Young Dan Evans slanted across the white field, heading for the highroad which led smoothly into the little town of Harlow. His journey was within a half-mile of its completion. He had worked hard ever since leaving Bean’s Mill, through thick timber and untracked snow; and now he was tired and hungry but in fine spirits. He had thought much of Andy Mace and Pete Sabatis during the journey—of their admiration for one another’s qualities of physical and spiritual fiber—and believed that they would soon take him as seriously as they now considered each other. Of course Andy was his firm friend and already thought highly of his smartness along certain lines—but he feared that he had not yet made a very deep impression on the one-eyed Indian. He suspected that Pete Sabatis considered him a trifle too big for his cap and boots. He had seen something of the kind in the old man’s one eye that very morning.

I guess he thinks I’m just a cub playing at something and trying to fool folks into thinking I’m a smart man, he reflected. But when I have that big Luke Watt jumping to my say-so, and that thieving drunkard Jim Conley come to heel like a trained partridge-dog, and Mrs. Conley and the kids fed and looked after properly, I guess he will have to admit that I know what I’m doing.

Thus engaged with his thoughts, he drew near to an extensive grove of swamp-birches and alders which grew along the snow-drifted fence like a screen between the field and the highroad. He carried his blankets and pack of furs on his back, his axe on his right shoulder and his cased rifle hung by its sling on his left shoulder.

He was close to the edge of the tangle of birches and alders, and about midway of its length, when a bulky figure in a coonskin coat arose from the snow and stepped out in front of him.

Young Dan Evans did so many things all at once then that it is difficult to disentangle and describe his actions. Mind and body worked quick as thought—quicker, perhaps, for he was scarcely conscious of thinking. As he recognized Luke Watt in the very instant of seeing him he let everything he carried slip and fall from him into the snow in one shrugging motion—pack and rifle and axe—and jumped forward straight and hard. Even as he jumped, he saw Luke Watt draw something from a side-pocket of the fur coat—but he did not flinch from the mark. He struck Watt with his whole body all at once. His knees dug into the big man’s middle and his left arm went around the fur-clad thick neck; and as they fell he heard the revolver explode twice and felt the jolt of the gloved hand that held it against his ribs; and he drew up his left knee and stamped a wide snowshoe on Watt’s right arm, and struck the big face with his right fist. Thus they sank into the drift, with Luke Watt underneath and flat on his back. Young Dan trod the hand that held the revolver deep into the snow; and he struck the vanishing face again and again, though the snow muffled the blows of his mittened fist; and, all the while, his right knee crushed and pounded.

Luke Watt struggled—but what was the use! He was breathless, helpless, bound and half smothered by the snow. All this violence had occurred so swiftly that he could not fully realize exactly what had happened. He had confronted the young trapper with his gun ready and the game in his hand; and now, a few seconds later, his mouth was choked with snow, his eyes were blinded, his arms and weapon were powerless and he was being beaten to death!

Young Dan shook the mitten from his left hand and thrust his bare hand deep into the snow. In a moment he stood up and stepped backward a pace or two, with Luke Watt’s revolver in his grasp. He looked about him and saw a stooped figure on the road walking hastily townward. He turned again to his enemy, who was sitting up by this time and struggling painfully for breath. He flung the revolver far away and recovered his axe, pack and rifle.

How’re you feeling now? he asked.

Mr. Watt gulped a mouthful of air but made no attempt to answer. He did not even open his eyes. He paid no attention to the other’s departure.

Young Dan found the hotel without difficulty and entered the office fully equipped.

Will you kindly tell me the way to the nearest sheriff? he asked of the man at the desk.

The nearest sheriff? repeated the hotel-keeper. Do I get you, young feller? Ye’re askin’ the way to the nearest sheriff?

There were four other men in that dreary little office of varnished brown woodwork, mangey mooseheads and crockery cuspidors. These all stared curiously at the young trapper and shifted their positions in their chairs. The hotel-keeper leaned far over his little counter.

D’ye want to give yerself up? he added, with a rude attempt at wit.

I have asked you a simple and civil question, said Young Dan in his quietest voice. If you don’t understand simple questions here and don’t answer civil ones, then I’ll ask somewhere else. What about it?

