THE BLACK FOX SKIN
to the little chap. She was here afore Thursday morning's rain, some time Wednesday, not long after I started, I guess. . . . I'm off soon as ever I can stoke in some grub. You coming?"
"Yes."
Not much later I was following November's nimbly moving figure upon as hard a woods march as I ever care to try. I was not sorry when a thong of my moccasin gave way and Joe allowed me a minute to tie it up and to get my wind.
"There's Tom Carroll, Phil Gort, and Injin Sylvester," began November abruptly—"those three. They're Sally's nearest neighbours, them and Val Black. Val's a good man, but—"
"But what?" said I absently.
"Him and Tom Carroll's cut the top notches for Sally's favour so far."
"But what's that got to do with—"
"Come on," snapped November, and hurried forward.
I need say no more about the rest of the journey, it was like a dozen others I had made behind November. Deep in the night I could just make out that we were passing round the lower
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