LITMIR.BIZ

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Cumber, my uncle’s servant,” she explained. “You’ve never heard of them?”

      “Only in ghost stories. My name is Bruce Dix. I was camping with friends on Caribou Lake. Tried to cruise back alone from Clear River a few days ago. Lost my compass, lost my way. I’ve not eaten for hours. Began seeing things. Thought the dogs were imagination till they leaped on me.”

      She listened gravely and in turn informed, “I’m Florence Dessel. Andrew Dessel, my uncle, has a cabin on the lake. We came here for his health. He has grown worse and will never return home alive.”

      “I’m mighty sorry to hear it,” consoled Dix. “Of course, you can’t take in wanderers. I’ll turn back and make it somehow.”

      “You mustn’t attempt it till we’ve outfitted you with supplies and a compass. You must stay with us tonight and start back tomorrow.”

      He staggered to his feet, found strength in her level gaze, and asked, “Can’t your uncle be moved to some settlement? I will return with my friends and get him.”

      “That’s good of you, but he would never stand the trip out,” she sighed.

      “But should he die—what about you?” he demanded.

      She shook her head despondently. “I don’t know. I should be alone then except for old Cumber—and the dogs. He is deranged, I fear. He’s been in uncle’s service for years and always faithful. He’s changed sadly the last few months, but I suppose I could depend on him to take me to the settlement.”

      “Good heavens, Miss Dessel! There must be no guesswork,” he cried. “Don’t you realize winter will soon be here? I shall come back with my friends and guides and make a camp till you can return with us.”

      “The snow will be terrible,” she admitted. “But I’ve been so worried about uncle I haven’t had time to think of myself. Of course, Cumber would take me out safely. He’s a good woodsman.”

      “If he’s deranged you can’t tell what he’ll do,” he objected. “What makes you think he’s unbalanced?”

      “The dogs.” She shivered in saying it. “We had been here some two months when suddenly he disappeared. We took it for granted he had deserted us; then, after an absence of five or six weeks, he returned with them. He imagines we’re in danger from the outside world. He lets the brutes run the woods unmuzzled at night to guard us from the supposed danger. Which reminds me, we must be going.”

      “The dogs loose at night reminds you?” he inquired.

      “It’s unsafe for anyone but him to be abroad after dark,” she simply explained. “No time for talk now. We’ll finish our plans tonight.”

      “Our plans for getting you back to civilization,” he grimly appended.

      “It seems cruel to anticipate my uncle’s death while making arrangements for my comfort.”

      “It would be hideously wrong to leave your safety to chance,” he warmly insisted. Before he could say more she suddenly clutched his wrist and urged him after her down the slope, her eyes wide with fear as she cried:

      “Hurry, hurry. I fear Cumber has loosed the dogs!”

      “Knowing you’re out?” he exclaimed.

      “He’s forgotten. Remember he is weak-witted. Hark!”

      A deep-throated baying sounded through the thickening gloom, the chorus entering its full swing with a tempo that could emanate only from wildlife suddenly set free and rejoicing. “He started to take them to the hovel,” she called over her shoulder as she took the lead in a narrow, winding path. “But he forgot. He’s obeying his one obsession, his nightly habit. They’re running unmuzzled.”

      “They’re between us and the house,” he protested, slackening his pace.

      “We’ve time if we hurry. Don’t talk,” she sharply commanded.

      He doubted it, for they were heading straight for the bellowing clamor. But pride kept him close to her heels. “Unless the house is very near—” he began.

      “I’m making for a boat,” she informed, now running swiftly and lightly.

      A gray blur of water opened to their view even as she spoke. On their right and drawing nearer with unnerving rapidity rose the hunting cry of the dogs. But already the girl was splashing through the mud and reeds and was pushing off a crudely constructed flat-bottomed boat. “Jump in!” was her staccato command.

      He gently lifted her aboard and with a push of the paddle sent the frail craft gliding from the shore. As he dropped in the stern and began sculling, the dogs burst into view, jaws free and exulting. On discovering their quarry had escaped they made fierce whining noises and ran up and down the shore. The leader even jumped into the water and swam a short distance after the boat.

      “The cabin is on the knoll to the right,” informed the girl. “The dogs will try to head us off, but we’ll have time enough, as they’ll make a wide detour to pass round a morass.”

      “He unmuzzled them knowing it might mean death for us,” raged Dix.

      “He’s not responsible,” she reminded, picking up the second paddle. “We’ll soon be indoors and the dogs will lose interest in us. Then to plan your escape back to civilization.”

      “Escape?” he muttered. “To be sure. I had forgotten I must use finesse in quitting here.”

      “Faster! The dogs are swinging in,” she warned.

      Dix made sure the heavy door of the long, low structure was fast behind him before searching the shadows of the room. Then a seed of light budded and blossomed and he beheld her standing by a lamp, her profile that of a child if not for the heavy shadow sorrow had laid upon it.

      Outside the dogs were making the night hideous, while the harsh voice of old Cumber occasionally roared some order. As Dix leaned against the door, striving to coordinate his thoughts, the girl threw some pine-knots on the hearth of the huge fireplace and set them to blazing. Warmth and light filled the place, and if not for the dogs and the girl’s melancholy mien Dix would have pronounced the retreat most comfortable. For the cold rain was now beating steadily on the roof and the coziness of the open fire suggested confidences.

      “Please step in here to see uncle while I get you something to eat,” she listlessly invited.

      He furtively studied her small face as he advanced. It was her slight stature that had induced him to think of her as a mere child.

      A glimpse of the misery in her wide eyes bespoke the woman who had suffered not a little.

      “Who is it, Florence?” called a weak voice from an adjoining room.

      She lighted a candle and passed into the room, announcing, “Mr. Bruce Dix, of the city, lost his way and here for the night, Uncle.”

      Dix gazed in pity at the sunken face of the sick man. In the prime he must have presented a fine figure of a man, but now he was woefully emaciated. Only his eyes seemed alive and in the feeble light of the candle they glowed like coals.

      The man nodded to Dix and motioned him to approach closer. At the same time the girl glided to the door, saying, “He’ll talk with you while I’m preparing your supper, Uncle.”

      She had barely crossed the threshold before the sick man had seized Dix’s hand, scanned him with burning gaze, and then whispered, “You look clean and honest. Thank God for that! Hush! Did Cumber come in?”

      “He’s outside,” soothed Dix. “Your servant—”

      “Servant!” bitterly interrupted Dessel, his wasted features grimacing. “Master is the better word. The girl and I are his prisoners. It doesn’t matter about me as my time is short. But it’s eating my soul out to think of her being left.”

      “Prisoners?” gasped

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