The hotel-keeper and his chaired patrons exchanged glances.

Sure, sure, said the former, hurriedly. We ain’t got a sheriff in this town, but we got a fust-class depity-sheriff by the name of Archie Wallace. Maybe ye’ve heared of him; an’ maybe he kin do yer business for yer as well as the full-blowed high sheriff of the county. What was it you said you wanted to see him about?

I didn’t say, replied Young Dan, with a disarming smile. Thank you very much for the information; and now if you’ll tell me where I can find Mr. Wallace I’ll step along and stop troubling you.

The hotel-keeper reached for his coat, which hung on a hook behind him.

No trouble at all, he said. Glad to oblige. I’ll step along an’ show you his very door. I always aim to help strangers all I know how.

Ye hadn’t ought to leave yer seegar-stand in the rush hour, Dave, said one of the patrons, getting quickly out of his chair. I’ll take the young man to Archie Wallace. It’s fair on my way home.

The hotel-keeper paid no attention to this offer but donned coat and cap and issued from behind the counter and dusty cigar-stand.

Follow me, stranger, he invited, leading the way out. Me and the depity-sheriff are old friends. I’ll make you known to him.

So Young Dan followed the hotel-keeper, and three of the four patrons followed close upon the heels of Young Dan. The deputy-sheriff’s house was not more than fifty yards from the hotel; and the young trapper smiled politely and said nothing all the way to it. The hotel-keeper rang the bell and took up a position on the top step in front of Young Dan.

The door was opened by a tall, lean man who looked like a woodsman and wore a Cardigan jacket and grey homespun trousers tucked into high-legged larrigans of oil-tanned leather.

Here’s a young feller lookin’ for you on important business, Archie, said the hotel-keeper. It is so all-fired important that I brought him right along to you myself, so there wouldn’t be no possible mistake.

The deputy-sheriff looked at Young Dan Evans with calm inquiry.

It is private business, explained Young Dan, smiling; and these gentlemen don’t know any more about it or me than I do about them. I never so much as set eyes on any one of them in my life until five minutes ago. What I have to say is for your private hearing, if you are really an officer of the law.

Step in, said the tall man to Young Dan; and to the others he said drily, Thanks, boys, for escortin’ the young stranger to the right place. Then he closed the door in the hotel-keeper’s face. He led the way into a small room opening off the narrow hall—an untidy, stale cigar-scented room poorly illumined by an oil lamp with a green paper shade.

Dump your outfit in the corner and sit down, he invited.

Young Dan obeyed and removed his cap and mitts and outer coat. The deputy-sheriff sat down in his own arm-chair beside the untidy table and removed the shade from the lamp so that the light reached his visitor’s face. For several seconds he gazed keenly but pleasantly at Young Dan.

I’ve seen you before, somewheres or other, he said. Seems to me I have known you pretty well, sometime or other. Who are you an’ where from?

Young Dan answered the questions briefly but clearly.

You remind me of someone I know well, said Mr. Wallace. But it isn’t yerself, for I never saw nor heard of you before. A full-grown man—and a smart one. You speak like him—whoever he is.

Bill Tangler, maybe? You’d know him, I guess. He’s my uncle.

Bill Tangler it is! Your uncle, hey? Well, son, you’ve got a smart uncle. More than that, he’s able; an’ better still, he’s white. If Bill Tangler’s your uncle we don’t need any more introduction—so fire away.

Young Dan told briefly of his partnership with old Andy Mace, and produced from an inner pocket the letter from his uncle containing the suggestion of the venture and the partnership and the offer of camp and outfit. Archie Wallace chuckled over the letter. Then the trapper told of his encounters with Jim Conley, of the rebaited trap, and of the night Conley went off his course in the woods with a cargo of gin inside and out. He produced and exhibited the piece of paper upon which Mr. Luke Watt had figured out Jim Conley’s bill. The deputy-sheriff studied that exhibit very intently and slapped his hand on his thigh.

You’re a winner, Dan Evans! he exclaimed. Have a cigar.

Young Dan shook his head to the cigar and told his adventures of the day, up to the very minute of telling. He raised his short coat of wool-lined blanketing from the floor and held it up to the other’s view.

