What if at last he had choked that insatiable maw on the river bottom! What if his great task was nearing its end!

 

A timetable, against his inclination, began to form in his mind. Another week of foraging for those omniverous jaws, of bolstering up the structure of the trestle. If by that time its appetite had not revived, only the new foundations and the light task of filling in. Perhaps then he would relieve himself of half his staff; he was suddenly aware of the strain of such a lawless crew. Unexpectedly and without precedent he found himself anticipating the six months' winter rest.

 

His excited joy had been assuming peculiar expression. Sitting down for more than a few minutes at a time became a strain. He insisted on helping Tressa with the housework, and his interest in the books they were reading was so perfunctory that Conrad and Tressa went on to the end without bothering about his attention. Not infrequently he strolled down to the river bottom and paced up and down beneath the trestle. Again he would walk out on the sleepers above the quicksands and glory in the solidity beneath his feet.

 

One evening when Conrad had gone to the Police barracks to make a report on recent trifling but significant occurrences, and to complete plans for a more systematic protection of the trestle now that it was nearing completion, Torrance moved his chair to the open doorway and sat dreaming.

 

"You haven't locked the stable yet," Tressa reminded him, breaking a long silence.

 

He laughed recklessly. "What's the need? We'll be away in a month. Big Chief gets 'em then. Funny if they were stolen. You bet the Indian would find them."

 

"Don't be too sure of things, daddy. Adrian doesn't feel as comfortable as you do--or want to make yourself think you do."

 

He whirled about in his chair, scowling. "What do you mean--'make myself think I do'?"

 

She looked him steadily in the eye. "I don't believe you're as easy as you make out. The trees are thick ahead yet."

 

"It's you, saying things like that, makes me moody," he returned sulkily.

 

Tressa rose to find something in her room, and her father turned back to the out-of-doors with an impatient exclamation.

 

In reality he was no more easy about things than Adrian. It was the gripping anxiety of it made him struggle to convince himself. But it was not the quicksands he feared, as Tressa supposed, but the bohunks. Things were going too smoothly in bulk--the disturbing incidents were so trifling and ineffectual. Accustomed to difficulties, the absence of friction since the tragedy of the falling log was oppressive to him. It was unnatural. Koppy was too tractable, the camp too peaceful. In the idleness of those days he had time to brood over that.

 

But he set his face stubbornly against the fears her words aroused. He could see the trestle sound and solid as a rock. The camp lay beneath him, as quiet as a country village. Only a week or two and everything would be settled. He scoffed at his fears. As he looked out over the tumble of log and canvas, he vowed that when it was all over he would provide a bang-up feed that would send the bohunks away with one pleasant memory at least. Murphy and his engine would scurry off to Saskatoon and fetch such grub as bohunk never before tasted. It would be a finale befitting--

 

And just then three men topped the grade a score of yards away.

 

Torrance's sky suddenly darkened--Lefty Werner, Chico Morani, and Heppel, Koppy's special cronies. But he hid his concern beneath a grunt.

 

He had no intention of making his grunt an invitation, but the three came on without pausing, and Werner greeted him with an embarrassed "good-evening, boss." Torrance rose and stepped back into the sitting room. Some instinct made him wish to move things beyond the eyes of the camp. For a moment the men hesitated, then, pushed into the lead, Werner led the way inside.

 

"Now," snapped the contractor, "get it off your chests. Where's Satan himself--Koppy, I mean?"

 

The most intelligent of the visitors, the most capable of estimating the underlying significance of tone and inflection, was Lefty Werner. The other two, maintaining their usual expression of phlegmatic and stubborn sullenness, left the delivery of their message to him, the glibbest talker. And plainly he had taken a dislike to it. A wild and fleeting wish that civilisation were nearer, wherein to hide himself, struggled with a goading appreciation of the comforts in Torrance's shack; for Werner often of late was oppressed with the futility of his present sphere as malcontent.

 

His aberrant reflections were interrupted by Torrance's rising impatience.

 

"Here, Werner, what is it? Speak up!"

 

Werner removed his hat and twirled it in his hand. Twice he cleared his throat before he could bring himself to speak.

 

"We've been sent--sent by the general body of workmen--"

 

"The bohunks, you mean," drawled Torrance with deliberate i............