CHAPTER XII

TOM DUCKS TROUBLE


To Tom Morse, sitting within the railed space that served for an
office in the company store at Faraway, came a light-stepping youth in
trim boots, scarlet jacket, and forage cap set at a jaunty angle.

"'Lo, Uncle Sam," he said, saluting gayly.

"'Lo, Johnnie Canuck. Where you been for a year and heaven knows how
many months?"

"Up Peace River, after Pierre Poulette, fellow who killed Buckskin
Jerry."

Tom took in Beresford's lean body, a gauntness of the boyish face,
hollows under the eyes that had not been there when first they had
met. There had come to him whispers of the long trek into the frozen
Lone Lands made by the officer and his Indian guide. He could guess
the dark and dismal winter spent by the two alone, without books,
without the comforts of life, far from any other human being. It must
have been an experience to try the soul. But it had not shaken the
Canadian's blithe joy in living.