September drifted imperceptibly into October, and even then there were
days when coats were shed and sleeves rolled up as the noon sun burned
down on the tawny gold and scarlet of the woodside. It was not until the
sedges grew brittle on the river edges and the grasses withered that
November sent forth its true harbingers of winter--small fluttering
white flakes that covered the ground sparsely.
With the keen tang of the first snow stirring his blood, David swung
down the river-trail toward Tramworth, Smoke padding at his heels. With
Avery's help he had built a snug winter camp near the three cabins, and
although not in the best location available, it reflected some Celtic
astuteness on David's part, as it was centred on the prospective
right-of-way of the new road. His present errand involved the purchase
of a stove, cooking utensils, and the other essentials to independent
housekeeping. He found out, early in his undertaking to teach Swickey,
that he could not maintain the prestige necessary, in her continual
presence.
He felt pleased with himself that brisk November morning. He had his own
cabin, neat, new, fragrant. He had learned to swing an axe during its
construction. He had not missed the first deer he hunted, and thereby
had earned Swickey's condescending approval. _She_ had killed a "b'ar."
In the setting of traps and dead-falls he won Avery's appreciation by a
certain deftness and mechanical ability. But, above all, was the keen
joy he felt when he thought of the Bascombs' recent offer of twenty-five
thousand dollars for Lost Farm tract.
"There is something behind it," he muttered. "Avery gave five thousand
for the land. But why don't they appraise it and sell it from under us.
They could. By Jove, I have it! The Great Western Lumber Company is back
of the N. M. & Q., and they want the pine. Why didn't I think of that
before."
Unused to observing signs on the trail, he failed to notice the moccasin
tracks in the light snow ahead of him, but Smoke picked up a scent and
trotted along, sniffing and blowing. Then he came to heel again,
evidently satisfied. The man-thing he followed ought to know that the
people who made the tracks were not far ahead, and that one of them had
turned off in a clump of firs they were just passing.
He noted the dog's actions subconsciously, his mind busy with the
problem of how to get the best results from the sale which he knew must
come eventually, despite Avery's assertion that "No blamed railrud would
come snortin' across his front yard, if he knew it."
He had about decided to advise his partner to sell and avoid
complications, but only the right-of-way and retain the stumpage--
_Wh-e-e-e--Pang!_ His pack jumped from his shoulders as a bullet clipped
a beech and sung off at a tangent with a mournful _ping--ouing--ing_.
From the hillside above him, again came the sharp _Pang! Pang!_ of a
high-power rifle. He flung up both arms, whirled half round, and dropped
on the frozen trail. Smoke bristled and growled, pacing with stiff
forelegs round his master. He nuzzled the limp hands and whined. He
trembled and a ridge of hair rose along his spine. He was not afraid,
but the rage of an impotent avenger shook him. This man-thing had been
struck down--from where?--by whom?
He sniffed back along the trail till he came to the tracks that swung
off into the firs. He leaped to the hunt, following the scene over knoll
and hollow. An empty brass shell lay melting the thin snow around it. He
nosed it, then another and another. They were pungently disagreeable to
his nostrils. The tracks circled back to the trail again. They were
leading him to where his master lay--he knew that. Near the fringe of
undergrowth that edged the trail the big white terrier stiffened and
raised his homely nose. A new man-smell came to him and he hated it
instinctively. With the caution and courage of the fighter who loves
battle for its own sake, he crept through the low, snow-powdered
branches noiselessly. He saw a dark figure stooping above his master.
Smoke gathered his haunches beneath him and shot up, a white
thunderbolt, straight for the naked, swarthy neck. The man heard and
whirled up his arm, but that hurtling death brushed it aside and the
wide straining jaws closed on the corded throat and crunched. The man
fumbled for his knife, plunging about on his knees. It had slipped round
in front. With a muffled scream he seized the dog's throat. Smoke braced
his hind legs in the man's abdomen, arched his back, and the smooth
thigh muscles jumped to knots as he tugged, once--twice--
Blotched with crimson, muzzle dripping, he drew back from the twitching
shape, lay down and lapped his steaming breast and legs. His work was
done.
Finally he arose and sniffed at that silent nothing beneath the firs.
Then he went over and sat beside the other man-thing, waiting--waiting--
Presently David stirred, groaned, and raised tremblingly on his elbow.
Smoke stood up. "Home, Smoke!" he murmured inarticulately, but the dog
understood. He sprang up the trail in long leaps, a flying horror of red
and white.
"Must have--hurt--himself." David was gazing stupidly at the dead man.
This thing was a joke--everything was a joke--Swickey, her father, Jim
Cameron, Smoke, David Ross-_ung_-_gh!_ His grinning lips drew tense
across his clenched teeth. A lightning whip of pain shot through his
temples, and the white trail, worming through the dark-green pit of the
forest, faded, and passed to the clouds. A smothering blackness swooped
down and enveloped him.