No human being materialized and Truedale gave himself up to gloomy thoughts.  Evidently he must return on the train and to-morrow morning take to—­just then a spark like a falling star attracted his attention and to his surprise he saw, not a dozen feet away, a tall lank man leaning against a tree in an attitude so adhesive that he might have been a fungus growth or sprig of destroying mistletoe.  It never occurred to Truedale that this indifferent onlooker could be interested in him, but he might be utilized in the emergency, so he saluted cordially.

“Hello, friend!”

By the upward and downward curve of the glowing pipe bowl, Truedale concluded the man was nodding.

“I’m waiting for Jim White.”

“So?” The one word came through the darkness without interest.

“Do you happen to know him?”

“Sorter.”

“Could you—­get me to his place?”

“I reckon.  That’s what I come ter do.”

“I—­I had a trunk sent on ahead; perhaps it is in that shed?”

“It’s up to—­to Jim’s place.  Can you ride behind me on the mare?  Travelling is tarnation bad.”

Once they were on the mare’s back, conversation dragged, then died a natural death.  Truedale felt as if he were living a bit of anti-war romance as he jogged along behind his guide, his grip knocking unpleasantly against his leg as the way got rougher.

It was nine o’clock when, in a little clearing close by the trail, the lights of a cabin shone cheerily and the mare stopped short and definitely.

“I hope White is at home!” Truedale was worn to the verge of exhaustion.

“I be Jim White!” The man dismounted and stood ready to assist his guest.

“Welcome, stranger.  Any one old Doc McPherson sends here brings his welcome with him.”

About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out toward Jim White’s roaring fire of pine knots and cones.  It was a fierce and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold.  There was no other light in the room than that of the fire—­nor was any needed.

Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun.  Truedale was taking account of himself.  He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady as that of a statue!  He had walked ten miles that day and felt exhilarated.  Night brought sleep, meal time—­and often in between times—­brought appetite.  He had made an immense gain in health.

“How long have I been here, Jim?” he asked in a slow, calm voice.

“Come Thursday, three weeks!” When Jim was most laconic he was often inwardly bursting with desire for conversation.  After a silence Conning spoke again: 

“Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you and me?”

“Ugh! just bristlin’ with folks!  Getting too darned thick.  That’s why I’ve got ter get into the deep woods.  I just naturally hate folks except in small doses.  Why”—­here Jim put the gun down upon the table—­“five mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson’s, and it ain’t nine miles to Jed Martin’s place.  Miss Lois Ann’s is a matter o’ sixteen miles; what do you call population if them figures don’t prove it?”