“We’ll both be there,” Johnny agreed. Somehow, as he thought of it, in a strange way it seemed that Bill and the silver fox must in some way be associated with each other. “Pure moonbeams,” he assured himself, yet the thought remained in the back of his mind.
There is something in the north that is called “Grapevine telegraph.” This name is given to the mysterious means by which, in a land devoid of telephone and telegraph, news travels fast and far. Was it this unreal telegraph that, six hours later, as Lawrence, none the worse for his experience, lay before the roaring fire, brought a stranger to their door? Who can say? Be that as it may, there he was.
“Excuse me for intruding,” said the tall, smiling stranger as he brushed the snow from his moccasins. “I heard you’d got a silver fox and I just had to have a look at him. It’s been three years since I saw one. I’m Jim Clem. Got a claim over on the other side of the settlement.”
“You—you’ve seen silver foxes.” Johnny was on his feet.
“Hundreds of ’em.” The stranger smiled.
“Hun-hundreds,” Johnny stammered. “I thought they were rare.”
“Used to be,” admitted Jim Clem. “Still are, fairly so. Did you get a good one?”
“Yes, I—well,” Johnny whirled about. “I’ll show you.” Opening the back door, he dragged in a small wire cage. “We just put him in this for a little while,” he half apologized.
“Oh! He’s alive. Hurt much?” Jim asked.
“Not hurt at all.”