In a swirling mist of powdered snow that all but obscured the sun, two figures appeared below the three cabins and moved over the unbroken white of the clearing toward Lost Lake. They were muffled to the eyes—heavily clad against the biting wind of that Christmas morning, and they walked, one behind the other, the taller of the two breaking a trail, with his short broad snowshoes, for his companion.

Joe or “Red” Smeaton, as he was called, watched them from the screen of a clump of cedars on the hillside. “Cameron’s gone,” he muttered. “Seen him drive down the Tramworth road half-hour agone. Guess they hain’t nobody ’ceptin’ the dog at the camp, fur there goes the ole man and the gal. Wonder where they be p’intin’ fur? Hain’t goin’ nowhere near the trap-line. They’s headed straight fur ‘Fifteen-Two,’ if they keep goin’ long enough.”

He drew back from the branches and picked up a gunnysack at his feet. It was half filled with stiff objects that he shook together before he finally slung the bag to his shoulder and tramped along Avery’s “line,” passing the unsprung traps, but stopping whenever a luckless fisher or fox lay frozen across the harsh steel jaws that opened grudgingly to the pressure of his knee, as he unlocked the biting rims and drew out those pitifully inert shapes.

“Harrigan, Smeaton and Company is doin’ fine—doin’ fine,” he said, as he unsprung the fifth trap and shoved its victim into his bag. “Got enough fur here to keep us in booze a week, and ole Hoss Avery is payin’ for it, or if he ain’t payin’ for it, he’s losin’ it—the ole white pirut.”

Smeaton’s dislike for Avery had no tenable foundation, save that Harrigan hated the old man and it was natural for “Red” to follow Harrigan’s lead. Fisty had befriended Smeaton when he was able to do so, and now that Fisty’s fortunes were on the wane, Smeaton held unwaveringly to his boss, with a loyalty worthy of a bigger cause and a better man.

Harrigan was wont, when in liquor, to confide the Lost Farm secret to Smeaton, with many mysterious allusions to “doing for certain folks that stood in his way,”—all of which Smeaton digested with drunken gravity until he became inoculated with the idea that he, too, had a grudge against the Lost Farm folk. From Camp “Fifteen-Two” to Avery’s “line” was a comparatively short journey. Harrigan had suggested pilfering the fur, and Smeaton promptly acted on the suggestion by making cautious rounds of the traps. Twice he had gathered in Avery’s lawful spoils, and this trip was the third. He approached the end of the “line” with considerable hesitancy, peering through the trees as he shuffled toward No-Man’s Lake, at the head of which Camp “Fifteen-Two” lay hidden in the towering pines of Timberland Mountain.

“Here’s where my tracks fur ‘Fifteen’ don’t go no furder,” he muttered, dropping the bag and unlacing his snowshoes.

Tying them to the pack, he swung the load to his shoulders, stepped to the lake, and skirted the edge of the timber, keeping on a strip of bleak, windswept ice that left no trail. As he came to a little cove where the wind had banked the snow breast-high round its edges, he climbed to a slanting log and began to cross it. Halfway over, and some six feet from the frozen lake beneath, he slipped on the thin snow covering the log. He tottered and almost regained his poise when a chip of bark shot from beneath his foot and he fell, striking the frozen lake with the dead shock of his full weight, the bag and snowshoes tumbling beside him. Dazed, he turned to get up, but sank to his face with clenched teeth and a rasping intake of breath. He lay still for a few seconds and then tried again. His right leg, on which he had fallen, dragged and turned sideways unaccountably. He drew the bag to him and propped himself against it. Carefully he felt down his leg. A short distance below the hip it was numb, while above the numbness it pained and throbbed horribly.

“She’s bruk—damn it. If I holler, like as not ole Hoss’ll come sky-hootin’ along and finish the job, and I wouldn’t blame him at that. Can’t drag myself furder than the shore in this snow, but I’ll do time that fur anyhow.”

