Well, I found that bear, said Young Dan Evans to Andy when he arrived at the camp; and then he gave a full account of his experiences with the Conley family.

You done dead right! exclaimed Andy Mace, at the conclusion of the story. You got brains and use ’em, I do believe; and that’s more’n can be said about most folks nowadays. What size was this here Jim Conley?

Big. Over six foot high, I guess, and hefty—and no more sick-abed nor you or me.

What would ye’ve done if he’d clum outer the bunk an’ lammed ye one?

I’d of lammed him two or three back—maybe four.

I reckon ye would. I was jist sich another at yer age, Young Dan—always up an’ doin’, always ready to fight my own weight in minks or men, and yet always a thinker an’ a bit of scholard, too.

But I don’t go round looking for fights, Mr. Mace. I’m peaceable enough by nature.

Yes, in course. It’s the same with me. There never was a more peaceable citizen on the Oxbow nor Andy Mace—but nobody had to tromp on the tails o’ my snowshoes more’n twice to fetch me round with fists in both hands.

A week passed before the partners on Right Prong heard or saw anything more of the Conleys. It was a busy week with them, for trails had to be beaten out anew in the deep snow and a fresh supply of bait had to be obtained for the traps; and, as if these tasks were not enough, Andy shot a fat buck deer which had to be skinned and quartered and placed out of harm’s way, and Young Dan cracked the frame of one of his snowshoes. The partners were full of energy and determination, however. They survived that strenuous week breathless but triumphant. They obtained the required bait from the depths of a nameless pond which lay four miles to the eastward of the camp. This was a big job in itself, for the ice was nearly two feet thick on the pond, not to mention the three feet of snow which topped the ice. They shovelled snow; then they chopped and shovelled ice; and at last old Andy bored with a four-inch bit until the clear water welled up into the icy trough from the brown depths. He bored two holes; and then they baited their hooks with fat of pork and each lowered a line into the unknown. They fished steadily for three hours and by the end of that time were too nearly frozen to go on with it. The captured trout froze stiff after a jump or two on the snow.

Reckon it’s a reel chilly day, remarked Andy, looking from the low sun, which glinted as grey and cheerless as a flake of ice, to the frozen fish. Reckon we’d best quit and git home before we’re as stiff an’ twisted as these here trout.

He was right. If there had been a thermometer in the Right Prong country it would have marked twenty-five degrees below zero just then. Young Dan was agreeable; but he would have stood there and continued the motions of fishing, slowly and more slowly until the numbness caught his heart, if the old man had not suggested a move. When two good men go into the woods together, and one of them is well past four score years of age and the other has not yet completed his first score, the spur of competition is bound to prod now and then. In this matter of endurance against the cold the partners had silently and almost unconsciously competed. No rivalry of youth and age had inspired them, but rather the rivalry of two widely separated generations of youth; for old Andy Mace considered himself as good a man as he had ever been and so a trifle better than Young Dan, maybe, because of his birth and training in a period of the world’s existence that had marked its very highest point of development. He said nothing of all this to Young Dan, of course—even if he thought it.

They gathered up their gear and scooped the frozen fish into a couple of sacks. Not a word did they exchange until they were both on the warm side of their own door; and even then they didn’t exchange many. An hour later, however, when the riz biscuits, broiled venison steak, and the coffee-pot were on the table, they talked good and plenty.

Woodsmen are not generally supposed to be talkative folk. If there is any truth in this general supposition, then Young Dan and old Andy Mace must be the two exceptions that prove it—if suppositions, like rules, can be proved by exceptions. However that may be, these two woodsmen spent every evening in conversation, crawling into their bunks at last only because they couldn’t hear in their sleep. And their talk was not all of the woods and the day’s work. Far from it. They had much more to say concerning what they thought than what they knew; and so almost every subject under the sun was dealt with. Even when Young Dan read aloud, Andy capped every paragraph with a comment or an explanation, or an objection of equal or greater length. Their library contained only three small volumes of fiction, all from one entertaining pen—but under their system of reading, three promised to be plenty, for one winter at least. In spite of his interruptions, Andy Mace was a hungry listener, and so his interest in the adventures and mental processes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes soon became almost as keen as his partner’s. No one could be more sharply intrigued by an artful combination of significant words than that old trapper.

