When the half-breed, Pete Bolduc, reached Tim’s Place, he was more dead than alive. A week of crawling through swamps, wading or swimming streams, sleeping under fallen trees, while sustaining life on frogs, raw fish, and one muskrat, had eliminated about all desire to obtain Chip, and left a murderous hate instead. And McGuire was its object.

Pete reasoned that he had bought the girl and paid for her. Her father, never intending to keep faith, had connived at her escape, and knowing of these campers, had hired her for a serving maid, and they would inevitably take her out when they left. It was all a part of McGuire’s plot and plan, and no doubt this stranger had also paid him for her possession.

Two other facts also seemed proof positive that these conclusions were correct. First, McGuire had never been seen at Tim’s Place since the girl’s escape; second, it would have been impossible for her to reach these campers without aid. But she was lost to him for all time, as Pete now realized. The stern faces and ready rifles of her protectors had convinced him of that, and all that remained was to find McGuire, force him to give back the money, then obtain revenge.

Neither was this an easy task, for McGuire was a dangerous man, as Pete well knew, and the more he considered the matter, sojourning at Tim’s Place and nursing his hate meanwhile, the more he realized that the killing of McGuire must precede the obtaining of his money. And now, where to find McGuire became a question.

Pete knew that at this season he usually devoted a month or more to a trapping trip, that in starting out he always ascended the Fox Hole, and that his location for this purpose was the head waters of another stream, reached by a carry from the Fox Hole.

For a week Pete remained at Tim’s Place, and then, obtaining a canoe, returned to his hut on this stream.

And now, in the seclusion of his own domicile, certain other facts and conclusions bearing upon the present whereabouts of McGuire occurred to him.

For many years they had been friends in a way, or at least as much so as two such scamps ever are. Together they had made many canoe trips to the Provinces to obtain liquor. In these expeditions, McGuire had furnished the means; but outlawed as he was, had remained in hiding while Pete transacted the business and later shared the profits. Pete’s hut had also been used as headquarters, and near by it the smuggled liquor had been secreted.

On rare occasions, also, McGuire had broken away from his usual abstemiousness, and here, with Pete for companion, had indulged in an orgie. At these times he invariably boasted how cunning he had been in eluding all hated officers of the law, how much money he was worth, and how securely he had it hidden. The one most pertinent fact, the location of this hiding spot, he never betrayed. But now Pete–almost as shrewd as he–reasoned that it would most likely be somewhere in this region annually visited by him.

To find this was a hard problem; to find McGuire’s hiding spot for his money more so. It meant trailing a human being of greater cunning than any animal that roamed this wilderness; and yet with the double incentive of robbing and revenge now decided upon by this half-breed, he set about solving it.

A day’s journey up the Fox Hole brought him to the carry over into another stream, and here a probably month-old trail, crossing and recrossing it, was found. Whoever left the tell-tale footprints wore boots, and as McGuire was the only hunter or trapper in this region known to wear them, this seemed evidence that it was he. Then as two trails led over, with only one returning, that proved he had made two trips across to carry his canoe and belongings and had not returned. This was plain enough, but when once over, the question of whether he went up or down stream was another matter. It was an even chance, however, and Pete decided to go up, and keep sharp watch for any signs which would indicate that he was on the right track. To trail any animal in this wilderness was child’s play to Pete; but to follow another trapper journeying by canoe was not so easy. Halts for night camps he must of course make, collections of drift in some narrow part of the stream he would inevitably disturb, and where a carry around a rapid came, a trail would be left. These were the only signs possible to discover, and for these Pete now watched.

The slow-running waterway he ascended the first day wound through a stately forest of spruce. Its banks were low and well defined, yet always covered by undergrowth. No breaks in them, no openings where a night halt would naturally be made; but ever of the same unvarying character, and shadowed by the overhang of interlaced boughs. With one eye keen to any even the slightest signs of human progress up this stream, and ears ever alert, Pete paddled on. Wildwood sights and sounds, however, were met in plenty. Once a lordly moose, seeing or smelling him, snorted and plunged away, crashing through the undergrowth. Deer were seen or heard at every turn of the stream, and dozens of muskrats were noticed swimming or diving off the bank, with now and then an otter or a mink, to vary this monotony.

But these were of no interest to Pete. He was trailing other game, and like an avenging Nemesis, slowly crept through this vast, sombre, and forbidding forest. When nightfall neared, he hauled his canoe out where a stretch of hard bank favored, and camped for the night, and when daylight came again, he pushed on. For three days this watchful, up-stream journey was continued, and then a range of low mountains began to close in, short rapids needing the use of a setting-pole were met, and at last a series of stair-like falls was sighted ahead. The sun was well down when these were reached. How long the necessary carry might be, he could not tell, and hauling out below the rapids, Pete took his rifle and crept up along the bank. So far not a sign indicating whether or not McGuire had gone up this stream had been found, but here, if anywhere, they must be met, and Pete watched eagerly for them.

Every rock where a human foot might scrape away the moss was scanned. Each bending bough and bush was observed, and when, perforce, he had to leave the rock-lined bank and make a detour, he still watched for signs.

At the top of this long pitch, the tall trees also ended, and here the stream issued from a vast bush-grown swamp devoid of timber. A few dead trees rose from it, and climbing a low spruce, Pete saw this whitened expanse of spectral cones extended for miles. It was a forbidding prospect. The stream’s course appeared visible only a few rods. It seemed hardly probable the man he was trailing would cross this swamp. No signs of his ascending this waterway had so far been met, and Pete, now discouraged, was about to return to his canoe and on the morn go back, when, glancing across the stream, he saw a tiny opening in the bushes, as if they had been pushed aside.

To cross, leaping from rock to rock in the rapids below, was his next move, and returning to where the fall began, there, just back from this point, and beside a ledge, were the charred embers of a camp-fire.

Weeks old, without doubt, for rain had fallen on them, and all about were the footprints of some one wearing boots.