“It’s a wonder you’re not reading my name on a little board slab instead of seeing yours truly in flesh and blood, Jack,” laughed Thorne nervously.  “A ton of rock, man—­a ton of rock, and I was under it!”

Over Thorne’s shoulder the young engineer caught a glimpse of the Cree’s face.  A dark flash had shot into his eyes.  His teeth gleamed for an instant between his tense lips in something that might have been a sneer.

Thorne sat down, rubbing his hands before the fire.

“We’ve been unfortunate, Jack,” he said slowly.  “Gregson and I have had the worst kind of luck since the day we struck this camp, and we’re no longer fit for the job.  It will take us six months to get on our feet again.  You’ll find everything here in good condition.  The line is blazed straight to the bay; we’ve got three hundred good men, plenty of supplies, and so far as I know you’ll not find a disaffected hand on the Wekusko.  Probably Gregson and I will take hold of the Le Pas end of the line in the spring.  It’s certainly up to you to build the roadway to the bay.”

“I’m sorry things have gone badly,” replied Howland.  He leaned forward until his face was close to his companion’s.  “Thorne, is there a man up here named Croisset—­or a girl called Meleese?”

He watched the senior engineer closely.  Nothing to confirm his suspicions came into Thorne’s face.  Thorne looked up, a little surprised at the tone of the other’s voice.

“Not that I know of, Jack.  There may be a man named Croisset among our three hundred workers—­you can tell by looking at the pay-roll.  There are fifteen or twenty married men among us and they have families.  Gregson knows more about the girls than I. Anything particular?”

“Just a word I’ve got for them—­if they’re here,” replied Howland carelessly.  “Are these my quarters?”

“If you like them.  When I got hurt we moved up among the men.  Brought us into closer touch with the working end, you know.”

“You and Gregson must have been laid up at about the same time,” said the young engineer.  “That was a painful wound of Gregson’s.  I wonder who the deuce it was who shot him?  Funny that a man like Gregson should have an enemy!”

Thorne sat up with a jerk.  There came the rattle of a pan from the stove, and Howland turned his head in time to see Jackpine staring at him as though he had exploded a mine under his feet.

“Who shot him?” gasped the senior engineer.  “Why—­er—­didn’t Gregson tell you that it was an accident?”

“Why should he lie, Thorne?”

A faint flush swept into the other’s pallid face.  For a moment there was a penetrating glare in his eyes as he looked at Howland.  Jackpine still stood silent and motionless beside the stove.

“He told me that it was an accident,” said Thorne at last.

“Funny,” was all that Howland said, turning to the Indian as though the matter was of no importance.  “Ah, Jackpine, I’m glad to see the coffee-pot on.  I’ve got a box of the blackest and mildest Porto Ricans you ever laid eyes on in my kit, Thorne, and we’ll open ’em up for a good smoke after supper.  Hello, why have you got boards nailed over that window?”