Suddenly he saw something ahead of him which changed for a moment the uncomfortable trend of his thoughts. It was a pale streak, rising above the level of the trail, and stretching diagonally across the plain to the east. With an exclamation of surprise Philip hastened his steps, and a moment later stood among the fresh workings of his men. When he had left for Churchill this streak, which was the last stretch of road-bed between them and the surveyed line of the Hudson's Bay Railway, had ended two miles to the south and west. In a little over a month MacDougall had pushed it on the trail, and well across it in the direction of Gray Beaver Lake. In that time he had accomplished a work which Philip had not thought possible to achieve that autumn. He had figured that the heavy snows of winter would cut them off at the trail.

And MacDougall was beyond the trail, with three weeks to spare!

Something rose up in his blood, warming him with an elation which sent him walking swiftly toward the end of the road-bed. A quarter of a mile out on the plain he came to the working end. About him were scattered half a dozen big scoop shovels and piles of working tools. The embers of a huge log fire still glowed where dinner had been cooked for the men. Philip stood for a few moments, looking off into the distance.

Another mile and a half out there was the Gray Beaver, and from the Gray Beaver there lay the unbroken waterway to the point of their conjunction with the railway coming up from the south. A sudden idea occurred to Philip. If MacDougall had built two and a quarter miles of road-bed in five weeks they could surely complete this other mile and a half before winter stopped them. In that event, they would have fifteen miles of road, linking seven lakes, which would give them a splendid winter trail for men, teams, and dogs to the Gray Beaver. And from the Gray Beaver they would have smooth ice for twenty miles, to the new road. He had not planned to begin fishing operations until spring, but he could see no reason now why they should not commence that winter, setting their nets through the ice. At Lobstick Creek, where the new road would reach them sometime in April or May, they could freeze their fish and keep them in storage. Five hundred tons in stock, and perhaps a thousand, would not be a bad beginning. It would mean from forty to eighty thousand dollars, a half of which could be paid out in dividends.

He turned back, whistling softly. There was new life in him, burning for action. He was eager to see MacDougall, and he hoped that Brokaw would not be long in reaching Blind Indian Lake. Before he reached the trail he was planning the accommodation stations, where men and animals could find shelter. There would be one on the sh.o.r.e of the Gray Beaver, and from there he would build them at regular intervals of five miles on the ice.

He had come to the trail, and was about to turn in the direction of the camp, when he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly across the plain which he had traversed half an hour before. The manner in which this person was following in his footsteps, apparently with extreme caution, caused Philip to move quickly behind the embankment of the road-bed. Two or three minutes later a man crossed into view. Philip could not see his face distinctly, but by the tired droop of the stranger's shoulders and his shuffling walk he guessed that what he had first taken for caution was in reality the tedious progress of a man nearing exhaustion. He wondered how he had missed him in his own journey over the trail from the ridge mountains, for he had made twice the progress of the stranger, and must surely have pa.s.sed him somewhere within the last mile or so. The fact that the man had come from the direction of Fort o' G.o.d, that he was exhausted, and that he had evidently concealed himself a little way back to avoid discovery, led Philip to cut out diagonally across the plain so that he could follow him and keep him in sight without being observed. Twice in the next mile the nocturnal traveler stopped to rest, but no sooner had he reached the first scattered shacks of the camp than he quickened his steps, darting quickly among the shadows, and then stopped at last before the door of a small log cabin within a pistol-shot of Philip's own headquarters. The cabin was newly built, and Philip gave a low whistle of surprise as he noted its location. He had, to a certain degree, isolated his own camp home, building it a couple of hundred yards back from the sh.o.r.e of the lake, where most of the other cabins were erected. This new cabin was still a hundred yards farther back, half hidden in a growth of spruce. He heard the click of a key in a lock and the opening and closing of a door. A moment later a light flared dimly against a curtained window.

Philip hurried across the open to the cabin occupied by himself and MacDougall, the engineer. He tried the door, but it was barred. Then he knocked loudly, and continued knocking until a light appeared within.

He heard the Scotchman's voice, close to the door.

"Who's there?" it demanded.

"None of your business!" retorted Philip, falling into the error of a joke at the welcome sound of MacDougall's voice. "Open up!"

A bar slipped within. The door opened slowly. Philip thrust himself against it and entered. In the pale light of the lamp he was confronted by the red face of MacDougall, and a pair of little eyes that gleamed menacingly. And on a line with MacDougall's face was an ugly-looking revolver.

Philip stopped with a sudden uncomfortable thrill. MacDougall lowered his gun.

"Lord preserve us, but that's the time you almost drew a perforation!"

he exclaimed. "It isn't safe to cut-up in these diggings any more--not with Sandy MacDougall!"

He held out a hand with a relieved laugh, and the two men shook in a grip that made their fingers ache.

"Is this the way you welcome all of your friends, Mac?"

MacDougall shrugged his shoulders and laid his gun on a table in the center of the room.

