September drifted imperceptibly into October, and even then there were days when coats were shed and sleeves rolled up as the noon sun burned down on the tawny gold and scarlet of the woodside. It was not until the sedges grew brittle on the river edges and the grasses withered that November sent forth its true harbingers of winter—small fluttering white flakes that covered the ground sparsely.

With the keen tang of the first snow stirring his blood, David swung down the river-trail toward Tramworth, Smoke padding at his heels. With Avery’s help he had built a snug winter camp near the three cabins, and although not in the best location available, it reflected some Celtic astuteness on David’s part, as it was centred on the prospective right-of-way of the new road. His present errand involved the purchase of a stove, cooking utensils, and the other essentials to independent housekeeping. He found out, early in his undertaking to teach Swickey, that he could not maintain the prestige necessary, in her continual presence.

He felt pleased with himself that brisk November morning. He had his own cabin, neat, new, fragrant. He had learned to swing an axe during its construction. He had not missed the first deer he hunted, and thereby had earned Swickey’s condescending approval. She had killed a “b’ar.” In the setting of traps and dead-falls he won Avery’s appreciation by a certain deftness and mechanical ability. But, above all, was the keen joy he felt when he thought of the Bascombs’ recent offer of twenty-five thousand dollars for Lost Farm tract.

“There is something behind it,” he muttered. “Avery gave five thousand for the land. But why don’t they appraise it and sell it from under us. They could. By Jove, I have it! The Great Western Lumber Company is back of the N. M. & Q., and they want the pine. Why didn’t I think of that before.”

Unused to observing signs on the trail, he failed to notice the moccasin tracks in the light snow ahead of him, but Smoke picked up a scent and trotted along, sniffing and blowing. Then he came to heel again, evidently satisfied. The man-thing he followed ought to know that the people who made the tracks were not far ahead, and that one of them had turned off in a clump of firs they were just passing.

He noted the dog’s actions subconsciously, his mind busy with the problem of how to get the best results from the sale which he knew must come eventually, despite Avery’s assertion that “No blamed railrud would come snortin’ across his front yard, if he knew it.”

He had about decided to advise his partner to sell and avoid complications, but only the right-of-way and retain the stumpage—

Wh-e-e-e—Pang! His pack jumped from his shoulders as a bullet clipped a beech and sung off at a tangent with a mournful ping—ouing—ing.

From the hillside above him, again came the sharp Pang! Pang! of a high-power rifle. He flung up both arms, whirled half round, and dropped on the frozen trail. Smoke bristled and growled, pacing with stiff forelegs round his master. He nuzzled the limp hands and whined. He trembled and a ridge of hair rose along his spine. He was not afraid, but the rage of an impotent avenger shook him. This man-thing had been struck down—from where?—by whom?

He sniffed back along the trail till he came to the tracks that swung off into the firs. He leaped to the hunt, following the scene over knoll and hollow. An empty brass shell lay melting the thin snow around it. He nosed it, then another and another. They were pungently disagreeable to his nostrils. The tracks circled back to the trail again. They were leading him to where his master lay—he knew that. Near the fringe of undergrowth that edged the trail the big white terrier stiffened and raised his homely nose. A new man-smell came to him and he hated it instinctively. With the caution and courage of the fighter who loves battle for its own sake, he crept through the low, snow-powdered branches noiselessly. He saw a dark figure stooping above his master.

Smoke gathered his haunches beneath him and shot up, a white thunderbolt, straight for the naked, swarthy neck. The man heard and whirled up his arm, but that hurtling death brushed it aside and the wide straining jaws closed on the corded throat and crunched. The man fumbled for his knife, plunging about on his knees. It had slipped round in front. With a muffled scream he seized the dog’s throat. Smoke braced his hind legs in the man’s abdomen, arched his back, and the smooth thigh muscles jumped to knots as he tugged, once—twice—

Blotched with crimson, muzzle dripping, he drew back from the twitching shape, lay down and lapped his steaming breast and legs. His work was done.

Finally he arose and sniffed at that silent nothing beneath the firs. Then he went over and sat beside the other man-thing, waiting—waiting—

Presently David stirred, groaned, and raised tremblingly on his elbow. Smoke stood up. “Home, Smoke!” he murmured inarticulately, but the dog understood. He sprang up the trail in long leaps, a flying horror of red and white.

“Must have—hurt—himself.” David was gazing stupidly at the dead man. This thing was a joke—everything was a joke—Swickey, her father, Jim Cameron, Smoke, David Ross-ung-gh! His grinning lips drew tense across his clenched teeth. A lightning whip of pain shot through his temples, and the white trail, worming through the dark-green pit of the forest, faded, and passed to the clouds. A smothering blackness swooped down and enveloped him.