“Gregson um Thorne—­heem mak’ thees cabin when first kam to camp,” he said softly.  “No be near much noise—­fine place in woods where be quiet nights.  Live here time—­then Gregson um Thorne go live in camp.  Say too far ’way from man.  But that not so.  Thorne ’fraid—­Gregson ’fraid—­”

He hunched his shoulders again as he opened the door of the big box stove which stood in the room.

Howland asked no questions, but stared about him.  Everywhere he saw evidences of the taste and one-time tenancies of the two senior engineers.  Heavy bear rugs lay on the board floor; the log walls, hewn almost to polished smoothness, were hung with half a dozen pictures; in one corner was a bookcase still filled with books, in another a lounge covered with furs, and in this side of the room was a door which Howland supposed must open into the sleeping apartment.  A fire was roaring in the big stove before he finished his inspection and as he squared his shivering back to the heat he pulled out his pipe and smiled cheerfully at Jackpine.

“Afraid, eh?  And am I to stay here?”

“Gregson um Thorne say yes.”

“Well, Jackpine, you just hustle over to the camp and tell Thorne I’m here, will you?”

For a moment the Indian hesitated, then went out and closed the door after him.

“Afraid!” exclaimed Howland when he had gone.  “Now what the devil are they afraid of?  It’s deuced queer, Gregson—­and ditto, Thorne.  If you’re not the cowards I’m half believing you to be you won’t leave me in the dark to face something from which you are running away.”

He lighted a small lamp and opened the door leading into the other room.  It was, as he had surmised, the sleeping chamber.  The bed, a single chair and a mirror and stand were its sole furnishing.

Returning to the larger room, he threw off his coat and hat and seated himself comfortably before the fire.  Ten minutes later the door opened again and Jackpine entered.  He was supporting another figure by the arm, and as Howland stared into the bloodless face of the man who came with him, he could not repress the exclamation of astonishment which rose to his lips.  Three months before he had last seen Thorne in Chicago; a man in the prime of life, powerfully built, as straight as a tree, the most efficient and highest paid man in the company’s employ.  How often had he envied Thorne!  For years he had been his ideal of a great engineer.  And now—­

He stood speechless.  Slowly, as if the movement gave him pain, Thorne slipped off the great fur coat from about his shoulders.  One of his arms was suspended in a sling.  His huge shoulders were bent, his eyes wild and haggard.  The smile that came to his lips as he held out a hand to Howland gave to his death-white face an appearance even more ghastly.

“Hello, Jack!” he greeted.  “What’s the matter, man?  Do I look like a ghost?”

“What is the matter, Thorne?  I found Gregson half dying at Le Pas, and now you—­”