Rayton's chest and side felt much better when he awoke from his second deep sleep by the fire. It was noon; and though the air was frosty, the sun was shining. Mr. Banks administered more beef tea to him, piping hot.

"How did you happen to find me so soon?" asked the Englishman.

"Thank Dick for that," said Banks. "He dragged me out of bed before dawn. He heard the shooting last night; but didn't think much about it then. But when he learned that you had been out all day he began to worry."

Dick Goodine nodded.

"That's right," he said. "The more I thought over them two shots, an' the yellin' I heard, the queerer it all seemed to me."

"Did you see any one, Reginald?" asked Banks. "Do you know who plugged you—or can you make a guess?"

Rayton shook his head. "I didn't see anything," he replied—"not even the flash of the rifle. No, I can't guess. It was all so sudden!—and I was so dashed angry and surprised, you know! I let fly with both barrels—and then I fell down. Blood was just spurting, you know. I felt very weak—and mad enough to chew somebody."

"So you fired the second shot, did you?" queried Banks.

"Yes. I only hope I peppered the dirty cad. Of course, it may not have been intentional. I haven't thought it out yet. Whoever fired the shot may have mistaken me for a moose or deer. But it is pretty hard lines, I think, if a chap can't walk through the woods without being sniped at by some fool with a rifle."

"That's what set me wonderin'—that second shot," said the trapper. "I was a durned idjit, though! I might er known there wasn't any strangers shootin' 'round this country now—any of the kind that hollers like all git-out every time they hit something—or think they do. But I was a good ways off, an' late, so I just kept hikin' along for home."

"That's all right, old boy," said Rayton. "No harm done, I think. But are you sure there are no strangers in the woods now? Who do you think shot me, then?"

"Certainly not a stranger!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "You may bet on that, Reginald. The murderous, sneaking, white-livered skunk who shot you is the same animal who set fire to young Marsh's camp—the same vicious fool who is at the bottom of all this marked-card business."

"Great heavens!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Do you really believe that? Then the card trick is getting pretty serious. What do you think about it, Dick?"

"It beats me!" said Dick, in a flat voice. "I don't know—an' I can't guess. It's a mighty nasty-lookin' business, that's all I can say. Looks to me like a job for the police."

"Not yet!" cried Rayton. "I can look after myself. Promise me to keep quiet about it, will you? That will give us a chance to look 'round a bit for ourselves. We don't want to start the whole country fussing about."

"But what about Nash?" asked Mr. Banks. "He is bound to know. You'll have to tell him how you came by the puncture in your shoulder."

"That is all right. It is only a flesh wound, and clean as a whistle. I don't need Nash."

"We'll not argue about that, Reginald," returned Banks. "Here, drink this brandy, and then we'll start for home with you. I am bossing this show."

Two hours and twenty minutes later they had Rayton comfortably tucked away between the warm sheets of his own bed. His two stalwart friends had carried him every yard of the way, in a blanket, and he had not suffered from the journey. Banks unbandaged his shoulder, and examined the wound. He washed it in warm water, and moved the arm gently. The blood began to flow freely. He bound the shoulder tightly, and nodded to the trapper.

"Where are you going?" asked Rayton, as Dick opened the door.

"For Doctor Nash," answered Dick, and the door slammed behind him.

Dick saddled one of the horses, and rode off at a gallop. He was lucky to find the doctor at home in the farmhouse where he boarded. He delivered his message briefly, but clearly. Nash rubbed his hands together, and informed the trapper that there was another doctor at Bird Portage, twenty miles away. When asked to explain this remark, he blustered and swore, and at last said frankly that Rayton could bleed to death for all he cared.

"If you don't come peaceful an' quiet," said Goodine slowly, "then—by hell!—you'll come the other way!"

Their eyes met, and flared for a second or two. Then Nash wavered.

"I'll come," he said.

"I'll wait for you," said the trapper. "Git a move on."

When they reached Rayton's house they found old Captain Wigmore in the sitting room, smoking a cigar and smiling sardonically. Nash went upstairs, but Wigmore beckoned the trapper to him.

"I've wormed it out of them," he said. "I know all about it; and that means that I know a good deal more about it than you do."

"What? More about what?" asked Goodine anxiously.

"Just this, my good trapper of foolish beasts! Nash is the man who put the hole through the Englishman's shoulder!"

Dick stared. At last he regained the use of his tongue.

"You're cracked!" he exclaimed. "Nash didn't do it!"

"What do you know about it?"

"Well, I guess I know that much, anyhow."

"Then who did it?"

"Don't know."

"But I do. You keep your eye on Nash when I tackle him. Then you'll know."

Dick shook his head.

"I guess not," he murmured, and went upstairs, leaving the captain alone with his thin smile and long cigar.

"I do believe that old crow has a slat loose," reflected the trapper. "I'd give a good lot to know what he's truly thinking about, anyhow."

