The sledding was good on the tote-road.
The thaw that ruined the iced surface of the skid-ways was followed by several days of freezing weather that put a hard, smooth finish on the deep snow of the longer road, over which the runners of the box-bodied tote-sled slipped with scarcely any resistance to the pull of the sharp-shod team.
Bill Carmody, snugly bundled in robes in the bottom of the sled, idly watched the panorama of tree-trunks between which the road twisted in an endless succession of tortuous windings.
It was not yet daylight when he rounded the bend which was the scene of his fight with the werwolf.
But by the thin, cold starlight and the pale luminosity of the fading aurora, he recognized each surrounding detail, and wondered at the accuracy with which the trivialities of the setting had been subconsciously impressed upon his memory.
It was here he had first met Fallon, and he remembered the undisguised approval in the Irishman's voice and the firm grip of the hand that welcomed him into the comradery of the North-men as he stood, faint from hunger and weary from exertion, staring dully down at the misshapen carcass of Diablesse.
"Good old Irish," he muttered, and smiled as he thought of himself, Bill Carmody, proud of the friendship of a lumberjack.
He had come to know that in the ceaseless whirl of society the heavier timbers—the real men are thrown outward—forced to the very edges of the bowl, where they toil among big things upon the outskirts of civilization.
He pulled off his heavy mitten and fumbled for his pipe. In the side-pocket of his mackinaw his hand encountered an object—hard and cold and unfamiliar to his touch.
He withdrew it and looked at the wicked, blue-black outlines of an automatic pistol. Idly he examined the clip, crowded with shiny, yellow cartridges. He recognized the gun as Fallon's, and smiled as he returned it to his pocket.