had bent down.

The trapper and the Clown strode clear of the brush and saw for the
first time the man whose home they had been preparing.

Not the Samuel Thayor that Holcomb had talked to during that memorable
luncheon at The Players, when he sat silent among Randall's guests;
nor the Samuel Thayor who had faced his wife; nor the Samuel Thayor,
the love of whose daughter put strength in his arms and courage in
his heart. But a man with cheeks ruddy from the sting and lift of the
morning air; all the worn, haggard look gone from his face.

"Wall, I swan!" shouted the trapper to Holcomb, as he came near enough
to shake his hand, "you warn't perticler 'bout the way you come,
Billy. If your friend ain't dead beat it ain't your fault."

"I hadn't any choice, Hite," laughed Holcomb. "You fellows must have
been drowned out last night; the log over the South Branch is gone
in the freshet; we had to get round the best way we could. Step
up, Freme," he said. "I want you to know Mr. Thayor. This is Freme
Skinner, Mr. Thayor, and this is Hite Holt, and there's no better
anywhere round here."

Thayor stretched out both hands and caught each extended palm in a
hearty grip.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Thayor," said the trapper, his
great freckled paw tight in the white hand of the stranger. "By goll,
you done well, friend. But what did ye let Billy lead you through
sich a hell-patch as he did, Mr. Thayor?" There was a certain silent