and through thickets of spruce and of aspen, and tangles of underbrush which, in many places, grew so thick that the boy was forced to chop his way through with his camp axe, to emerge onto a stretch of bare rock where the footing was good. But, on rock or in the timber, Connie's eyes were always busy, searching the ground for sign, and the timber and rock wall for a hidden cache or a trail leading into the hills. It was slow, hard work, darkness overtook him upon the edge of a thin strip of stunted timber, and he spread his blankets beside a tiny spring that welled up between the roots of a banskian. He made no fire, but ate charqui and cold biscuits which he washed down with water from the spring.
It was darker here than in the wide valley of the Yukon, and the high walls shut out the view of the sunshine on distant peaks. Suddenly, the boy's eyes caught the flicker of a light through the trees. All thought of sleep vanished and, looking to his Service revolver in its holster at his belt, he gripped his camp axe, threw himself face downward, and began to wriggle toward the light, pausing every few seconds to listen. But the valley was silent as the grave, and presently,
