“Big Punch know who,” he retorted briefly. “Perhaps I do, perhaps not.” Bob’s tone was decidedly impatient. “Anyhow, let’s have the name, and see if we agree.” “Huh!” grunted Moose wearily. “Him Crane. Pete, he great friends with Crane’s man, K’lock.” Bainbridge’s jaw dropped, and unconsciously he drove his paddle deep down into the current, checking the canoe for a moment or two. “Bill Kollock!” he exploded, in angry amazement. “Do you know what you’re talking about, Joe?” The Indian grinned faintly. “Sure! Joe see ’em in s’loon in Bangor heap many times. Ver’ friendly. Come to Pete’s camp yonder five--six days ago, see K’lock goin’ away.” Bob’s face was scarlet with rage, and the eyes fastened upon the guide’s impassive countenance flashed. “You did, did you?” he cried angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me, then? You talk a lot about being a friend of mine. Why didn’t you put me wise to all this before?” “Big Punch no ask of K’lock,” replied the Indian, “Joe think he no care. Think he pull K’lock’s stinger last month when find him out.” Bainbridge’s lips parted for a vitriolic retort, closed with a snap, and he resumed his paddling in silence. After all, the fellow was not to blame for possessing the characteristic Indian quality of reticence. Knowing his habit of wandering all over the northern part of the state, Bob should have questioned him the instant the Indian set foot in Chebargo camp the day before. But questioned him for what purpose? Up to five minutes ago not the slightest suspicion of Pete Schaeffer had ever entered his employer’s head. The man had worked for them a number of years. He was quiet and taciturn, sometimes almost sullen; but few woodsmen have much to say for themselves. He had proved himself more than competent, and was apparently faithful to the interests of those who paid his wages. “Faithful so long as it suited his purpose and no longer!” said Bainbridge under his breath, “The minute the trust gets after him to do its dirty work he’s perfectly willing to knife us. I can hardly wait to get at the cur!” He was obliged to postpone that gratification a good deal longer than he had expected, however. Though they strained every effort, and sent the canoe fairly flying upstream, the sun sank lower and lower, without the slightest sign of the drive appearing. With every thousand feet of progress Bob grew more raging. When at length the sun dipped behind the cold, gray, distant hill line, he was filled with a hot, furious anger against the treacherous Schaeffer--an anger which needed every ounce of will power he possessed to suppress.