Part 13 (1/2)

”He was goin' to shoot Ben, but the boys got up on their ear and made it known that if he killed the camp mascot they'd throw up their jobs.

An' if you know anything about a woods crew you'd know it's the little things that they get the maddest about. An' now whenever the colonel comes round he takes it out in chasin' Ben with a whip. Ben just lopes round in a circle of a mile or two, and comes back lookin' reproachful, but still perfectly satisfied with Number 7 as a winter residence. The boys think a lot of Ben. Ben thinks a lot of the boys. But the colonel is sp'ilin' his temper some with that bow whip. I reckon why Ben jest come out there lookin' so savage was because he thought old Ward was comin' up to camp.”

The moose finished his critical survey of the group, snorted, and then thrust himself out of sight in the bushes.

”If we ever have any serious fallin' out with Colonel Gid it's like to be over that moose,” drawled a man.

”To judge by the moose, we must be near Number 7 camp,” Parker suggested.

”Just over the hossback,” was the laconic answer.

Parker was soon looking down on it from the hilltop. There were two long, low main camps--one for the sleeping quarters of the men, the other crowded with long, roughly made tables, at which they ate, The s.p.a.ce that separated the camps was roofed and had one side open to the weather. This shelter was called the ”dingle,” and contained the camp grindstone and spare sled equipment.

At a little distance was a small camp containing the stores, such as moccasins, larigans, leggings, flannel s.h.i.+rts and mittens, all for sale at double the prices ruling in the city and for Colonel Ward's profit.

The woods name for this store is the ”w.a.n.gan camp.”

The hour was still too early for the few men left at Number 7 to be in from the cutting. Only the cook and his helper, ”the cookee,” were at the camp.

The cook came out and advanced to meet the new arrivals, having been attracted from his kettles and pans by the view-halloo they sent down from the hilltop.

”Colonel left word to lock him in the w.a.n.gan,” reported the cook, rolling his bare arms more tightly in his dingy ap.r.o.n.

”Where is the colonel?” asked Connick.

”He's out at the log landin'. Be in at supper-time, so he said.” The cook eyed the captive with curiosity not unmixed with commiseration.

”Has he been takin' on much?” he inquired of one of the men.

”Nope. Stiff upper lip--an' he licked Dan,” the man added, behind his palm.

”Sho!” the cook e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, looking on Parker with new interest. ”Ain't he worried by thinkin' of the colonel?”

”Naw-w! Says he'll eat him raw!” fabricated the men, enjoying the cook's amazement. ”Says he's glad to come up here. Been hankerin' to get at Ward, he says.”

”Wal, you don't say!” The cook surveyed Parker from head to foot with critical inspection. This scrutiny annoyed the young man at last.

”Do I owe you anything?” He snapped.

”Heh--wal--blorh-h--wal, I hope ye don't!” spluttered the cook, retreating. ”Land, ain't he a savage one?” he gasped, as he hastened back into his realm of pots. He transferred his news to the amazed cookee.

”They tell me,” he magnified, so as not to be outdone in sensationalism, ”that this feller has licked every man that they've turned him loose on between here and Sunkhaze, an' now is just grittin' his teeth a-waitin'

for the colonel.”

”Wal,” said the cookee, solemnly, ”if the r'yal Asiatic tiger--meanin'

Colonel Gid--and the great human Bengal--meanin' him as is in the w.a.n.gan--get together in this clearin', I think I'd rather see it from up a tree.” And the two were only diverted from their breathless discussion of possibilities by the noisy arrival of Gideon Ward, clamoring for his supper.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Colonel Ward stamped in 149-174]

Parker had hardly finished in solitude his humble supper brought by the cookee, when there was a rattling of the padlock outside. Open flew the door of bolted planks, and Colonel Ward stamped in, kicking the snow from his feet with wholly unnecessary racket of boots. A hatchet-faced man, whose chin was framed between the ends of a drooping yellow mustache, followed meekly and closed the door. Parker rose with a confident air he was far from feeling.

Ward gazed on his prisoner a moment, his gray hair bristling from under his fur cap, his little eyes glittering maliciously. His cheek k.n.o.bs were more irately purple than ever. He took up his cry where he had left it at Poquette Carry, and began to shout: