"A silver? An' be he a good un?"

"Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un much."

"Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too--about th'

best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets a rare lot o' fur that year--a rare lot--but I'm not catchin' all of un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns."

"An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill.

"Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in d.i.c.k. "Sure Bill's heard un--leastways he must 'a' heard un."

"No, I never heard un," said Bill.

"An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no truth in un."

"'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns.

Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o'

Injuns comes this way these days."

"What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill.

"I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," a.s.serted Ed, a.s.suming a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th'

mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now, an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I finds a whole barrel o' flour missin' an' comes out at un. They owns up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t' _one_ meal--now ye mind, _one_ meal. When un eats a _barrel_ o' flour t'

_one_ meal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like, an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like I scares un--scares un bad. I were _one_ man alone, an' wi' a bold face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I has a flat sled load o' martens from un--handy t' a hundred an'

fifty--an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none.

Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it."

Bill laughed and remarked,

"'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare folk?"

"A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn,"

a.s.serted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation.

"Bob's late comin'," remarked d.i.c.k. "'Tis gettin' dark."

"He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th'

night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange."

They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that Bob was not coming that night.

"'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length.

"An' he brought down his fur last trip--a fine lot."

"Where be un?" asked d.i.c.k.

Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine too!"

"Gone!" d.i.c.k and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?"

"Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis gone now!"

The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for awhile in silence. Finally d.i.c.k spoke:

"'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin'

somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un."

"We must find un an' run that devil Injun down," exclaimed Ed, reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un, neither."

"'Twill be no use goin' now," said d.i.c.k, with better judgment. "Th'

moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi'

daylight we must be goin'."

Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down.

We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he a.s.sented. Then he gritted his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi'

Bob."

The remainder of the evening was spent in putting forth conjectures as to what had possibly befallen Bob. They were much concerned but tried to rea.s.sure themselves with the thought that he might have been delayed one tilt back for the night, and that Micmac John had done nothing worse than steal the fur. Nevertheless their evening was spoiled--the evening they had looked forward to with so much pleasure and their minds were filled with anxious thoughts when finally they rolled into their blankets for the night.

Christmas morning came with a dead, searching cold that made the three men shiver as they stepped out of the warm tilt long before dawn and strode off in single file into the silent, dark forest. After a while daylight came, and then the sun, beautiful but cheerless, appeared above the eastern hills to reveal the white splendour of the world and make the frost-hung fir trees and bushes scintillate and sparkle like a gem-hung fairy-land. But the three men saw none of this. Before them lay a black, unknown horror that they dreaded, yet hurried on to meet.

The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts were weighted with a nameless dread.

Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when d.i.c.k said laconically:

"No smoke. He's not here."

"An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed.

"No footin' t' mark un at all," a.s.sented d.i.c.k. "What's happened has happened before th' last snow."

"Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened."

Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the remainder of that day and all the next day kept up their tireless, silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy they dreaded.

At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead, and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!"

Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur in it.

"Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun been doin'? Now why did he _leave_ th' fur? 'Tis strange--wonderful strange."

d.i.c.k noted the evidences of an open fire having been kindled upon the earthen floor. "That fire were made since th' stove were taken," he said. "Micmac John left th' fur an' made th' fire. He's been stoppin'

here a night after Bob left wi' th' stove. But why were Bob leavin'

wi' th' stove? An' where has he gone? An' why has th' Injun been leavin' th' fur here an' not comin' for un again? We'll have t' be findin' out."

They started immediately to search for some clue of the missing lad, each taking a different direction and agreeing to meet at night in the tilt. Everywhere they looked, but nothing was discovered, and, weary and disheartened, they turned back with dusk. d.i.c.k returned across the first lake above the tilt. As he strode along one of his snow-shoes pressed upon something hard, and he stopped to kick the snow away from it. It was a deer's antler. He uncovered it farther and found a chain, which he pulled up, disclosing a trap and in it a silver fox, dead and frozen stiff. He straightened up and looked at it.

"A Christmas present for Bob an' he never got un," he said aloud. "Th'

lad's sure perished not t' be findin' his silver."

Here was a discovery that meant something. Bob had been setting traps in that direction, and might have a string of traps farther on.