To hark back! After Mr. Banks' departure on his secret mission, Reginald Rayton climbed out of bed and dressed himself as well as he could. As it was hopeless to attempt a coat, he folded several blankets about his shoulders, the red one outside. Then he went down to the sitting room, where a good fire was burning, and shouted for his new stableboy. Bill Long entered from the kitchen and sat down, when requested, on the outer edge of an armchair. He answered a dozen questions concerning the horses and cattle fluently; but when his employer asked him suddenly if he knew of any one who held a grudge against him—Rayton—the youth rubbed one gray-socked foot across the other and scratched the back of his head uneasily.

"You will be helping me out if you say what you think, Bill," encouraged Rayton.

"Well," replied Bill, "they do say as how you an' Doc Nash ain't any too friendly."

"That was nothing, Bill. Just a fit of bad temper. We are on very good terms now. Who else, d'you think?"

"There's Davy Marsh. He's got a mighty sore head. I hear him talkin' pretty wicked about ye, one day."

"But he don't mean it, you may be sure. It was just his trouble made him talk like that. He and I are on a very friendly footing. He has nothing to be sore at me about."

"I guess he thinks he has, Mr. Rayton. You've cut him out—or he thinks so. But he weren't never in to be cut out."

"Oh, come now, Bill! I don't think you should talk that way about Marsh. He means well enough. Who else?"

"Well, Mr. Rayton, what about old Cap'n Wigmore? He be mighty sweet on Miss Nell Harley—an' he's an all-fired wicked-lookin' old cuss. I guess if you knowed his heart you'd find him yer enemy."

Rayton laughed. "Poor old chap! I am sorry for him. But come now, Bill, you are not serious?"

"Yep. He be soft as mush on that girl. Father, he says so, too—an' so does ma."

"But you don't think he'd shoot me, do you?"

"Guess he would—if he got a good chance. Guess he'd as lief kill a feller as eat his supper—judgin' by the looks of him. Tell you what, Mr. Rayton, if I was you I wouldn't trust that old gent no farther'n I could chuck him over my shoulder. He's got a bad eye, he has, jist like Jim Wiggins' old hoss had—an' it ended by chawin' off two of his fingers when he wasn't lookin'."

"Whose fingers, Bill?"

"Jim's, in course."

"Oh! Of course. But, see here, Bill; you surely don't think old Captain Wigmore shot me in the shoulder?"

"That's what I think, Mr. Rayton. It be jist the kinder skunk trick he'd do. I've watched him, many's the time—when he didn't know it. He talks to himself—an' sometimes he laughs, an' dances 'round on his toes. That's gospel, Mr. Rayton. An' he makes faces—lor'! I'll bet ye a dollar, Mr. Rayton, that 'twas him shot you. He's bin a pirate, I guess—an' 'u'd jist as soon kill a man as Jack Swim 'u'd kill a pig. He's got a anchor thing inked in on his arm, anyhow—all red an' blue. I seen it one day when he didn't know I was lookin'."

"You seem to be greatly interested in him, Bill. You seem to have watched him pretty closely."

"That's right. First time I seen him and heard his name was Cap'n Wigmore, I began to spy on him. He brought to my mind some other cap's I've read about—Cap'n Kidd, an' Cap'n Flint. Yes, Mr. Rayton, I've watched him, you bet—'cept when he was lookin' at me. I'd jist as lief have a b'ar look at me as that old cuss!"

"For all that," replied Rayton, smiling, "I don't think Captain Wigmore is the man who shot me. He has an uncertain temper, I know, but I don't believe he would try to kill a man in cold blood. I can't think of any one who would try, deliberately, to kill me. It must have been an accident, Bill. That's what I think, anyway."

"Accident nothin'," returned Bill. "Pirates kill folks, don't they? You bet they do! Mr. Banks ain't so soft as you, Mr. Rayton. He's nosin' round, I kin see that. I'll bet he's spyin' on Cap'n Wigmore this very minute. Smart gent, Mr. Banks. Most Yanks be smarter nor Englishmen, anyhow, I guess."

Rayton's laughter was interrupted by Turk. The dog jumped up from the rug before the fire, stood for a moment, then ran into the kitchen, with his plume waving. The kitchen door opened and closed, Turk yelped a welcome, and next moment Dick Goodine entered the sitting room. The trapper carried his snowshoes under one arm and his blanket-cased rifle under the other.

"You, Dick!" exclaimed Rayton. "Has anything gone wrong? What's brought you back, old chap?"

"Yes, it's me," answered the trapper, with an uneasy laugh. "Didn't make much of a start, did I? But nothing's gone wrong. I made camp twenty miles out, on Dorker Crick—an' then I lit out on the back trail—just to tell you something that's on my mind."

He leaned in the doorway, smiling at the Englishman and swinging his fur cap in his hand. Snowshoes and rifle lay on the floor. Rayton gazed at him with a puzzled shadow in his clear, kindly eyes.

"Why, Dick, that's too bad," he said. "But pull off your togs and get something to eat—and then let me hear what you have on your mind. If I can help you, I'll do it. If it's money for more traps, I'm your man, Dick."

