The wind was abroad all the next day, sweeping the snow from the broad branches and high spires of the forest and shoveling it into drifts along the windward edges of all open spaces. Young Dan worked at the wood-pile and the pelts all day, and Mr. Mace smoked his pipe and rubbed his painful joints and wondered if old age were creeping upon him. Young Dan was chopping a stick of dry birch near the door, and the small sun was on the edge of the western horizon, when Pete Sabatis appeared. Pete was powdered white with snow from the webbed racquets on his feet to the crown of his fur cap.

Howdy, he said.

Young Dan stared at him in amazement.

I knew you’d have to give it up, he said, and I’m mighty glad you’ve found your way back. That’s more’n I could do, with the snow drifting like it has all day.

The old Maliseet smiled and snorted and entered the camp. Young Dan followed a few minutes later depressed by the thought of Andy Mace’s disappointment and yet relieved to know that the old Indian was safe. By the fire-shine and the mild light of a candle on the table, he beheld his partner dosing himself with a large spoon from a large bottle and Pete Sabatis laying out tea and bacon and tobacco on the floor.

So you got there! exclaimed Young Dan. You got to Andy’s place in that storm—and home again!

Both old men turned to him. Pete’s one eye grew rounder and brighter for a second; and Mr. Mace gulped down his medicine, pulled a wry face and then chuckled.

Pete Sabatis never yet started out for anywheres he didn’t git to, said Andy. Snow nor rain nor wind nor darkness can’t stop him. He travels as straight with one eye as ever he did with two.

I didn’t know the man was living, or had ever lived, who could hold a straight course through new country on such a day as yesterday, said Young Dan. And now I know I was mistaken, he added.

Pete Sabatis had nothing to say about his journey. The trip had been unadventurous. He had not encountered any difficulties worth mentioning. Andy’s key had fitted Andy’s door and he had found the bottles of medicine on the very shelf in the pantry which Andy had described to him. And he had found the store at the Bend exactly where he had expected to find it and the storekeeper had not hesitated a moment in the matter of filling the order.

Young Dan cooked the best supper he knew how to with the materials at hand; and after supper, when the old men’s pipes were drawing to their entire satisfaction, Andy said, Pete, I’d like fine to tell Young Dan Evans here about how ye happened to lose yer eye.

The Maliseet fixed his remaining eye on the youth with a glance so searching that the other remembered something he had read in a book about a thing called an X-Ray.

It ain’t like as if Young Dan was nothin’ more’n my pardner, continued Andy. He’s like a brother to me; and his heart’s as right as his brains is smart.

That’s a’right, said Pete Sabatis. Go ahead an’ tell ’im.

This here’s a kinder personal story, began Andy, settling back in his chair. Twenty-four years ago this very winter, I was in the woods on Pyle’s Brook, over in the Tobique country, choppin’ for Howard Frazer. I was restless in them days; and I’ll bet there ain’t a block of woods ten mile square in all the Province I ain’t had a foot into, lumberin’ or huntin’ or trappin’ fur. Well, I knowed that country pretty nigh as well as I know the Oxbow—so I thought. I diskivered later as how I’d thought wrong. Pete Sabatis here was choppin’ for Frazer’s gang, too. That was a kinder onusual thing, even in them days—a full-blooded Injun working hard an’ honest with a crew of lumbermen. But Pete allus was one who could do a white man’s job as well as an Injun’s—an’ both a mite better’n any other Injun or white man could do it. I’d say the same even if he wasn’t right here a-listenin’ to me.

Well, I didn’t have no better friend in that outfit nor this here Pete Sabatis, and it was the same with him—what ye might call visey versus, I reckon. But, mind ye, I didn’t know the first darned thing about Pete’s private life. He was a jolly feller, though never much of a talker an’ nothin’ at all of a laugher. But all of a suddent, along about January, he begun to study hard on somethin’ deep inside himself. He’d stop still as if he was frozen all of a suddent in the middle of choppin’ into the butt of a big tree, with his axe sunk to the eye in the yellow wood, an’ stare kinder across-eyed into himself, with a look on his face like he didn’t care much for what he seen. Of course I knowed he wasn’t sick, but I asked him if he was; an’ when he said as how he wasn’t, then I cal’lated his trouble was somethin’ I’d best not ask him any more questions about.

