About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out
toward Jim White's roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce
and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other
light in the room than that of the fire--nor was any needed.

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of
himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady
as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt
exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time--and often in between
times--brought appetite. He had made an immense gain in health.

"How long have I been here, Jim?" he asked in a slow, calm voice.

"Come Thursday, three weeks!" When Jim was most laconic he was often
inwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conning
spoke again:

"Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you
and me?"

"Ugh! just bristlin' with folks! Getting too darned thick. That's why
I've got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks except
in small doses. Why"--here Jim put the gun down upon the table--"five
mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson's, and it ain't nine miles to
Jed Martin's place. Miss Lois Ann's is a matter o' sixteen miles; what
do you call population if them figures don't prove it?"

Something had evidently disturbed White's ideas of isolation and
independence--it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairly
well by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gun