“What’s that other box in there?”

“That’s—­that’s—­only our food box.”

“You lie to me, will ye?” and again the stick descended.  “Haul it out.”

“I can’t.”

“Haul it out or I’ll choke ye.”

Yan tried, but it was too heavy.

“Get out, you useless Pup!” and the tramp walked into the teepee and gave Yan a push that sent him headlong out on the ground.

The boy was badly bruised, but saw his only chance.  The big knife was there.  He seized it, cut the cord on his legs, flung the knife afar in the swamp and ran like a Deer.  The tramp rushed out of the teepee yelling and cursing.  Yan might have gotten away had he been in good shape, but the tramp’s cruelty really had crippled him, and the brute was rapidly overtaking him.  As he sped down the handiest, the south trail, he sighted in the trees ahead a familiar figure, and yelling with all his remaining strength, “Caleb!  Caleb!!  Caleb Clark!!!” he fell swooning in the grass.

There is no mistaking the voice of dire distress.  Caleb hurried up, and with one impulse he and the tramp grappled in deadly struggle.  Turk was not with his master, and the tramp had lost his knife, so it was a hand-to-hand conflict.  A few clinches, a few heavy blows, and it was easy to see who must win.  Caleb was old and slight.  The tramp, strong, heavy-built, and just drunk enough to be dangerous, was too much for him, and after a couple of rounds the Trapper fell writhing with a foul blow.  The tramp felt again for his knife, swore savagely, looked around for a club, found only a big stone, and would have done no one knows what, when there was a yell from behind, another big man crashed down the trail, and the tramp faced William Raften, puffing and panting, with Guy close behind.  The stone meant for Caleb he hurled at William, who dodged it, and now there was an even fight.  Had the tramp had his knife it might have gone hard with Raften, but fist to fist the farmer had the odds.  His old-time science turned the day, and the desperado went down with a crusher “straight from the shoulder.”

It seemed a veritable battle-field—­three on the ground and Raften, red-faced and puffing, but sturdy and fearless, standing in utter perplexity.

“Phwhat the divil does it all mane?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Raften,” chirped in Guy, as he stole from his safe shelter.

“Oh, ye’re here, are ye, Guy?  Go and git a rope at camp—­quick now,” as the tramp began to move.

As soon as the rope came Raften tied the fellow’s arms safely.

“’Pears to me Oi’ve sane that hand befoore,” remarked Raften, as the three fingers caught his eye.

Yan was now sitting up, gazing about in a dazed way.  Raften went over to his old partner and said:  “Caleb, air ye hurrt?  It’s me—­it’s Bill Raften.  Air ye hurrt?”

Caleb rolled his eyes and looked around.

Yan came over now and knelt down.  “Are you hurt, Mr. Clark?”