He tramped slowly onward and found another slope on a narrow ridge.
“I’ll build the other three; close in here,” he told himself, and started to work.
It was past noon before the traps were finished. Then Paisley, wiping his streaming brow with his hand, tramped slowly across toward McTavish’s. Above him was the old-gold of late autumn. Around him rang the cheerful voices of jay, high-holder, and cock-of-the-woods. Here and there a yellow splash of sunshine fell through the trees and painted golden patches upon the dead leaves. But Paisley saw or heard none of this. He kept repeating in his mind the question:
“What’ll she do?—what’ll little Gloss do?”
As Paisley was about to leave the timber for the path along the creek his acute ear caught the sound of a paddle dipping the water lightly, and peering-through the trees he saw two men in a skiff strike the near shore and glance stealthily about them.
Paisley’s eyes narrowed and his heavy jaw set.
“Teacher’s spendin’ his Saturday hollerday, I suppose,” he muttered. “Well, I’m waitin’ here to see just what he’s goin’ to do, and learn who that big man is with him.”
The men in the skiff stood up and, stepping ashore, pulled the boat up after them.
Bill Paisley’s muscles began to bunch beneath his deerskin jacket. It was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained himself from launching forth and giving the visitors a lesson. But he held himself in check, feeling that he might learn something of far more benefit to his friends and himself than this gratification of desire would prove.
The men were speaking in hushed accents, but the bushman’s ear caught every word. As he listened his big hands clenched and his blue eyes darkened.