as the time approached for david to be relieved from duty, he began to watch for the expected traveller and to conjecture as to who would be sent. two weeks had passed since he had left the camp on alder creek. it was now near the end of july.

about noon of the day following the departure of shep and the midnight visit of the wolf, as he was cooking his dinner, he saw davidson, a young bostonian, swinging rapidly up the path. the two exchanged cordial greetings, and david immediately prepared to give his friend a hearty meal.

"how did you leave the people in the shorty creek district?" asked the young cook when the new-comer had removed his light pack and seated himself in one of hovey's rustic chairs.

"everybody was well when i left," answered davidson, "except old tom moore, the recorder. he's down with scurvy, but i guess our doctor will fix him up. they've sent him a lot of dried fruit and vegetables, and that diet ought to help him. i don't believe he had eaten much but bacon for a month, and he hardly[290] ever stirred out of his tent. it's no wonder the scurvy caught him."

"i should think so," said david. and then he asked abruptly, "how long did it take you to get here, davidson?"

"two days and a half from reitz's tent on klukshu lake," was the reply.

"that's quick time. you must be a good walker. i just wish my legs were as long as yours. how far do you think it is?"

"about sixty-five miles by the trail. you'd better allow three days if you carry anything."

"i shall have about forty pounds," said david. "the men at moran's gave me a list of things they wanted out of their clothing bags, and i sent all i could by the boat; but in the hurry i couldn't find everything. is reitz catching any salmon yet?"

"oh, yes; plenty of them. humphrey is with him now, and they're having all they can do."

next morning david gave his friend such directions regarding the cache as had been given to himself, and surrendered the key of the padlock on the cabin door. then he cooked three days' rations of bacon, biscuits, and rice, to which he added some pieces of jerked beef which davidson had brought and kindly offered him. finally he made up his pack, and an hour before noon was ready to start on the long, solitary tramp. if he[291] had stopped to think much about it he might well have shrunk from so lonely a journey through the wilderness, for he was armed only with hunting-knife and hatchet, but the thought of getting back to his friends was uppermost and made him light-hearted; and, besides, if davidson had made the journey, he was sure he could.

"hold on!" exclaimed davidson, suddenly, as he saw the lad taking up his pack. "i'm going with you a few miles. i'll carry the pack."

"oh, no indeed!" said david, whose pride was touched. it seemed almost effeminate to surrender his burden to one who had hardly yet rested after a long journey. "i'm perfectly fresh, and you must be tired. it's mighty kind of you, but i can't let you."

"you don't feel the need of a lift now," said davidson, kindly, "but you may at the other end of the day's march. and it's only at this end that i can help you."

"but surely i can carry that load all day. it isn't heavy,—and it really belongs to me to take it."

"then i won't go with you, dave."

david instantly perceived that if he refused the generous offer of his friend he would hurt his feelings, and that he ought to yield. "well, then," said he, "rather than lose your company, i accept your conditions, and please don't think me ungrateful."

so davidson fastened the pack upon his own shoulders, and having locked the cabin, the two set off down[292] the path to the trail, which they followed till they had covered about five miles and were near the entrance to the pass between mount bratnober and mount champlain. they now sat down beside a brook, and david proceeded to eat his dinner, which he insisted his companion should share. this davidson was reluctant to do, since he knew the lad would have to calculate closely to make his food last. he was finally prevailed upon to accept a piece of bacon and half a biscuit, but would take no more.

"if i were you," said davidson, "i should divide the journey into three parts as nearly equal as possible. from the landing to pennock's post is about twenty-five miles. you'd better try to reach there to-night. then it's twenty miles to the river that flows into dasar-dee-ash from the east. you'll have to wade it, unless there's somebody there with a horse. i was lucky enough to find a pack train at the ford. the water won't come much above your waist."

"h-m!" said david, laconically. "ice-water, i suppose."

"very likely. then on the third day you can make the remaining twenty miles to reitz's camp, and go over to moran's any time you like."