"Can't say that I've got a friend left in camp," he said, with a curious grimace. "What in thunder do you mean, Phil? I've tried to reason something out of it, but I can't!"

Philip was hanging up his cap and coat on one of a number of wooden pegs driven into the long wall. He turned quickly.

"Reason something out of what?" he said.

"Your instructions from Churchill," replied MacDougall, picking up a big, black-bowled pipe from the table.

Philip sat down with a restful sigh, crossed his legs, loaded his pipe, and lighted it.

"Thought I made myself lucid enough, even for a Scotchman, Sandy," he said. "I learned at Churchill that the big fight is going to be pulled off mighty soon. It's about time for the fireworks. So I told you to put the sub-camps in fighting shape, and arm every responsible man in this camp. There's going to be a whole lot of gun-work before you're many days older. Great Scott, man, don't you understand NOW? What's the matter?"

MacDougall was staring at him as if struck dumb.

"You told me--to arm--the camps?" he gasped.

"Yes, I sent you full instructions two weeks ago."

"MacDougall tapped his forehead suspiciously with a stubby forefinger.

"You're mad--or trying to pull off a poor brand of joke!" he exclaimed.

"If you're dreaming, come out of it. Look here, Phil," he cried, a little heatedly, "I've been having a h.e.l.l of a time since you left the camp, and I want to talk seriously."

It was Philip who stared now. He fairly thrust himself upon the engineer.

"Do you mean to say you didn't get my letter telling you to put the camps in fighting shape?"

"No, I didn't get it," said MacDougall. "But I got the other."

"There was no other!"

MacDougall jumped to his feet, darted to his bunk, and came back a moment later with a letter. He thrust it almost fiercely into Philip's hands. A sweat broke out upon his face as he saw its effect upon his companion. Philip's face was deadly pale when he looked up from the letter.

"My G.o.d! you haven't done this?" he gasped.

"What else could I do?" demanded MacDougall. "It's down there in black and white, isn't it? It charges me to outfit six prospecting parties of ten men each, arm every man with a rifle and revolver, victual them for two months, and send them to the points named there. That letter came ten days ago, and the last party, under Tom Billinger, has been gone a week. You told me to send your very best men, and I have. It has fairly stripped the camp of the men we depended upon, and there are hardly enough guns left to kill meat with."

"I didn't write this letter," said Philip, looking hard at MacDougall.

"The signature is a fraud. The letter which I sent to you, revealing my discoveries at Churchill, has been intercepted and replaced by this. Do you know what it means?"

MacDougall was speechless. His square jaw was set like an iron clamp, his heavy hands doubled into knots on his knees.

"It means--fight," continued Philip. "To-night--to-morrow--at any moment now. I can't guess why the blow hasn't fallen before this."

He quickly related to MacDougall the chief facts he had gathered at Fort Churchill. When he had finished, the young Scotchman reached over to the table, seized his revolver, and held the b.u.t.t end of it out to Philip.

"Pump me full of lead--for G.o.d's sake, do, Phil," he pleaded.

Philip laughed, and gripped his hand.

"Not while I need a few fighters like yourself, Sandy," he objected.

"We're on to the game in time. By to-morrow morning we'll be prepared for the war. We haven't an hour--perhaps not a minute--to lose. How many men can you get hold of to-night whom we can depend upon to fight?"

"Ten or a dozen, no more. The road gang that we were expecting up from the Grand Trunk Pacific came three days after you started for Churchill--twenty-eight of 'em. They're a tough-looking outfit, but devilish good workers. I believe you could HIRE that gang to do anything. They won't take a word from me. It's all up to Thorpe, the foreman who brought 'em up, and they won't obey an order unless it comes through him. Thorpe could get them to fight, but they haven't anything to fight with, except a few knives. I've got eight guns left, and I can sc.r.a.pe up eight men who'll handle them for the glory of it.

Thorpe's gang would be mighty handy in close quarters, if it came to that."

MacDougall moved restlessly, and ran a hand through his tawny hair.

"I almost wish we hadn't invited that bunch up here," he added. "They look to me like a lot of dollar thugs, but they work like horses. Never saw such men with the shovel and pick. And fight? They've cleaned up on a half of the men in camp. If we can get Thorpe--"

"We'll see him to-night," interrupted Philip. "Or to be correct, this morning. It's one o'clock. How long will it take to round up our best men?"

"Half an hour," said MacDougall, promptly, jumping to his feet. "There are Roberts, Henshaw, Tom Ca.s.sidy, Lecault, the Frenchman, and the two St. Pierre brothers. They're all crack gun-men. Give 'em each an automatic and they're worth twenty ordinary men."

A few moments later MacDougall extinguished the light, and the two men left the cabin. Philip drew his companion's attention to the dimly lighted window of the cabin to which he had followed the stranger a short time before.

"That's Thorpe's," said the young engineer. "I haven't seen him since morning. Guess he must be up."

"We'll sound him first," said Philip, starting off.