“Inside the cabin by the door you’ll find a basin,” the old man went on. “There’s water in the brook and soap in the little box under the eaves. In the north woods one lives the simple life. But you’re welcome to such as we have.”
Corn cakes fried in bacon grease, a rich, juicy steak broiled over the coals, made the feast all that Gordon Duncan, the old Scot, had promised it should be.
The meal over, pine chips that had been used in lieu of plates were tossed into the fire, aluminum cups, spoons and forks were cleansed at the brook, then for a space of time the three sat silently contemplating the fire.
As he had entered the shelter in search of the basin, Johnny had allowed his eyes to rove about the place. In one corner, tightly rolled up and tied with thongs, were two sleeping bags. In another stood a canvas receptacle which, he concluded, must contain bows and arrows. A single bow of powerful proportions stood against the back wall. Not a single firearm of any sort was in sight.
“Strange,” he had thought to himself. “Our meeting seems to have been arranged by some great director of destinies. And yet—”
He was thinking now of the uncertainty and great secrecy that had attended his entrance to their inner circle.
“What can one fear up here?” he thought.
At once the answer came back, “The law!”
Who has not read of the far reaching arm of the law in this land, the Mounted Police?
“Can they be fugitives from justice?” The thing seemed absurd. And yet?