Just then the door opened and Jock Filmer entered. He looked spent and haggard; and his handsome, careless face did not wear its usual happy smile. "Hello!" he said, slamming the door after him, and walking up to the stove. "I thought I saw your Brown Betty kiting over toward the north, Tate. I was afraid something had happened." "No; Brown Betty's safe in the barn." Tate's gloom passed as he greeted Jock. "The Reverend's got a new horse. What'll you have, Filmer?" "Plain soda," Jock replied and walked up to the bar. Tate almost reeled under the blow. "Plain--thunder!" he gasped, thinking Jock was joking. But Filmer fixed him with a mirthless stare. "Plain soda, and no monkeying with it." The air became electrical. "Been away?" Murphy tried to break the spell. "Over to Hillcrest--on business." Jock was gulping down the soda. His throat was dry and burning; and the unaccustomed beverage went against all his desire. "I'm off--to-morrow--for a spell. Won't you join me in a drink, boys?" The invitation was accepted with alacrity, and Smith asked cordially: "Where are you bound to, Filmer?" "Got a job?" Tate gave each man his choice of drinks and looked dubiously at the treater. "What'll you have now, Filmer?" he asked, "maybe plain water?" Jock's eyes grew glassy. "No," he muttered; "make it another soda, Tate. Yes; I've got a job. Such a thundering big one that it's going to take about all the nerve I've got lying around loose." "Bossing--maybe?" Tate cast a keen glance upon Filmer. Jock returned the look. The gleam had departed from his eyes--he was Tate's master now. "That's about the size of it," he answered. "Bossing, and it's going to be a go, or you'll never see me again. Here's to you!" Something of the old dash returned as Jock held his soda aloft. "Anything happened up to Camp 7?" Tate was uneasy. "Lord! It's further back than 7." Filmer set his glass down. "It's a new cut--started late, but it's worth trying. So long!" The others stared after him. When the door had closed upon the tall, swinging figure, the company turned upon themselves. "Things are going to--" Tate did not designate the locality. After all, it was needless for him to go into particulars. An hour later Jock, sitting in his own shack before the warm fire, eyed with satisfaction the preparations for his journey. They consisted of certain comforts in the way of sleeping-bag, provisions, gun and a bag of necessary clothing; and a general mass of debris, in the form of smashed bottles and jugs. A vile smell of liquor filled the room, and there were little streams of fluid running down any available slope leading away from the rubbish. Jock, sitting before the fire, his long legs stretched out and his hands clasped behind his head, eyed these rivulets in a dazed, helpless way, while the foul odour made him half mad with longing. His face was terrible to see, and his form was rigid.