"Wuth a hundred and fifty dollars, the roan was," said Breem.
Beetle Ring camp passed an uneasy day, the "jug" for once receiving scant attention. Late in the afternoon "Trapper John," an old half-breed who hunted and trapped about the woods, stopped at the camp to get warm.
"Didn't see anybody with a horse last night or this morning, eh, John?" asked Posey Breem.
"Um, yes," responded the old trapper, quickly. "Saw um horse las' night—man ride—big foot—so." Old John held out his arms in exaggerated illustration.
Beetle Ring rose to its feet as one man. "What colour was the horse, John?" asked Breem softly.
"Huh! Can't see good after dark, but think um roan." Breem looked slowly round the silent camp, and Beetle Ring grimly made ready for business.
It was evening when the men stopped a few rods below the shack. A light shone out from a window, lighting up a little space in the sombre woods.
"The fellow's got pals prob'bly," said Posey Breem. "You wait here while I do a little scouting."
Breem crept cautiously into the circle of light, and glancing through the uncurtained window, saw his man—with his "pals." He saw upon the miserable bed a woman with a thin, pale face and sad, wistful eyes, eyes that yet lighted up with a beautiful pride as they rested upon the man, who sat close by, holding a tiny bundle in his arms.
The man shifted his position a little, so that the light fell upon the bundle, and then the watcher outside saw the sleeping face of a baby.