"It isn't money," said the trapper quietly. He threw off his mittens and outer coat, and drew a chair close to Rayton. "It is something pretty private," he said, "and important. It brought me all the way out of the woods, to see you."

Rayton was more deeply puzzled than ever, and a sharp anxiety awoke in him. Had this fate that had struck others also struck Dick Goodine? He inspected his friend anxiously, and was relieved to find that he had suffered no physical injury, at any rate.

"Bill," he said, "skip out and make a pot of coffee, there's a good chap. Shut the door after you."

Bill Long obeyed with dragging feet. He took half a minute to cross the threshold and shut the door.

"Now, Dick, fire away," said Rayton. "Get it off your chest. I'm your man, whatever your trouble may be."

The trapper leaned forward. Though his lips smiled, there were tears in his dark eyes.

"Is the shoulder gettin' along all right?" he asked huskily. "And the cold? How's it, Reginald?"

Rayton laughed with a note of astonishment and relief. "Did you come all the way out to ask about my shoulder and my cold?" he cried. "Well, you are a considerate chap, I must say! But it was foolish of you, Dick. I'm right as wheat; but it is mighty good of you to feel so anxious, my dear old chap—and you may be sure I'll never forget it."

Still the trapper smiled, and still the moisture gleamed in his dark eyes.

"I—I felt anxious—oh, yes," he said slowly. "I couldn't think o' nothin' else all the time I was trailin' along through the woods an' all last night in camp. That's right. So I just up an' lit out to tell you—to tell you the truth. I was a fool an' a coward not to tell it before. I'm the man who shot you!"

"What?" cried Rayton, staring. "You? For Heaven's sake, Dick, don't be a fool! Have you been hitting the jug again?"

"It's the truth," said the trapper quietly. "I shot you—an' I was scart to own up to it. I didn't know it was you until—until I guessed it. I thought I had come pretty near hittin' somebody—but not you. I didn't know who. I heard the yells—an' they sounded strong enough. I'll tell you just how it was, Reginald."

He paused, breathing quickly, and brushed his hand across his face. Rayton went to the door and turned the key.

"Buck up, Dick," he said. "If you shot me—well, that's all right. No harm done; but tell me all about it if it will make you feel any better."

"It was this way," began the trapper. "I was trailin' 'round, lookin' for a buck deer or anything that might happen along—and after a while I seen what I took to be the neck an' shoulders of a buck. The light was bad, you know. The thing moved a little. I was sure I could see its horns. So I let fly. Down he went—an' then I heard the durndest hollerin' an' cussin'—an' I knew I'd made a mistake. But the cussin' was that strong I thought I'd missed. I cal'lated the best thing I could do was just to get away quietly an' keep my mouth shut; and just then came a bang like a cannon an' half a peck of pa'tridge shot peppered the bushes all round me. Then I was more'n sure I didn't hit the man, whoever he was, so I just lit out fer home, runnin' as quiet as I could.

"I got home all right, thinkin' it was all a mighty good joke on me, an' turned in soon after supper. But I couldn't get to sleep. I began to wonder if I'd missed the mark, after all. The light was bad, of course; but I don't often miss a shot like that at two hundred yards. I commenced workin' it out in my mind, an' thinkin' it over an' over every way.

"Moose an' caribou, an' even deer, run miles with these here nickled bullets in them—aye, an' right through 'em; an' I've read about soldiers fightin' for five or ten minutes after they was hit. Then why shouldn't the man I fired at by mistake holler an' cuss an' let fly at me, even if he was plugged? That's the way I figgered it out—an' pretty soon I began to think I had hit him.

"I couldn't get it out of my head. I saw him layin' out on the ground, maybe bleedin' to death. I reckoned the thing to do was hike over an' tell you an' Mr. Banks about it an' see what you thought of it. So, after studyin' on it a while longer, I got up an' dressed an' sneaked out of the house. When I got to your house there was a light in the settin'-room window. That scart me, for it was past two o'clock in the mornin'—pretty near three. I let myself in, quiet; an' there was Mr. Banks in the things he goes to bed in—the cotton pants an' little cotton jumpers—asleep in his chair by the settin'-room fire. That gave me another scare. I woke him up. He jumped like I'd stuck a pin into him.

"'Hullo, Dick,' says he. 'I thought it was Reginald. Where is Reginald, anyhow?'

"'Well, where is he?' says I, feelin' kinder faint in my stomach. 'Maybe he's gone to bed. It's three o'clock, anyhow.'

"Then he told me as how you an' him had gone out gunnin' together that mornin,' an' how you hadn't come home yet. Then I felt pretty sick; an' I up an' told him what I was a feared of—but I was too scart and rattled to tell him all I knew about it. It was only guessin', anyhow—though I felt as certain I'd shot you as if I'd seen myself do it. I made up a bit of a yarn for him.