So it went on for three days, maybe; an’ then one Saturday night, after supper, he asks me if I’ll make a trip with him next day.

A trip? sez I. What sort o’ trip?

Snowshoes, sez Pete.

Sure, but how far? I sez.

Quite a spell, he answers back. A long ways an’ rough goin’, an’ trouble at the end of it.

Well, there’s plenty men who’d set back hard in their britchen when they’d hear a note like that—but not me, twenty-four year ago, nor to-day. We started eastward into the tall timber before sun-up that Sunday mornin’, with grub enough for two days maybe, and blankets, and our axes. Pete carried a muzzle-loader gun you could shoot bullets out of pretty straight up to seventy yards. It was a clear, cold day, without so much as a fan of wind abroad. It was Sunday, as I’ve told ye; an’ it felt like Sunday—kinder waitin’ an’ uncommon. Pete went slam through everything on a straight line all his own as fast as he could flop his racquets along, but it didn’t bother me none to keep up to him. He didn’t say a word. We halted and et about noon—but even then he wouldn’t talk.

Andy Mace paused to relight his pipe.

Talk, said Pete Sabatis. Too much talk. You lemme tell how that happen, so we don’t set up all night. Pretty soon we come to one little clearin’ in the woods, with one log shanty on him. We go to door an’ open him an’ step inside. There we find the folk I look for a’right. Andy Mace look at them like he don’t know nothin’ at all—an’ so he don’t. I push him back on the door till it shut an’ give him the gun. Then I take one step acrost at that half-breed man, an’ the woman grab somethin’ from the wall back of him and BANG—an’ Pete Sabatis don’t know nothin’ else for quite a spell.

I cal’late I’m tellin’ this story! interrupted Andy. Young Dan ain’t got a notion what yer talkin’ about. He’s smart, but he’s only human. Why, he don’t even know yet who them folks was an’ what you had come to see them about.

An’ you didn’t, neither, retorted Pete. So after long while I open one eye an’ feel mighty sick. They got me in the bunk then, with head all tie up an’ brandy inside me, an’ Andy Mace an’ them two lookin’ down like they think I don’t never open one eye any more, maybe. Then that woman, who is my daughter, say, I shoot out your eye. What for you come here, anyhow? Then I say, You shoot my eye clear out, hey? Andy say then, You got only one eye now, Pete, an’ that’s gospel. Then that woman, my papoose one time, say, You come to kill Pierre, so I shoot quick. I feel mighty sick, you bet, for that pain in my head an’ the think how I got only one eye left, but I pretty near laugh.

That’s right! exclaimed Andy Mace. He come about as nigh to laughin’ real hearty then as ever I see him, durn his old leather face. Ye see, pardner, that squaw, Pete’s daughter, had made a mistake. Her husband, that there halfbreed, Pierre, had stole fur on Pete years before, till Pete had chased him out o’ the country. But they’d come sneakin’ back that winter, an’ Pete had heard about it an’ studied on it. He didn’t like that feller, Pierre; but he figgered out as how he’d go look the two of ’em over an’ kinder give them his blessin’ an’ some money if he seen that Pierre was doin’ right by his wife, who was Pete’s own daughter. An’ his daughter up an’ shot an eye out o’ him before he could say howdy. An’ what d’ye reckon Pete Sabatis done then, Young Dan? He sez, Pretty good breed, that Pierre, if she like him so darn much still—an’ he give them some money an’ said how he was glad to see them back in the Tobique country even if he had only one eye to see them with. And next day he snowshoed back to Howard Frazer’s camp. That’s how he lost his eye, twenty-four years ago this winter; an’ now there’s five of us who know about it instead of only four. An’ he quit choppin’ for only two days after gittin’ back to camp. That’s the sort o’ man Pete Sabatis is!

Talk, talk, talk! That’s the kind of feller Andy Mace is, said the Maliseet, winking his only eye at Young Dan very deliberately.

Young Dan was greatly impressed by the story of Pete’s just temper and amazing physical stamina. He said so. Then, at Andy’s request, he read a story of the wizard of Harley Street. Andy interrupted the narrative frequently, but the Maliseet listened in keen silence.