Doctor Nash, after brief greetings, set to work on Rayton's wounded shoulder. He made a close examination, but asked no questions. He worked swiftly for about half an hour.

"That's done," he said. "All you have to do now is to keep still for a while." He paused and turned to Banks. "Has he been insulting and assaulting somebody else lately?" he asked.

"Don't know," returned the New Yorker. "Why?"

"Just an idea of mine," replied Nash. "Some men are not as good-natured as I am, you know. Somebody took a shot at him—and I was just wondering why. It does not often happen 'round here."

"You are the only person I have behaved like that to," said Rayton, "and—and—well, I am dashed sorry I lost my temper. I beg your pardon, Nash. I am very sorry, honestly. I behaved like a cad."

"You should have thought of that before," sneered Nash.

At that moment old Captain Wigmore entered the room on the tips of his neat little toes, smiling behind his whiskers.

"I see you've brought your company manners with you," said Nash. "I thought you saved them up for the ladies." He had the old fellow on his black list.

"Is that you, doctor?" returned the captain pleasantly. "So you have been patching up this young man, I see. What do you think of your work?"

"Of my work? Oh, I guess my work is good enough. Have you anything to say about it?"

"Why, yes, now that you ask me. Five or six inches to the side would have done the job. Why didn't you do it when you were at it?"

Dick Goodine guessed what was coming; but the other three stared at the old man in frank amazement. Nash looked bewildered.

"Six inches?" he queried. "Done the job? What the devil are you talking about?"

"There are none so blind as those who won't see," replied Wigmore, leering.

"What d'you mean? What are you grinning at?"

"Don't get excited, doctor. Bluster and bluff don't frighten me." He stepped close to Rayton. "Who d'you think put that hole through your shoulder, Reginald?" he asked.

"Haven't the least idea. Wish I had," replied the invalid.

"Dear me! What a dull young man you are," jeered Wigmore.

"Don't follow you," said the Englishman.

"Same here," said Banks.

Captain Wigmore chuckled. "I don't suppose you have an enemy anywhere within five hundred miles of here?" he queried.

"Not to my knowledge," said Rayton.

"Then why did you and Nash fly at each other day before yesterday, in the middle of the road? Why did you knock your dear friend flat in the mud?"

"Oh, give us a rest!" exclaimed Nash, flushing darkly, and scowling at the old man.

"That was nothing more than—than a sudden explosion of bad temper," said Rayton.

Wigmore nodded his head briskly, and turned to the doctor.

"And I noticed," he said, "that you did not wait to be knocked down a second time. You hopped into your rig, and drove away at top speed. He who fights and runs away—ah?"

"Really, captain, what is the necessity of all this?" protested Mr. Banks.

Wigmore waved his hand toward the big New Yorker, as if at a fly that had buzzed in his ear. His keen, glinting eyes were fixed with a terrible, rejoicing intentness upon Doctor Nash.

"What were you doing in the woods yesterday afternoon?" he asked.

"Confound you!" cried Nash furiously. "What are you talking about? What do you mean to imply? You skinny little runt, you must be mad!"

Wigmore laughed with a sound like the clattering together of dry bones. Mr. Banks gripped him roughly by a thin, hard arm.

"Enough of this!" cried the big sportsman. "Either speak out like a man, or shut up!"

"Very good," returned the captain, with another mirthless laugh. "All I want to know is what Doctor Nash was doing in the woods to the west of here yesterday afternoon, with a rifle. What game were you after, doctor? I have always heard that you were not very keen on that kind of sport."

"I wasn't in the woods!" cried Nash. "You are a liar!"

"Don't call me a liar, please," protested the old man. "It is Benjamin Samson who is the liar, in this case. He told me that you borrowed his rifle yesterday, just before noon, and struck into the woods."

Nash gasped, and his face faded to the sickly tint of a tallow candle. He stared wildly at Wigmore, then wildly around at the others. He opened and closed his mouth several times noiselessly, like a big fish newly landed on the bank. But at last his voice returned to him suddenly and shrilly.

"I forgot!" he cried. "I was out yesterday—with Samson's rifle—after all. But what about it? Why shouldn't I go shooting if I want to? This is a free country! But I know what you are—trying to make Rayton think—you dirty little gray badger! You are hinting that I shot him! I'll have the law on you for this, you—you——"

"I'll not wait to hear the rest of it, though it is sure to be apt and picturesque," said the captain, flashing his dazzling "store" teeth. "Good-by, Reginald, Good-by, all. See you to-morrow."

He bowed, skipped from the room, and hurried downstairs, and out of the house. Doctor Nash sprang after him to the top of the stairs, trembling and stuttering with rage; but he did not go any farther. He turned, after a moment or two, and re-entered the room. He strode up to the bed.

"Do you believe that?" he cried. "Do you believe that I shot you, Reginald Rayton?"

"Certainly not," replied Rayton promptly. "You wouldn't be such a fool as to borrow a rifle to do it with, even if you wanted to kill me."