On the night of the day of the cold fishing, after the last fragment of steak had been devoured, Young Dan opened one of the treasured books and began to read aloud; and, at the same moment, Andy began to cut tobacco for his pipe. Andy gave ear intently until the tobacco was shredded, rolled, stuffed into the pipe and satisfactorily lighted. He blew three large, slow clouds and settled back in his chair.

I wisht we had that gent here on Right Prong with us, he said. He’d stand it all right, too, I reckon, in a good coonskin coat. What d’ye cal’late he’d of made o’ that thief in claws?

Young Dan closed the book on a finger.

I guess he would of known it wasn’t a bear right off, he said. I did. I suspicioned it wasn’t, anyhow. I guess he would of known for sure, right off; and maybe he wouldn’t of figgered it out the way I did, neither—not by the molasses jug alone, perhaps.

How else could he figger it out? What else was there to figger on?

Plenty for him. I can think of some other things myself, now. There were the claw-marks. I guess those alone would of been enough for Mr. Holmes.

What about ’em? They were marks of a b’ar’s claws.

Yes—but he’s scientifical, Mr. Holmes is. He would of had a spyin’ glass handy in his pocket to look at the marks with, and right off he’d of seen by the spread from claw to claw that they had been made by a mighty big bear. He would study over that a few minutes, somethin’ like this: A bear with paws as big as what these must of been must be an uncommon big bear; and heavy—four or five hundred pounds in weight, maybe, in the fall of the year; and so he would just naturally make deeper tracks than these here; and a bear as big as what he must be to own these paws and claws would be too darned big to get through that little window without spreadin’ the side of the camp or bustin’ himself or somethin’. So he would up and say, quick but quiet, This thief is a lamb in a wolf’s clothes—or somethin’ like that. He would know it wasn’t a bear, anyway. That’s how Mr. Holmes would of figgered it out, I guess.

Andy withdrew his pipe from his mouth and slowly straightened himself in his chair.

Sufferin’ cats! he exclaimed. It don’t sound altogether human comin’ like that from a young feller who ain’t been to school nowhere but down to the Bend. Where’d ye get the trick of it from, Young Dan? Not from yer Pa nor yer Ma, I’ll swear an Alfy Davy!

That was easy, workin’ it out after I knew, the way I did, replied Young Dan, modestly. If I had worked it out that way before I knew—well, that would of been pretty slick work. That would of been scientifical.

If Gover’ment hears about it you’ll be one o’ these here boss policemen some day, said Andy.

I guess not, retorted Young Dan, with a slight curl of the lips that was foreign to his character.

He already shared Sherlock Holmes’ opinion of the mental equipment of that stalwart and imperturbable force.

He reopened the book and took up the story at the point of his partner’s interruption. He read a paragraph, his voice skidding now and then on a word of formidable proportions. He read a page, warming to his work and tearing the big words to pieces without so much as a hitch in his stride. Two pages—and still not a peep out of Andy Mace. He ceased reading and looked up inquiringly, and beheld his aged partner slouched in the chair and sunk deep in slumber, his shoulders hunched high, his chin tucked in and his grey beard rising and falling peacefully on his breast.

Young Dan was up as early as usual next morning. He lit the lantern and then the fire in the stove; and it was not until then that he heard any signs of life from his partner’s bunk.

Sufferin’ cant-dogs! exclaimed Andy. Warm up the b’ar’s grease for me, pardner. This here right leg o’ mine’s stiffer’n King Pharaoh’s neck. Must of give it a twist yesterday.

