As usual, also, McGuire made his landing at a convenient point, some fifty rods from his cave, and carried his canoe up and turned it over, back of a low-jutting ridge of slate. He skinned the half-dozen prizes his traps had secured that day and followed a shallow defile to his lair. Here his pelts were stretched, a slab of slate was lifted from its position in a deep, wide crevasse between two of these ledges, and McGuire crawled into his den. Most of these movements were observed by the half-breed, who, watching ever while he plotted and planned how best to catch his enemy unawares, saw him emerge from amid the ledges again, go down to the lake, return with a pail of water, and vanish once more. All this was a curious proceeding, for he, like Old Cy, had expected to find McGuire occupying some bark shelter, and even now he supposed there was one among this confusion of bare rocks. Another surprise soon came to this distant watcher, for he now saw a thin column of smoke rise from a ledge and continue in varying volume until hidden by twilight. And now, secure in his cave and quite unconscious of the watcher with murderous intent who had observed his actions, McGuire was enjoying himself. He had built a little slate fireplace within his cave. A funnel of the same easily fitted material carried the smoke up to a long, inch-wide fissure in the roof. He had a table of slate to eat from, handy by a bed filled with moss and dry grass, also pine knots for needed light. Opening into this small cave was a lesser one, always cool and dry, for no rain nor melting snow could enter it, and here was McGuire's pantry, and here also a half-dozen tin cans, safely hidden under a slab of slate, stuffed with gold and banknotes. To still further protect this inner cave, he had fitted a section of slate to entirely fill its entrance. When the last vestige of sunset had vanished and twinkling stars were reflected from the placid lake, the half-breed descended from his lookout point, and, launching his canoe, followed close to the shadowed shore and landed just above where McGuire disembarked. Indian that he was, he chose the hours of night and darkness to crawl up to the bark shelter which he expected to find, his intention being to thrust a rifle muzzle close to his enemy's head and then pull the trigger. But to do this required a long wait and extreme caution. His enemy surely had a camp-fire behind a ledge, and shelter as well. The smoke had seemed to rise out of a ledge, but certainly could not, and so--still unaware of McGuire's position, yet sure that he was amid these ledges, and near a shelter--Pete grasped his rifle and crept ashore.