West heeded none of this.  No joy touched him as he breasted summits and looked down on wide sweeps of forest and rippling water.  The tracks of the wheel rims engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze.  If the brutish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been far from pleasant ones.

The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault, slid toward the horizon.  Dusk found him at the edge of a wooded lake.

He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of triumph.  From the timber on the opposite shore came a tenuous smoke skein.  A man came to the water with a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods.  Bully West knew he had caught up with those he was tracking.

The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and rode through the timber toward the smoke.  At a safe distance he dismounted, tied the horse to a young pine, and carefully examined his rifle.  Very cautiously he stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill and the stealth of a Sarcee scout.

Camp had been pitched in a small open space surrounded by bushes.  Through the thicket, on the south side, he picked a way, pushing away each sapling and weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of his huge body.  For such a bulk of a figure he moved lightly.  Twice he stopped by reason of the crackle of a snapping twig, but no sign of alarm came from his prey.

They sat hunched—­the four of them—­before a blazing log fire, squatting on their heels in the comfortable fashion of the outdoors man the world over.  Their talk was fragmentary.  None gave any sign of alertness toward any possible approaching danger.

No longer wary, West broke through the last of the bushes and straddled into the open.

“Well, boys, hope you got some grub left for yore boss,” he jeered, triumph riding voice and manner heavily.

He waited for the startled dismay he expected.  None came.  The drama of the moment did not meet his expectation.  The teamsters looked at him, sullenly, without visible fear or amazement.  None of them rose or spoke.

Sultry anger began to burn in West’s eyes.  “Thought you’d slip one over on the old man, eh?  Thought you could put over a raw steal an’ get away with it.  Well, lemme tell you where you get off at.  I’m gonna whale every last one of you to a frazzle.  With a big club.  An’ I’m gonna drive you back to Faraway like a bunch of whipped curs.  Understand?”

Still they said nothing.  It began to penetrate the thick skull of the trader that there was something unnatural about their crouched silence.  Why didn’t they try to explain?  Or make a break for a getaway?

He could think of nothing better to say, after a volley of curses, than to repeat his threat.  “A thunderin’ good wallopin’, first off.  Then we hit the trail together, you-all an’ me.”

From out of the bushes behind him a voice came.  “That last’s a good prophecy, Mr. West.  It’ll be just as you say.”