They’re just part of a machine to cut lumber, and it don’t matter a hoot in hell to me what they are, or who they are, or what becomes of ’em.  I ain’t shepherdin’ souls like that guy.  It ain’t in me, anyway.  I just got to make good so that some day I ken quit these cursed forests and live easy the way I’d fancy.  When that time comes maybe I’ll change.  Maybe I’ll feel like that guy standin’ doping over that spread of forest scene.  I don’t know.  And just now I don’t care—­a curse.”

But Nancy was no longer listening.  The lonely, black-coated figure Laval had pointed out absorbed all her interest.  His allusion to the man’s calling had created in her an irresistible desire.

“Who is he?  That man?” she demanded abruptly.

Laval laughed.

“Why, Father Adam,” he replied.  There was a curious softening in his harsh voice, which brought the girl’s eyes swiftly back to him.

“Father Adam?  A priest?” she questioned.

Laval shook his head.  He had turned again, regarding the stranger.  His face was hidden from the searching eyes of the girl.

“I just can’t rightly say,” he demurred.  “Maybe he is, an’ maybe he ain’t.  But,” he added reflectively “he’s just one hell of a good man.  Makes me laff sometimes.  Sometimes it makes me want to cry like a kid when I think of the things he’s up against.  He’s out for the boys.  He’s out to hand ’em dope to make ’em better.  Oh, it ain’t Sunday School dope.  No.  He’s the kind o’ missioner who does things.  He don’t tell ’em they’re a bum lot o’ toughs who oughter to be in penitentiary.  But he makes ’em feel that way—­the way he acts.  He’s just a lone creature, sort of livin’ in twilight, who comes along, an’ we don’t know when he’s comin’.  He passes out like a shadow in the forests, an’ we don’t see him again till he fancies.  He’s after the boys the whole darn time.  It don’t matter if they’re sick in body or mind.  He helps ’em the way he knows.  An’, mam, they just love him to death.  There’s just one man in these forests I wouldn’t dare blaspheme, if I felt like it—­which I don’t.  No, mam, my life wouldn’t be worth a two seconds buy if I blasphemed—­Father Adam.  He’s one of God’s good men, an’ I’d be mighty thankful to be like him—­some.  Gee, and I owe him a piece myself.”

“How?”

Nancy’s interest was consuming.

“Why, only he jumped in once when I was being scrapped to death.  He jumped right in, when he looked like gettin’ killed for it.  And,” he laughed cynically, “he gave me a few more years of the dog’s life of the forest.”

The girl moved away from her support.