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Updated: June 21, 2025
"An' ye say Misther Appleton sint ye up to wor-rk in Moncrossen's camp?" The two were seated on the log bunk at the back of the sled while the Frenchman drove, keeping a fearful eye on the white wolf. For old man Frontenelle had been his uncle. "Yes, he told me to report here." "D'ye know Moncrossen?" "No." "Well, ye will, ag'in' shpring," Irish replied dryly. "What do you mean?" asked Bill.
That Blood River Jack's fear for the safety of Jeanne was well founded was borne home to Bill Carmody in the story the girl poured into his ears as they pushed on in the direction of Moncrossen's camp. The night was jet black, and Bill marveled at the endurance of the girl and the unfailing sagacity with which she led the way.
"Owld man Appleton's over to Creighton, eighty moiles wesht av here, sooperintindin' a new camp on Blood River, wan hundred an' tin moiles above Moncrossen's. Fallon's wid um, an' Shtromberg, an' a lot more av th' good min that's toired av worrkin' undher Moncrossen." "He is not bossing the camp himself!" exclaimed Bill. "No, but he's got to kape an eye on't.
"We are going to beat Moncrossen this year, and every man in the crew has got to help do it and next winter well, Mr. Appleton will have an eye peeled for a man to take Moncrossen's job see?"
All day he had tramped northward, guided through the maze of abandoned roads by the frozen ruts of Moncrossen's tote wagons, and it was long after dark when he camped in the northernmost of the old shacks with civilization, as represented by Hilarity's deserted buildings and the jug-tilting, barrel-head conclave of Hod Burrage's store, forty miles to the southward.
That night, before the wild fever-spirit entered your body, I looked long into your eyes. And has not Jacques told me of how you killed the loup-garou; of how you are hated by Moncrossen, and feared by Creed? "Do I not know that fire cannot burn you nor water drown? Did you not beat down the greatest of Moncrossen's fighting men?
So it was that the few remaining inhabitants of Hilarity were aroused from their habitual apathy one early fall evening by the shrill shrieks of an engine whistle as Moncrossen's ten-car train, carrying crew and supplies for the new camp, came to a stop at the rusty switch. There was something reminiscent in this whistle-sound. It came as a voice from the past.
Bill Carmody met Moncrossen's first rush with a quick, short jab that reached the corner of his eye. With an almost imperceptible movement he leaned to one side, and the flail-like swing of the huge boss's arm passed harmlessly within an inch of his ear. Moncrossen lost no time.
As the early darkness of the North country settled about them the men plowed heavily to the bunk-house through a foot and a half of fresh-fallen snow and still it snowed. In a long-abandoned shack midway between Moncrossen's Blood River camp and Hilarity, Bill Carmody hugged close the rusty, broken stove.
A brakeman leaped from the cab and ran ahead. Stooping, he cursed the corroded lock of the unused switch which creaked and jarred to the pull of the lever as old No. 9 headed wheezily onto the rust-eaten rails of the rotting spur. An hour later she puffed noisily away, leaving Moncrossen's crew encamped in the deserted cabins and dilapidated saloons of the worn-out town.
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