Painfully he pushed the bag ahead of him and crawled toward the trees, his face ghastly with the anguish that made him, even in his distress, a caricature of suffering. His red hair stuck stiffly from beneath the visor of his cap, and his freckled face became grotesque as his features worked spasmodically.

He made himself as comfortable as he could and, with the sang-froid of the true woodsman, lit his pipe and smoked, planning how best to attract attention to his plight, “A fire might fetch the boys. Yes, a fire—”

The faint c-r-r-ack of a rifle sounded from somewhere over Timberland Mountain way. Then came an almost palpable silence following the echoes. He raised on his elbow. A speck appeared on the opposite shore of the lake, moved swiftly down it a short distance, and then shortened as it swung in his direction. It grew larger until he was able to distinguish the wide horns and twinkling legs of a moose, as it came unswervingly across the frozen waters, directly toward him. Larger and larger it grew until he could see the wicked little eyes and the long ears distinctly.

“By gravy! He’s a-comin’ right in at the front gate. Reckon I’ll have comp’ny in no time or less’n that. He’s hit somewhere, but not bad—he’s travelin’ too stiddy. Mostly scared.”

Smeaton lay back for a moment, then his curiosity drew him groaning to his elbow again. The moose was but a few yards from him.

“Whoo-ay!” he shouted.

The moose swerved, never slackening his regular stride, and passed swiftly down the lake to a point fringed with cedars. Smeaton heard a faint crackle as he crashed through them and vanished.

“Call ag’in, you lopin’ ole woodshed.” But Smeaton’s tone lacked humor. The cold was taking hold upon him, striking through from stomach to spine with stabbing intensity.

Two specks appeared on the opposite shore and came toward him in the tracks of the moose.

“They’re comin’, and I don’t give a cuss who they be, so long as they find me.” He lay back waiting in grim silence. Nearer came the hunters. “I kin see red and green,” he muttered,—“and skirts. Joe Smeaton, this ain’t your lucky day.”

When Swickey and her father came to where the tracks of the moose swerved, they paused and glanced toward where Smeaton lay.

He raised stiffly and called to them. “Here’s your game,” he said hoarsely.

They hastened toward him, Avery in the lead and Swickey, carbine in hand, following.

“Wal, if it ain’t Joe Smeaton—and busted. What’s the matter, Joe?”

“Leg’s bruk. Fell offen the log.”

Avery glanced at the log and then at the bag beneath Smeaton’s head.

“Trappin’?” he asked quietly.

Smeaton endeavored to grin, but the pain twisted his mouth to a groan.

“Why, Pop, he’s hurt!” exclaimed Swickey.

“Co-rect, Miss—I be.”

Avery knelt by the prostrate figure. “I’d have suthin’ to say to you if she wa’n’t here; howcome you’re busted and Hoss Avery ain’t jumpin’ on no feller when he’s down. You’re comin’ to my camp and git fixed up.”

“Swickey,” he said, turning to the girl, who stood watching them, “you know where my shack is down shore. Wal, they’s a hand-sleigh thar. You git it. We’re a-goin’ to need it.”

“Goin’ to tote me to ‘Fifteen-Two,’ ain’t you?” queried Smeaton, as Swickey went for the sleigh.

“Nope. Lost Farm. Fifteen ain’t no place fur you. Who’s a-goin’ to set thet leg?”

“That’s your fur in the bag,” said Smeaton.

“I knowed thet—afore I seed ye. Them’s Canady snowshoes. I know them tracks,” replied Avery, with a sweep of his arm toward Smeaton’s raquettes. “I was layin’ fur you,” he continued; “howcome I didn’t calc’late to find you layin’ fur me, so handy like.”

“Damn your ole whiskers, Hoss Avery, I ain’t scared of you!”

“Thet so?” said the old man, grinning. “Wal, I reckon you ain’t got no call to be sca’d. I reckon your breakin’ thet leg has saved me breakin’ the rest of ye what ain’t bruk a’ready; but it’s Christmas to our house—and seein’ it do be Christmas, and not thet I’m pityin’ ye any—you’re a-comin’ ’long with me and Swickey.”