It couldn’t be done, nohow, said Andy, at the conclusion of the tale. The devil himself couldn’t of worked it out like that.

Maybe, said Pete. I dunno.

Young Dan left the camp bright and early next morning with his uncle’s rifle, axe and blankets, a pack of fine furs and grub enough to last him to Bean’s Mill. He pushed along steadily all day and slept in a hole in the snow that night. He crossed the river well above his father’s farm and gave it and the village at the Bend a wide offing. He reached the outskirts of the settlement of Bean’s Mill about noon and dined well beside his own fire in a thicket of young spruces before appearing to the settlers. Then he went straight to Luke Watt’s store.

Mr. Watt did a big business in a small store. That’s the kind of business man he was, but in character he was a very different sort of person. He was small in character and large in body and manner. As a storekeeper his activities were larger than his premises, but as a man, his chest and legs and arms and skull—yes, and his lower chest—were much too large for him. He had a stiff right wrist, calculating and watchful eyes of no particular color, large hands queerly shaped and a large manner of good-fellowship and an unattractive mustache.

Young Dan found Luke Watt behind his counter, in a corner close to one of the dirty windows, barricaded into his position by boxes and barrels and crates and bags. Young Dan worked his way inward to the counter. He saw, as he advanced, that the other did not know him.

Good morning, Mr. Watt, he said. I’m Dan Evans from up past the Bend—Young Dan Evans. I got a few skins here I want to sell.

Of course ye’re Dan Evans! exclaimed Luke Watt. Didn’t I know it the minute I see you! Lay it there! How’s tricks up river?

Pretty good, I guess, replied the youth. It’s been a great winter for trapping so far, anyhow.

He undid his pack on the head of a barrel at his elbow and placed a couple of pelts on the counter. A swift glance at Watt’s face told him that the storekeeper was finding it difficult to hide his enthusiasm.

Um—fisher, said Mr. Watt. Mighty common skins, ain’t they?

They are as good fisher as were ever trapped on the Oxbow, said Young Dan.

Sure they’re good of their kind—but they’re fisher; and fisher are all-fired common this year. And skins ain’t much in my line, anyhow. I buy a few—but I’m that good natured an’ easy I always lose money on the deal. What d’ye figger these two skins is worth? Three times their real value, I’ll bet a dollar!

Maybe so, replied Young Dan slowly and in a puzzled voice. Yes, just about that, I guess. I don’t know as much about selling ’em as I do about catching ’em.

A flicker of a smile, cold and swift, showed beyond the drooping ends of Luke Watt’s mustache, and for an instant a light of amusement and satisfaction glimmered in his eyes.

I know you pay a whole lot for black fox, continued Young Dan.

Black fox! exclaimed the other. You got half a dozen black foxes right here with you—I don’t think. Say, Dan, what you been drinkin’?

I don’t drink, Mr. Watt—but I trap in a good country for black fox—and I know that you gave Jim Conley a mighty good price for his.

The storekeeper’s eyes became very hard and keen with eagerness and caution. He squared his elbows on the counter and leaned across toward the youth. So, for several seconds, he stared in silence; and the other returned the stare with an innocent and unwavering gaze.

What d’ye know about Jim Conley? he asked, in a low voice.

Never saw him before this winter, but we’re trapping the same line of country now, returned Young Dan. We’re working ’way up past the Prongs.

D’ye mean you an’ Jim Conley are pardners?

We use the same traps. Guess you might call it a partnership.

It wasn’t a first-class skin, that wasn’t, as you know yerself, Dan. It was more patch than black. But if you have another like it I’ll pay the same price, even if I lose money on it—seein’ it’s you.

All in cash, Mr. Watt?

Not at the same price. I always figger on making part payment in trade. But what’s the matter with that? Wasn’t Conley satisfied last time?

I reckon he was—but gin ain’t good for him. He got lost getting home.

Not so loud, whispered Luke Watt. Call it trade. Didn’t Conley warn you to mind yer tongue? You talk like a fool; and if you ain’t more careful you’ll land yer pardner in jail. But that’s all right, seein’ it’s yerself. I’ll buy yer skins—all you have there—an’ give you top price. But you got to take part payment in trade. Any kind o’ trade. Tea, tobacco, flour—anything you want or yer pardner wants. My prices are right.

