The Clown scratched his head as if trying to remember.

“Warn’t it Ed that throwed that buffalo hide over me?” he asked after a moment of useless research.

“No,” she said, “I wouldn’t let one of ’em tech ye.”

“And do you think he’ll keep his promise, Belle?” asked Holcomb, when she had finished the story.

“I dunno.  He will if I kin stay ’longside of him.  But if he don’t he’s got to git along without me.  He says he loves me better ’n liquor, and I guess maybe he does.”

The following night Freme swung into the forest and took the short cut to Big Shanty, and that same night Holcomb welcomed him with a hearty handshake and the morning after set him to work.  When the next day came around and Freme shook his head when the liquor passed, those around the stove at Morrison’s marvelled at his grit and speculated how long it would last, wondering if Freme had “got religion”—­to which the girl had answered, “Yes, he has—­I’m his religion.”

* * * * *

But liquor was not the only menace that threatened the work down Morrison’s way.  Drunkenness Holcomb could handle to some extent—­had handled it in the cases of both the Clown and the Clown’s head-chopper, a little French Canadian by the name of Le Boeuf, from whom Holcomb himself had extracted a pledge, which, to the little Kanuck’s credit, he manfully kept.  What was more to be feared was the drove of stragglers, outlaws, and tramps who, attracted by the unusual expenditure at Big Shanty, made Morrison’s their resting place as long as they had a dollar to pay for a lodging or a glass of whiskey.

In addition to these there came a more prosperous and, for that reason, a more dangerous class—­speculators, lumber sharps, land agents, and the like, each one with a scheme for the improvement of some part of Big Shanty.  Most, if not all of them, Holcomb turned down with a curt “No—­don’t want it.”  Now and then someone more shrewd than the others would write direct to Thayor, and on the strength of a formal business answer—­“You might inquire of my superintendent, Mr. William Holcomb,” etc., etc., would use the document to pave the way for an introduction.

One evening in June a rickety buck-board rattled up to Morrison’s and inquired the way to Big Shanty.  The passenger was short and broad-shouldered; wore a derby hat shading a pair of crafty eyes as black as his thick, scrubby beard.  In his hand he carried a small black valise.

The stranger stepped into the bar, emptied his glass, waited until Morrison had cleared his throat and uttered the customary remark of “I goll—­we cal’late to keep the best—­” and then asked: 

“How far did you say this place of Thayor’s was?” The voice was harsh and peremptory—­with a nasal twang in it and a faint trace of Jewish accent, despite the fact that he spoke the dialect of the country from habit.