And here I am; and here’s where Luke Watt burnt two holes in my jacket with his revolver, he concluded.

Archie Wallace examined the holes in the coat without a word. Then he lit a fresh cigar from the butt of an old one, returned the green shade to the lamp and sat well back in his chair. He gazed at the lamp-shade in meditative silence. His manner impressed Young Dan. Suddenly he turned his glance upon his visitor and asked abruptly, Can you cook?

The nature of the question was so unexpected that Young Dan was far too astonished to reply. He blushed and stared, wondering if he was being made fun of.

Can you cook? repeated the deputy-sheriff.

Yes.

Then you’ll oblige me by goin’ to the kitchen and gettin’ supper for the two of us, said the official. Here are matches, and you’ll find a lamp on the table. The kettle’s b’ilin’, the coffee-pot an’ fryin’ pan are on the back of the stove, and there’s ham and eggs all ready set out on the dresser. I’m a bum cook myself. There’s an old hound somewheres in the house who is the only person besides myself who can stomach my cookery. He won’t bite you if you treat him friendly. While you’re gettin’ supper I’ll sit right here an’ study over what you told me. It needs some study.

So Young Dan started for the kitchen. In the narrow hall he met the old hound, which seemed delighted with him and followed eagerly into the kitchen. It was an extraordinary kitchen. All the dishes were jumbled up on the table, and not one of them was clean. But the fire of dry hardwood was burning clear in the stove and both pot and kettle were full and boiling. He went briskly to work; and in half an hour all the dishes were washed, the table was laid and supper was ready.

The deputy-sheriff swallowed his first cup of coffee in silence. Then he said, Jim Conley’s a trap-thief all right, all right—but you can’t prove it on him. He’s a liar I reckon, and I know darned well you ain’t a liar—but his word about that trap and whatever he took from it is as good as yours to the Law. So I can’t round him up—but I can scare all the blood and gin in his nose back to his rotten heart.

I guess that’ll be all he will need, replied Young Dan.

Mr. Wallace nodded and devoured ham and eggs for five minutes or so with undivided attention.

As for Luke Watt—well, that feller is nigh as strong as he is slippery, he said, pouring more coffee. He’s so danged crooked that he had ought to’ve been thrown away with all the corkscrews when the country went dry. Or he’d ought to of moved over into Quebec. He is strong, too—but I reckon we got the goods on him all right, all right. Do you think you could find that revolver of his you threw away?—or do you reckon he’s maybe picked it up himself?

I guess I could find it; and I don’t think he has picked it up because his eyes were shut and full of snow when I threw it away, replied Young Dan. I was mad, you know, what with his shooting at me and everything; and it was only the deep snow and my mitts that saved him from getting a sight worse than he got.

Do you want to arrest him for assault with intent to kill, an’ for sellin’ gin; or do you want to run him out of the country on a pair of cold feet? asked the deputy-sheriff. Take your choice, Dan.

Neither, said the youth. Neither, if we can scare him enough to handle him the way I want to. If we can scare him into keeping the law and doing something for Jim Conley’s wife and kids, I’ll be satisfied.

But we got him cold, said the other. You’ve done a smart piece of work, Dan Evans. You’ve caught Luke just how I’ve been tryin’ to catch him this six months back. But what’s your idee? What’s this about wantin’ that fat lubber to do something for Conley’s wife an’ kids?

They need help. Jim Conley’s no good. The way I figger it is, Luke Watt cheated Conley on the price of that skin. Whatever the skin was, patch or black, we know Conley didn’t get even as much as a third of the right price. And if we can’t prove that the skin belonged to Andy Mace and me, then it was Conley’s rightful property, in the law. So if we can shoot a real scare into Luke Watt—a regular death-cold fright—then we can make him hand over the rest of the price of that skin, in groceries and boots and clothing, to Jim Conley’s family. I’ll pick out the goods—enough to last them till well on in the spring; and Watt’ll have to pay to have them packed in to Conley’s camp. That’s my idea.

The deputy-sheriff drank more coffee, scratched his chin and relit the half-smoked cigar.

You’re a philanthropist, Dan Evans, he said. You’re like your uncle Bill Tangler in that.

