"Yes, it's me," answered the trapper, with an uneasy laugh. "Didn't make much of a start, did I? But nothing's gone wrong. I made camp twenty miles out, on Dorker Crick—an' then I lit out on the back trail—just to tell you something that's on my mind."
He leaned in the doorway, smiling at the Englishman and swinging his fur cap in his hand. Snowshoes and rifle lay on the floor. Rayton gazed at him with a puzzled shadow in his clear, kindly eyes.
"Why, Dick, that's too bad," he said. "But pull off your togs and get something to eat—and then let me hear what you have on your mind. If I can help you, I'll do it. If it's money for more traps, I'm your man, Dick."
"It isn't money," said the trapper quietly. He threw off his mittens and outer coat, and drew a chair close to Rayton. "It is something pretty private," he said, "and important. It brought me all the way out of the woods, to see you."
Rayton was more deeply puzzled than ever, and a sharp anxiety awoke in him. Had this fate that had struck others also struck Dick Goodine? He inspected his friend anxiously, and was relieved to find that he had suffered no physical injury, at any rate.
"Bill," he said, "skip out and make a pot of coffee, there's a good chap. Shut the door after you."
Bill Long obeyed with dragging feet. He took half a minute to cross the threshold and shut the door.
"Now, Dick, fire away," said Rayton. "Get it off your chest. I'm your man, whatever your trouble may be."
The trapper leaned forward. Though his lips smiled, there were tears in his dark eyes.
"Is the shoulder gettin' along all right?" he asked huskily. "And the cold? How's it, Reginald?"