Nash turned upon Banks and Dick Goodine.

"And you two?" he cried. "Do you think that I tried to murder Rayton? That I fired that shot?"

Dick Goodine, who stood by the window, with his face averted, answered with a silent shake of the head. Mr. Banks did not let the question pass so lightly, however. For several seconds he gazed steadily, keenly, inquiringly into Nash's angry eyes. He was very cool and ponderous. The scene suggested to Reginald Rayton the judgment of a mortal by a just but inexorable god. Only his ever-ready sense of politeness kept him from smiling broadly. Nash glared, and began to mutter uneasily. At last the big New Yorker spoke.

"Circumstances are against you, Nash," he said slowly. "Nobody can deny that. There is bad blood between you and Reginald. Reginald loses his temper, and gives you a trimming. On the following day you borrow a rifle, and go into the woods, and that evening the man who punched you in the jaw is shot through the shoulder. It looks bad, Nash—mighty bad! But—keep quiet!—but, in spite of appearances, I don't think you are the guilty person."

"Then why the devil didn't you say so before?" cried the doctor, trembling.

"Calm yourself," replied Mr. Banks, "and I'll try to explain to you my reasons for naming you guiltless. In the first place, I believe you to be a touch above shooting a man in the dark. Whatever you may be in yourself, your profession would make you better than that. In the second place, I don't think that you have any hand in the game of the marked cards—and I am quite sure that the person who marks those cards knows who put the hole through Reginald's shoulder."

Nash looked startled.

"I forgot about that!" he exclaimed. "Rayton told me that the card was dealt to him—and then the—the subsequent argument we had kind of put it out of my head."

Banks smiled. "Quite so. I don't wonder at it," he said. "But tell me, do you still believe Jim Harley to be at the bottom of the card trick?"

Nash shot a glance at the bandaged man in the bed. "I do," he replied. "I stick to that until some one proves it untrue, though every man in this room gives me a punch in the jaw. It is a free country, and I have a right to my opinion."

"Of course you have," agreed the New Yorker; "but I'll show you the real trickster within two days from now. In the meantime, I shall keep my suspicions and plans to myself."

Early that evening the snow began to fall, and by breakfast the next morning it lay a foot deep over the frozen wilderness. Mr. Banks prepared his own breakfast and Rayton's, and they ate together in Rayton's room. Banks was washing the dishes in the kitchen when Dick Goodine opened the door, and stepped inside.

"I'm off," said the trapper. "If I don't get busy pretty quick, I won't have one fox skin to show, come spring."

He went upstairs, treading noiselessly as a bobcat, in his snowy moccasins, shook hands with Rayton, asked considerately about the shoulder, and then went out into the white world.

"I like that man," said Banks. "He's true blue."

"Right you are," replied the Englishman.

The last pan was cleaned and put away, when Banks was aroused from deep thought by a faint knocking on the front door. He pulled down the sleeves of his shirt, wriggled into his coat, made a hurried pass at the thin hair on top of his head, with a crumb brush, then took his way decorously along the hall, wondering who the formal caller might be. He opened the door, and found Nell Harley in the little porch. Her clear face was flushed vividly, and her clear eyes were wide with anxiety.

Mr. Banks mastered his astonishment before it reached his eyes.

"Come in! Come in!" he exclaimed. "This is delightful of you, Miss Harley."

He seized one of her gloved hands, drew her into the narrow hall, and closed the door.

"Jim started for one of his camps—early this morning—before we heard," she said. "So I have come to—to see Mr. Rayton. Is—he very—ill?"

"Ill!" repeated Mr. Banks cheerfully. "My dear young lady, he is fit as a fiddle. We broke up his cold yesterday, you know, and the scratch on his shoulder is nothing. Please come in here. I'll just touch a match to the fire."

"Where is Mr. Rayton?" she asked, as he stooped to light the fire in the sitting-room stove.

"Oh, he's at home. I'll tell him you are here."

"I'm sure he is in bed."

"Well, so he is. It is the safest place to keep him, you know, for he is always getting into trouble."

"I—I want to see him—to speak to him," she whispered.

"Then wait a minute, please. I'll run upstairs and try to make him look pretty," said Mr. Banks.

When Miss Harley entered Rayton's bedroom, she found the invalid sitting up against a stack of pillows, smiling cheerfully, slightly flushed, his shoulders draped with a scarlet blanket. He extended his hand. She drew off her gloves, and took it firmly. Neither spoke for fully half a minute. Mr. Banks left the room, light on his feet as a prowling cat.

"It is the curse," she said, at last, unsteadily. "When you are strong again you—you must go away."

"Am I really in danger?" he asked very softly. "Under the old conditions of the curse, you know?"

Her eyes wavered.

"Your life has been attempted," she whispered.

"I mean to stay," he replied, somewhat breathlessly, "until that curse has done its worst on me—or until you love me!"