“I know Moran is in with Welliver and his bunch. I know Moran is at the bottom of the trouble we’re having at the mill. He’s having our logs spiked, and a man of his is tampering with our machinery. I know it, but I can’t prove it even to myself. The first thing I do is to make certain.” “If I was goin’ to take a drive,” said Zaanan. “I’d take the River Road. Calc’late I’d drive till I come to where a beech and a maple’s growin’ so clost it looks like they come up from one root, and I’d up and hitch there. Then I’d walk off to the right, takin’ care to make plenty of noise so’s not to seem like I was sneakin’. About that election, Jim, I calc’late I’m obleeged to you. G’-by, Jim.” “Good-by, Judge,” said Jim. He went to the livery for a rig and presently was driving out the River Road according to Zaanan’s directions. It seemed like a long time before he discovered Zaanan’s landmark, but it appeared at last, and Jim was interested to see that another horse had been tied there not long ago. The marks of its pawing hoofs were visible in the soft soil; the work of its teeth showed on the bark of the tree. It was here that Dolf Springer had tied not many hours before. Jim looked about him for some indication of man’s presence that would show him how to proceed, but there was none. Away from him on all sides stretched a growth of scrub-oak and jack-pine, with here and there the grayed and splintered shaft of an ancient pine that had been riven by lightning or broken off by wind or age. There was no path, no sign of human usage. Forgetting Zaanan’s caution to proceed noisily, Jim walked slowly, almost stealthily, through the underbrush. He did so unconsciously; it was the natural impulse of one walking into the unknown. At times he stopped to look about him, dubious if he had not alighted at the wrong landmark. Presently he fancied he heard voices and stopped to listen with straining ears. Unquestionably there were voices. Jim drew nearer softly, and in a few moments reached a point where words and tones and inflections could be distinguished. There was a man’s voice and a child’s voice. Jim stopped again and listened. The conversation he overheard was not a conversation; it was a ritual. As the words came to Jim he knew it was but one repetition of what had been conned and repeated many times before. Yet there was fire in it, fire and fierce determination. “Where is your mother?” asked the man’s voice. “Dead,” answered the child’s. “Who killed her?” asked the man. “She killed herself,” said the child. “Why?” “On account of me.” “Did she do right?” “Yes.” “Who do you hate?” “Michael Moran,” said the child. “What have you got to do?” “Pay Michael Moran.” “You won’t ever forget?” “I won’t ever forget,” said the child. “See to it that you don’t,” the man said, fiercely.