"I don't know how ye fellers does it," he said, looking squarely into the eyes of the boy, "but ye sure come to the right place when ye come to Coal Crick. They's be'n a sight o' moose kilt in this here valley 'thin the last month or so. I hain't a informer, mind ye, an' I don't b'lieve in makin' no trouble fer no man. But, a word to the wise is foolish, as the feller says, an' if I was a-huntin' poachers, when I hit the forks, 'bout six or eight mile above here, I'd foller the north prong—that's all. It's a doggone shame a-killin' off all the moose an' caribou, that-a-way, an' what they don't kill they run out of the country. It's got so me an' my pardner's got to take a hull week fer to kill us a moose fer meat, an' when we come here we c'd step out the door an' git one most any time." The man slid the frying-pan to the back of the stove. "An' that reminds me—it's grub time an' he hain't showed up yet. Guess I'll jest step out an' see what's a-keepin' him."
"You needn't mind, Brek. Shorty can find his way back." There was a hard note in the boy's voice and at the words the man whirled midway of the floor—whirled to stare into the muzzle of the service revolver which the
