The sun was on the edge of the western hills when he got back to Mrs. Conley. She expressed relief at seeing him and wonder at seeing him so soon. He built up the fire, melted snow and made tea. He also fried a little bacon and bread. Between them they emptied tea-kettle and frying-pan; and the woman was greatly revived by the food and drink.

The woman led the way northward and westward to her home. The distance struck Young Dan as being nearer seven miles than five. The small window of the cabin glowed a dim yellow. Mrs. Conley pushed open the door and entered without waiting to remove her snowshoes. Young Dan kicked off his snowshoes and had a foot on the threshold when he heard an unpleasant voice shout from somewhere within, demanding to know where the woman had been and why she had stayed away so long and why she hadn’t brought some food home with her. A few oaths gave color to the questions.

Young Dan crossed the threshold, kicked the door shut with a heel and lowered his pack to the floor. In one comprehensive glance he saw the woman stooped to two clinging children, a man lying in a bunk, a failing fire on a rough hearth, a smoky lantern on a table and a worn bear-skin on the floor. He had never seen a less cheering interior.

The man in the bunk sat up and stared at Young Dan. His shoulders looked very broad in the dim light.

Who’s thar? he exclaimed. Who’s that?

Ye needn’t be scart, said the woman, with a tang of scorn in her voice. It’s a feller from the camp over on Right Prong. He’s fetched in some grub for us, in the kindness of his heart.

The man immediately lay back without another word.

Young Dan felt indignant, so much so that his indignation amounted to anger—anger that felt like a lump of something uncomfortably hard and hot in his chest. He wanted to say something sharp to the big fellow in the bunk—but he didn’t know what to say. So, without a word, he untied his blanket, filled an arm with the packages of food and carried all to the table.

No water and no wood, said Mrs. Conley, looking at the bunk.

Young Dan went outside and found a small pile of wood beside the door, under a roof of snow. He carried an armful into the shack; and as he laid the sticks beside the hearth he noticed how irregularly and unskilfully the severed ends were cut. Even a sick man accustomed to the use of an axe would not have hacked the wood so clumsily. He knew it was not the work of the man in the bunk. He then took up an empty pail and enquired the whereabouts of the water-hole. Mrs. Conley told him that there was a spring just back of the shack and a path leading to it which he couldn’t miss. She was right; and in a minute he was back with the water. As he set the pail down on a bench near the door he looked at the man in the bunk, the hot spot of anger and indignation still glowing in his chest. The man’s eyes met his for a moment—but he saw more than the fellow’s eyes. He crossed the narrow floor to the bunk.

What’s the matter with you, anyhow? he asked.

Matter with me, d’ye say? returned the fellow in the blankets. I’m sick, that’s what’s the matter. Can’t ye see?

Young Dan stooped swiftly and drew a high-shouldered, square-faced black bottle from beneath the edge of the bunk. There was a sound of clinking glass as he brought it forth as if it were in contact with receptacles of a like nature and material. He held it aloft.

Yes, I can see all right, he cried. And I guess I’ve got hold of a few doses of your medicine.

Well, what of it? demanded the other, his voice at once savage and anxious.

Young Dan returned the bottle to its place; and in so doing he caught sight of some other articles of interest beneath the bunk. More bottles were there, both full and empty—but there were other things of even greater interest to the youth. He stood up, however, without word or sign of comment.

Mrs. Conley, who was busily engaged in feeding the children with condensed milk diluted with hot water, paid keen attention to Young Dan’s words and actions, but said nothing.

Young Dan moved away from the bunk and bestowed a brief but enquiring glance upon the worn bear-skin on the floor. That article had struck him as looking queer, somehow or other, when he had first set eyes on it; and now he knew it to be queer. It had grown on a big animal and had evidently been a fine pelt in its day. The big, wide head was there—not the skull, but the complete skin of head, to the tip of the nose. Yes, the head was all there—but all four paws were missing!

Young Dan turned again to the man in the bunk. Say the word, and I’ll get a doctor in to see you, he said. Or we’ll haul you out on a sled, if you ain’t too sick to be shifted about a bit.

I don’t want no cussed doctor p’isonin’ me, cried the invalid. Mind yer own business, will ye, an’ leave me be to look after mine? I’m able for it, without yer help.

All right, retorted Young Dan, his voice shaking with anger and scorn. Well, then, look after yer own business if you’re so able. Get out of bed and get to work. I know all I need to about you. I know enough about you to run you out of these woods and into jail; and that’s the identical thing I intend to do if you don’t get busy. So cut out the gin and the bunk and cut into the wood-pile. D’ye get me?

The man did not answer. The woman continued to feed the children in silence. Young Dan glared at the bunk a little longer, then fetched his snowshoes and put them on, and took up his rifle, axe and blanket.

I’m off, he said. But I’ll be back in a few days, to see how you’re working, Jim Conley. I’ve got your measure, and don’t you forget it! Goodnight to you, m’am.

He had not gone far from the miserable cabin before the woman came running after him. He halted.

What is it ye know about him? she asked, anxiously.

I can guess more’n I know, but I reckon what I know is plenty, he replied. He broke into my Uncle Bill Tangler’s camp a few months back an’ stole some grub, with the paws an’ claws of a big bear on his hands an’ feet. Guess he reckoned he was smart.

How d’ye know that?

I’d figgered out it wasn’t a bear long ago; and to-night I spied the skinned paws under the bunk. It was easy.

Jim wasn’t in the woods when that happened, she whispered. It was me broke into the camp an’ stole the grub. It was me who cut the paws off that old skin an’ used ’em to fool ye with. Jim was away out to the settlements that day.

You, ma’am!

That’s Gospel-true. The babies and me hadn’t a bite to eat but some rusty pork. We needed the food bad. It was the first time I ever stole anything.

Then why didn’t you upset the molasses jug, like a bear would do? A bear would of upset it an’ then licked the molasses off the floor. If you’d done it that way, m’am—upset the jug, I mean—I wouldn’t of suspicioned the thief wasn’t a bear; and so I wouldn’t of examined the shutter and spotted how the staple had been pried off with the blade of an axe; and so I wouldn’t of taken any stock in the old paws under the bunk.

I took enough molasses to fill the bottle I had along with me. I hadn’t the heart to upset the jug an’ waste what I didn’t want. But I kinder thought that’s what a bear would do.

Well, that’s all right, anyhow, said Young Dan. I don’t blame you a mite for rustlin’ grub for your babies; but if you don’t make that big bluffer get to work, I’ll land him in jail or bust tryin’—and you can bet I won’t bust, m’am!