CHAPTER III
SMOKE!
Sandy MacClaren put down the moccasin he had been attempting to patch and turned to his friend, Dick Kent, who had been listening attentively to Sandy’s absorbing narrative. The story dealt with the exciting experiences of one Clement McTavish, Scotch prospector and trapper, who had returned from the foothills a few days before. McTavish had relinquished his former trap-line, seceding his claims to a more ambitious enemy—a colony of murderous grizzlies.
Dick laughed. “You mean, Sandy, that those grizzlies drove him out?”
Sandy picked up the moccasin again and scowled at the results of his handiwork.
“Exactly. They drove him out. And he was glad to go, too. There wasn’t just one or two to contend with—but a whole regiment. The country was simply infested with ’em. McTavish is so badly frightened that you couldn’t get him to go back with a bodyguard.”
“I think I talk McTavish,” Toma began eagerly. “Where you say he find all these bad grizzlies?”
“Four miles east of Lake Florence.”
“I think I like to go there,” Toma made the assertion as calmly, as unconcernedly, as if he spoke of entering the next room.
“Me too,” said Dick, quite ungrammatically. “I’d like to investigate that story. My personal opinion is that McTavish was spoofing you.”
“Sure,” retorted Sandy. “What I thought myself. But there are a few things rather difficult to explain. McTavish brought back five grizzly pelts and his arm in a sling. Killed five of ’em! Think of that! But in a fight with one of them he got clawed up. Hurt pretty bad.”