They consulted as to where they were to spend the night. Old Mike was nervous, taking the activities of the spy to mean that they were to be thugged in the darkness. He told horrible stories of that sort of thing. What could be an easier way for the company to settle the matter? They would fix up some story; the world outside would believe they had been killed in a drunken row, perhaps over some woman. This last suggestion especially troubled Hal; he thought of the people at home. No, he must not sleep in the village! And on the other hand he could not go down the canyon, for if he once passed the gate, he might not be allowed to repass it. An idea occurred to him. Why not go _up_ the canyon? There was no stockade at the upper end of the village--nothing but wilderness and rocks, without even a road. “But where we sleep?” demanded Old Mike, aghast. “Outdoors,” said Hal. “_Pluha biedna_! And get the night air into my bones?” “You think you keep the day air in your bones when you sleep inside?” laughed Hal. “Why don’t I, when I shut them windows tight, and cover up my bones?” “Well, risk the night air once,” said Hal. “It’s better than having somebody let it into you with a knife.” “But that fellow Predovich--he follow us up canyon too!” “Yes, but he’s only one man, and we don’t have to fear him. If he went back for others, he’d never be able to find us in the darkness.” Edstrom, whose notions of anatomy were not so crude as Mike’s, gave his support to this suggestion; so they got their blankets and stumbled up the canyon in the still, star-lit night. For a while they heard the spy behind them, but finally his footsteps died away, and after they had moved on for some distance, they believed they were safe till daylight. Hal had slept out many a night as a hunter, but it was a new adventure to sleep out as the game! At dawn they rose, and shook the dew from their blankets, and wiped it from their eyes. Hal was young, and saw the glory of the morning, while poor Mike Sikoria groaned and grumbled over his stiff and aged joints. He thought he had ruined himself forever, but he took courage at Edstrom’s mention of coffee, and they hurried down to breakfast at their boarding-house. Now came a critical time, when Hal had to be left by himself. Edstrom was obliged to go down to see to his wife’s funeral; and it was obvious that if Mike Sikoria were to lay off work, he would be providing the boss with an excuse for firing him. The law which provided for a check-weighman had failed to provide for a check-weighman’s body-guard! Hal had announced his programme in that flash of defiance in Cartwright’s office. As soon as work started up, he went to the tipple. “Mr. Peters,” he said, to the tipple-boss, “I’ve come to act as check-weighman.” The tipple-boss was a man with a big black moustache, which made him look like the pictures of Nietzsche. He stared at Hal, frankly dumbfounded. “What the devil?” said he.