"I told him as how I was in the woods when, about sundown, I heard a rifle shot, an' then a lot of hollerin', an' then a gun shot. I told him what I thought—that maybe somebody had plugged somebody—and how that somebody might be you. Well, he fired a few questions at me, an' then he grabs the lamp an' hits the trail for upstairs. Inside ten minutes he's down again; an' we get lanterns an' brandy an' blankets, an' out we start. It took us a long time to find you—but we did—thank God!

"That's the truth of it, Reginald; an' I couldn't rest easy till you knew of it—an' until I'd had another look at you. What with all the queer things goin' on 'round here of late—an' them cards dealt to you—an' the bad name I have, I was scart to own up to it before."

"I understand," said Rayton slowly—"and I don't blame you, Dick."

He put out his free hand, and they shook heartily.

"You're a rare one," said the trapper. "You're white, clean through."

The Englishman laughed confusedly.

"Now, we'd better let Bill Long in and try that coffee," he suggested. "About what you've just told me, Dick—well, I think we'd better keep it quiet for a few days. We'll tell Banks, of course; but nobody else. Unlock the door, will you, Dick?"

They drank coffee and smoked. Bill Long went to bed, yawning, before eleven.

"Where's Mr. Banks, anyhow?" inquired Dick Goodine. "Is he makin' a call over to the Harleys'?"

"He went out to find the man who shot me," replied Reginald, with a smile; "but, as he has missed him, no doubt he is at the Harleys'. What time is it? Eleven! He should be home by now."

Half an hour later they both began to feel anxious. Banks was not in the habit of staying out after eleven o'clock. There was nothing in Samson's Mill Settlement to keep a man out late.

"He went out lookin' fer trouble," remarked the trapper, "an' maybe he's found it. Guess I may's well go over to Harleys' an' take a look 'round."

"Perhaps he has gone to see Nash," suggested Rayton.

"Or old Wigmore."

"That's so. Better turn out Bill Long, too. He can go one way and you another, Dick. Banks went out in search of trouble, as you say—and perhaps he has found it. What sort of night is it?"

"Cloudin' over. Looks like snow—and it's milder."

Fifteen minutes later the trapper and Bill Long left the house, each carrying a stable lantern. Bill Long returned within an hour. He had been to Doctor Nash's, Samson's, and several other houses, and had failed to see or hear anything of the New York sportsman. Twenty minutes later Dick Goodine returned, accompanied by Jim Harley. Jim had come in from one of his lumber camps early that evening, having heard of Reginald Rayton's accident. He looked worn and anxious; but expressed his relief at finding the Englishman alive.

"It is more than I expected when I first heard you had been shot," he said frankly.

Goodine told of the unsuccessful search for Banks. At the Harley house he had learned that Banks had not been there during the evening. Captain Wigmore had been there, however, for a little while, and had mentioned seeing Banks on the road. Then Jim Harley and Dick Goodine had called on the captain to make further inquiries.

By that time, it was snowing moderately. They had banged at the door for fully ten minutes; and at last the old man, yawning and draped about in a dressing gown, had let them in. No, he had seen nothing more of the New Yorker. He had persuaded them to enter and sit down for a little while, and had mixed hot toddy. He had suggested that Banks was safe home by that time. Then the two had left the yawning captain to return to his bed—and that was all.

"Well, he's not here," said Rayton. "What's to be done now? What do you suggest, Jim?"

Jim had nothing to suggest. His anxiety was written large on his face.

"Maybe he's gone into the woods an' got himself lost," said the trapper. "Anyhow, I reckon the best thing we can do is turn out an' hunt 'round again. Maybe he's hurt himself."

"That's right," returned Jim Harley. He laid his hand on Rayton's shoulder. "And the best thing you can do is to go to bed," he added solicitously.

Harley, Goodine, and Bill Long went out again with their lanterns. The snow had ceased, but the stars were still thinly veiled.

"I can't understand this," whispered Harley to the trapper. "Mr. Banks should be safe, anyway. He has never got the marked card."

"Can't a man get into trouble without the help of them danged cards? You seem to have 'em on the brain, Jim!" retorted Dick.

Jim sighed resignedly. The fate that made, dealt, and followed those little red crosses was a real and terrible thing to him.

The three took different roads after agreeing to inquire at every house they came to, and, if possible, to get others to help in the search. It was now after one o'clock.

Dick Goodine searched the sides of the road, the edges of fields, the pastures, and every clump of bushes and of timber he came to. He aroused the inmates of one house, made fruitless inquiries, and was informed that the only adult males of the family were away in the lumber woods, and so could not turn out to hunt for the missing sportsman. At last he found himself standing again before Captain Wigmore's residence. He could not say what influence or suggestion had led him back to this spot. He had followed his feet—that is all. One window on the second floor was faintly lighted.

"I'd like to know what that old cuss is doin' up this time of night," he muttered.

He banged at the knocker of the front door until the captain came downstairs.

"You again, Richard!" exclaimed the old man. "Come in. Come in. Still looking for Mr. Banks?"

"Yes. He ain't turned up yet," answered the trapper, stepping into the hall.

"I'll dress and help you hunt for him," said the captain. "He is a particular friend of mine. I can't get to sleep for worrying about him."