Young Dan complied with this request, cooked the breakfast and tucked into it. He set out on the northward line at the first break of dawn, with a sack over his shoulder containing a supply of the new bait and a haunch of venison, leaving Andy Mace still rubbing that high-smelling cure-all into his right knee and telling how it had been tender ever since he had hurt it fifty years ago in an argument with a man from Quebec.

It was a fine morning, and a clear finger of light in the east promised a fine day. The air was still and not so perishing cold as it had been the day before. Young Dan traveled fast. He found a mink in the first trap and stowed it away in the sack without waiting to skin it. He rebaited the trap with a frozen trout. The second and third traps were exactly as he had last seen them; the fourth contained a red fox, which he added to the collection in the sack; and the remaining traps were undisturbed. He continued northward along the trail that led to the Conley cabin.

Young Dan did not find Jim Conley at home, but Mrs. Conley and the babies were there. He produced the haunch of deer-meat, for which the woman thanked him heartily.

I’m glad to see that Jim’s able to be up and out, he said. He must be feeling better.

I reckon he’s some better, she replied. He lit out for the settlements two days back, anyhow.

To fetch in some grub?

Maybe he’ll fetch in some grub.

Young Dan’s eyes turned significantly to the floor at the edge of the bunk beneath which he had discovered the store of square-faces during his last visit. The woman observed the glance and sighed. Young Dan felt embarrassed.

I’m glad he has something to buy grub with, he said.

He’s got a few skins, said the woman. He went out an’ set some traps first thing after the tongue-lashin’ ye give him.

He must be lucky, to have enough to carry out to the settlements after a couple of days’ trapping, said the youth, astonished.

Mrs. Conley smiled bitterly.

Jim don’t wait to git a lot before he commences sellin’, she said. It’s the way he’s built.

And he’s left you to attend to the traps?

Nope, he told me to let ’em be while he was gone. I don’t know nothin’ about traps, anyhow. I was born and riz in the settlements.

He might lose some good skins that way—have them et up on him; but it’s his own business, I guess. Well, I must be getting home. If you need anything, m’am, you know where to find my partner and me.

Young Dan sat down and ate his lunch as soon as he got out of sight of the cabin. He felt depressed; and the cold steak and frosty biscuits didn’t cheer him.

That’s a poor outfit, he said. I guess that Jim Conley’s no darned good. I wonder where he got that gin—and if he’ll get any more? He won’t buy much with the price of a few fox skins, that’s sure. He’s big, and maybe he’s powerful—but I kind of feel that I’ll light right into him next time I see him.

He made the homeward journey of twelve miles without a stop. It was close to three o’clock in the afternoon when he reached camp; and there, to his astonishment, he found Andy Mace seated by the stove with his right leg cocked up in a chair.

Andy looked ashamed of himself.

I never knowed it to act so contrary before, he said. It’s still stiffer’n a ramrod, an’ I’ve rubbed nigh all my b’ar’s grease into it; an’ all the fault o’ that gum-heeled feller from Quebec I fit with over on the Tobique in the winter o’ eighteen-seventy. It’s nigh enough to rile a man’s temper, Young Dan.

Young Dan was distressed.

If it hurts you bad, just say the word and I’ll go clean out to Harlow and fetch in a doctor, he offered.

No! exclaimed Andy. It ain’t my knee hurts me, but it’s layin’ down on the job to-day, and maybe to-morrow, and leavin’ all the work to you. That’s what riles me.

Don’t you worry about that, the youth reassured him. I am able and willing, and you’ll be right as rain in a few days. Now I’ll do a mile or two of the south line and be back in time to fry pancakes for supper.

He was as good as his word; and, later, his pancakes proved to be as good as any his partner had ever mixed and fried. He told of his visit to the Conley cabin, and the old man agreed with him that it would be a real pleasure to hand Jim Conley just what he deserved. After supper, Young Dan read a complete story, in irregular fragments, and his partner talked a bookful.