"thank you, davidson," said his young friend. "that's just the way i'll plan to do it."

they parted with mutual good-will, and david, with[293] the pack now on his own back, soon found himself traversing the recently burned district within the pass. the mighty cliff of mount champlain towered on his left, while across the river rose the hardly less stupendous crags of mount bratnober. on every side the country was bright with the purple fireweed, which had sprung up from the ashes as if by magic.

there were scattered patches of forest which the great conflagration had spared, and in the midst of one of these david was suddenly aware of a crackling sound ahead. the next instant he caught a whiff of smoke and saw it rising in a dense cloud through the trees. a few steps more and he found himself in a shower of sparks which a sudden gust blew toward him. forced to beat a precipitate retreat, he made a détour to the windward of the burning area, from which side he was able to make a closer examination.

plainly some careless traveller had allowed his camp-fire to get beyond his control, or else had neglected to extinguish it when he moved on. the flames had crept through the moss and communicated with several dry spruces, which were now blazing fiercely. it was utterly beyond david's power to check the spread of the flames, but he reflected that the whole country around had been burned over, and the fire could not extend past the limits of the oasis-like grove in which it had originated, so he continued on his journey.

[294]

in an open stretch of meadow he came upon a white horse and a mule grazing contentedly. the animals raised their heads in mute inquiry, and then resumed their feeding. david looked about for the owners, but seeing no one, came to the conclusion that these were waifs from some pack train, and might now be appropriated by any one who could catch them. it was a great temptation to try. riding was certainly an improvement on walking; and if he could not do that without a bridle, he could at least lead the horse with a bit of rope and make him carry his pack. on second thought, however, he abandoned the idea. perhaps the animals were not lost. the owners might be somewhere in the neighborhood. if this were the case, and he were seen leading the horse away, he might be accused of horse-stealing,—a very serious charge on the trail. it was better to let them alone, and he plodded on.

a little later he caught sight of a black animal among the trees ahead, and it must be confessed that a lonely, creepy sensation ran up his back at that moment. he loosened the hatchet in its leather case as he walked, but soon saw that the beast was not a bear, but a large black dog which, having even more respect for him than he had felt for it, turned out of the trail and gave him a wide berth. a few minutes afterward he met two men with a small pack train, and concluded that the dog was[295] theirs. the men nodded pleasantly as they passed; they were the only persons he saw on the trail that day.

by mid-afternoon he found himself getting tired. a great many trees had fallen across the path, and the labor of stepping over them contributed materially to his fatigue. there were bogs, too, so cut up by the passage of horses and cattle that it was difficult for a pedestrian to cross without becoming stuck fast. usually, however, a sapling had been cut down and laid over the ooze, and david crossed all but one of these rude bridges successfully.

the one exception nearly cost him dear. he made a misstep, and his right foot slipped into the mud beside the log. the mud and water offered no support, and the sudden lurch having thrown the weight of his pack to that side, his foot sank deeper and deeper without reaching solid ground. by good fortune his other foot was still on the log, and, better still, there were stout bushes on the other side. these he grasped desperately as he sank, and by a violent effort restored his balance and drew himself back upon the log.

in the early evening he waded frying-pan creek and caught the first welcome glimpse of pennock's post. "now," thought he, "i shall have a good night's rest in my own bunk,"—for he had brought no tent; so with a light heart in spite of his weariness, he turned toward the cabin.

[296]

but he was doomed to disappointment. what was his astonishment at finding an enormous padlock and a heavy chain upon the door! and hardly had he touched the contrivance to determine whether it was locked, when there was an angry growl and the rattle of a chain within the building, and he knew by the sound that a fierce dog had sprung toward the door to oppose his entrance.

if he had been surprised at seeing the padlock, it was nothing to the burning indignation which now possessed him. he passed around to the north window. someone, probably an indian, had loosened one of the wooden bars and torn a hole in the cheese-cloth in order to look into the interior. he took advantage of the rent to do likewise. in the southeast corner of the cabin he could see a great pile of goods. the dog, a huge and savage-looking beast, was chained to the corner post of pennock's bunk, and there was a dish of water and another of meat on the floor. david was locked out of his own house, and it was garrisoned against him.