Young Dan let that pass with a noncommittal smile, for the word was one which he had somehow overlooked in his explorations into literature. But he felt that it was nothing to be ashamed of if the same could be said of his uncle Bill Tangler.

And maybe you’re right, continued Mr. Wallace. You know the situation and I don’t, so it’s for you to say. As for the scare—if we find that revolver we can scare Watt into totin’ a year’s supply of grub all the way in to the Right Prong of Oxbow on his own fat back. And I reckon he’ll keep the law after we’ve had a chat with him, for he ain’t a fool. He’d sooner keep it along with his freedom than behind stone walls and iron bars, you can betcher hat on that. But there are other sides to the question to be considered. There’s no sense in jumpin’ before we look all round for the dryest place to land. So far you’ve considered nothin’ but Jim Conley’s family’s need of grub and clothes. Well, that’s all right in its way, and as far as it goes—but it will sure encourage Jim Conley to sit at home all day and eat his head off. If he can’t drink he’ll eat. A feller like him has just got to be doin’ something with his mouth all the time; and I reckon he ain’t got brains enough to do much talkin’. If feedin’ his wife and children will make a good citizen out of him, then you’re dead right. But what about Luke Watt? We can scare him into keeping the law as far as bootleggin’ gin is concerned, but we can’t stop him cheatin’ in his trade every chance he gets. We couldn’t make a good citizen of him in a hundred years. And that ain’t all. Not by a long shot! Suppose I nab him in my official capacity, with his number right in my pocket? What’ll folks say about Deputy-Sheriff Archie Wallace then, d’ye think? They’ll say that Deputy-Sheriff Archie Wallace is an all-fired smart, able, slick and deserving officer! Yes, Dan Evans, it will sure mean feathers a foot high in my hat. And what will be said about the young trapper from ’way back in the woods who did the brain-work and took the risk? They’ll say you’re the best detective outside the covers of a book they ever heard tell of. You’ll be a big man with your name in the newspapers—and I’ll be the next high sheriff of this county. That’s my idea.

And it is a good idea, replied Young Dan, reflectively. It sounds mighty good to me, of course. I’d like fine to see my name in the papers as a detective, but I wasn’t figgering on anything like that. I want to see that woman and her children decently fed. I don’t like her much, mind you—but she’s sure a courageous mother, and I pity her, and so would you if you knew Jim Conley. If we could scare him into earning a living for his family, then I’d certainly like your idea better’n mine.

But you ain’t reckonin’ on makin’ Luke Watt support Conley’s wife and kids all the rest of their lives, surely? returned Mr. Wallace. That would be goin’ a mite too far with it. He’d sooner go to jail than do that, I wouldn’t wonder. No, that won’t do! You got to make Conley get to work. Philanthropy’s a fine thing, but justice is a fine thing, too.

You’re right, Mr. Wallace—and you are the deputy-sheriff. I guess whatever you say goes. All I want to do is scare Jim Conley off of our trap-lines, and help his family, and smash that hound, Luke Watt.

Then we’d best sleep on it, an’ have a look for that revolver first thing in the morning, said the other. Maybe we’ll hit on a way of reconciling your hunger for philanthropy with my thirst for fame and promotion.

They sound as if they’d ought to pull all right in double-harness, remarked the youth, with that smile which reminded the deputy-sheriff of Bill Tangler.

The deputy-sheriff wakened his guest at the first peep of day; and after breakfast they set out in a red pung behind a long-gaited three-year-old. Young Dan left his skins locked securely away in one of Mr. Wallace’s closets, with the understanding that Wallace would ship them to an honest fur-dealer immediately upon his return from the present expedition. This arrangement would be sure to prove advantageous to Young Dan and his partner, for Archie Wallace, as deputy-sheriff of the county, would obtain a higher price for the furs than a private trapper could possibly make any buyer consider reasonable. They stopped near the scene of the trapper’s swift and violent encounter with the storekeeper from Bean’s Mill, slipped on their snowshoes and entered the slanting field. Mr. Wallace regarded the deep marks of the struggle with chuckles of satisfaction. Then Young Dan led him about thirty yards away to a very small cut in the snow and dug up Luke Watt’s revolver. He handed the weapon to Wallace, who wiped it off, tied it up carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it away in his pocket.