West heeded none of this. No joy touched him as he breasted summits
and looked down on wide sweeps of forest and rippling water. The
tracks of the wheel rims engaged entirely his sulky, lowering gaze. If
the brutish face reflected his thoughts, they must have been far from
pleasant ones.

The sun flooded the landscape, climbed the sky vault, slid toward the
horizon. Dusk found him at the edge of a wooded lake.

He looked across and gave a subdued whoop of triumph. From the timber
on the opposite shore came a tenuous smoke skein. A man came to the
water with a bucket, filled it, and disappeared in the woods. Bully
West knew he had caught up with those he was tracking.

The smuggler circled the lower end of the lake and rode through the
timber toward the smoke. At a safe distance he dismounted, tied
the horse to a young pine, and carefully examined his rifle. Very
cautiously he stalked the camp, moving toward it with the skill and
the stealth of a Sarcee scout.

Camp had been pitched in a small open space surrounded by bushes.
Through the thicket, on the south side, he picked a way, pushing away
each sapling and weed noiselessly to make room for the passage of his
huge body. For such a bulk of a figure he moved lightly. Twice he
stopped by reason of the crackle of a snapping twig, but no sign of
alarm came from his prey.

They sat hunched--the four of them--before a blazing log fire,
squatting on their heels in the comfortable fashion of the outdoors