the two old acquaintances thus strangely reunited, turned in and soon were once more asleep.

Briefly as possible, Art explained to Long Jim the circumstances leading up to their present position. From across the fire, Jack watched them. He saw that Long Jim paid close attention to Art’s narrative and that, indeed, it seemed to affect him strangely. For over his open, rugged features, not constructed to conceal their owner’s moods, swept doubt, uncertainty, indecision, as if within the man was going on a fight between two contending forces. Jack was puzzled. What could Long Jim be thinking of?

Then Long Jim slowly rose to his feet, placing a hand on the shoulder of his companion who remained seated but looking up at him. Jack unconsciously moved closer as the big trapper appeared about to speak. He did not want to eavesdrop, but Long Jim’s expression had puzzled him greatly. What could it mean?

“Artie,” said Long Jim in a louder tone than that in which their whispered conversation had been carried on, and one that reached Jack’s ears, “Artie, my boy,” he said, “I wish you didn’t have them skunks with ye.”

“Them breeds,” said Art, jerking a thumb back over a shoulder to indicate the prisoners sleeping about the other fire.

“Them same,” said Long Jim. “Cause why, you asks me? Cause I got a paradise to take you all to, where you can spend the Winter lapped in comfort. An’ I don’t want to take no rascals like them half-breeds there. But——”

Art was on his feet, excitement struggling with disbelief.

“What? What you mean, Long Jim?”

“Jest what I says,” answered the other emphatically. “A paradise, I calls it. An’ a paradise it is. An’ the quicker we git there the better, so wake up your friends an’ let me talk to ’em. If we have to take them skunks, why, we’ll take ’em.”