He brushed the crumbs from his knees and sat resting awhile and watching the sky to see if his big chicken were hanging up there.  But he came to the earth abruptly, for there were steps coming down the trail that were neither McLean’s nor Duncan’s—­and there never had been others.  Freckles’ heart leaped hotly.  He ran a quick hand over his belt to feel if his revolver and hatchet were there, caught up his cudgel and laid it across his knees—­then sat quietly, waiting.  Was it Black Jack, or someone even worse?  Forced to do something to brace his nerves, he puckered his stiffening lips and began whistling a tune he had led in his clear tenor every year of his life at the Home Christmas exercises.

     “Who comes this way, so blithe and gay,
     Upon a merry Christmas day?”

His quick Irish wit roused to the ridiculousness of it until he broke into a laugh that steadied him amazingly.

Through the bushes he caught a glimpse of the oncoming figure.  His heart flooded with joy, for it was a man from the gang.  Wessner had been his bunk-mate the night he came down the corduroy.  He knew him as well as any of McLean’s men.  This was no timber-thief.  No doubt the Boss had sent him with a message.  Freckles sprang up and called cheerily, a warm welcome on his face.

“Well, it’s good telling if you’re glad to see me,” said Wessner, with something very like a breath of relief.  “We been hearing down at the camp you were so mighty touchy you didn’t allow a man within a rod of the line.”

“No more do I,” answered Freckles, “if he’s a stranger, but you’re from McLean, ain’t you?”

“Oh, damn McLean!” said Wessner.

Freckles gripped the cudgel until his knuckles slowly turned purple.

“And are you railly saying so?” he inquired with elaborate politeness.

“Yes, I am,” said Wessner.  “So would every man of the gang if they wasn’t too big cowards to say anything, unless maybe that other slobbering old Scotchman, Duncan.  Grinding the lives out of us!  Working us like dogs, and paying us starvation wages, while he rolls up his millions and lives like a prince!”

Green lights began to play through the gray of Freckles’ eyes.

“Wessner,” he said impressively, “you’d make a fine pattern for the father of liars!  Every man on that gang is strong and hilthy, paid all he earns, and treated with the courtesy of a gentleman!  As for the Boss living like a prince, he shares fare with you every day of your lives!”

Wessner was not a born diplomat, but he saw he was on the wrong tack, so he tried another.

“How would you like to make a good big pile of money, without even lifting your hand?” he asked.

“Humph!” said Freckles.  “Have you been up to Chicago and cornered wheat, and are you offering me a friendly tip on the invistment of me fortune?”

Wessner came close.

“Freckles, old fellow,” he said, “if you let me give you a pointer, I can put you on to making a cool five hundred without stepping out of your tracks.”