That’s fair, Mr. Watt. Will you pay me forty dollars for these two fishers? They are the best fishers I’ve seen this winter, color and size.

The storekeeper stood upright and laughed heartily. He straightened his back to it and squared his shoulders to it until Young Dan thought the buttons would fly off the straining front of the big waistcoat.

Forty dollars! exclaimed the big man at last, like one who sees the point of a good joke and immediately repeats it to show that he has seen it. Forty dollars! That’s pretty good, Dan! Darned good!

Pretty fair, returned Young Dan, quietly. They’re worth more.

Are you serious, young fellow? D’ye mean forty real dollars for them two skins? You look kinder as if you meant it. You must be crazy!

Young Dan sighed and removed the pelts from the counter to the rest of the pack. Slowly he tied up the pack, watching the storekeeper all the while with the tail of his right eye. He shouldered the pack and took up the axe and stockinged rifle.

Not so fast, Dan! cried Mr. Watt. That ain’t any way to do business. Say, are you crazy? Let’s see them skins again, and maybe I’ll go as high as thirty-five. And gimme a look at the rest o’ the lot.

I been reading in the papers what furs are worth this year, replied the youth. You can’t fool me. I ain’t Jim Conley. So long.

Anger and something of apprehension flamed in Luke Watt’s unpleasant eyes and big face. With a muttered oath he started for the door in the counter—but before he reached it, Young Dan had closed the door of the store at his heels. And by the time the big man had reached that door, after squeezing his way through the clutter of barrels and crates, Young Dan was half-way down the village street.

Young Dan kept on going along the well-beaten river road, with his snowshoes on his back instead of his feet, for half an hour. He paused now and again to glance over his shoulder, for he believed that Luke Watt would soon be on his tracks with a horse and pung. And in that he was right. Looking back from the top of one rise he saw a fast-trotting horse come over another rise half a mile behind. Then he turned to the right, into a logging road, and ran at top speed for a couple of hundred yards. The logging road was crooked, and rough underfoot. After the sprint, Young Dan strapped his snowshoes on and hopped into the woods. He glanced up at the sun, then went forward on a straight course at a fine pace. He felt very well satisfied with his morning’s work. He had confirmed his suspicions of Mr. Luke Watt, at least.

I have the goods on both of them, he said. I worked it out just right. Now I guess they’ll both have to behave themselves or clear right out of this country. I’ve got enough on Conley to scare him into being good and looking after his wife and kids, that’s certain.

He halted for long enough to eat two sandwiches of cold bread and colder bacon, standing. Then, steering by the sun, he continued to break straight through the woods toward the little town of Harlow.

Luke Watt, in his little red pung behind his leggy trotter, drove straight on down the well-beaten river road, intent on reaching the upper edge of Harlow ahead of Young Dan. If the trapper held to the road and was overtaken on the way, all the better for the storekeeper, of course—but the great thing was a meeting this side of Harlow. It was not the fear of losing trade that inspired Mr. Watt to this determination and this unusual speed. He would regret a loss of trade, sure enough; but what he actually feared was the Law. He suspected Young Dan Evans. He suspected him of being less simple and ignorant than he seemed to be on the surface. He suspected himself of having been dangerously indiscreet in so quickly accepting that long-legged youth as nothing but a source of profit.

He worked me for a rube, I do believe, he reflected. I must get him before he gets me; an’ then, if I can’t scare him off I’ll have to buy him off. I reckon he’ll scare easy enough, if he’s mixed up with Jim Conley.

But would that young fellow scare easily? There had been a look in his eyes that said no to the scare idea.

There was no shorter course between the Bend and Harlow than the river road. There was no bee-line through the woods that would cut so much as a yard off it. Mr. Watt knew this. He drove straight into the town and stabled his horse. Then he walked back beyond the up-river end of the town, accompanied by a middle-aged, middle-sized, seedy looking man with whom he seemed to be very well acquainted. So narrow is that small town that two men could easily keep an eye on all the ways of entrance to it at either end. Mr. Watt and his friend took up positions of advantage several hundred yards apart and waited.

The sun was low when Young Dan came out of the woods and headed slantwise across a wide field beside the highway.