The Shadow of Victory

It was a long, low room, with a fireplace, roughly built of limestone, at one end of it. Theblazing logs illuminated one corner and sent strange shadows into the others, while thewinter wind moaned drearily outside. At the right and left of the fireplace were rudecounters, hewn from logs, resting on stumps of unequal height, and behind them wereshelves, packed with the sordid miscellany of a frontier trading-post. A closed door oneither side seemingly led to other apartments, but there was no sound save the wind andthe crackle of the flames.A candle, thrust into the broken neck of a bottle, gave a feeble light to a little space aroundone end of the counter on which it stood. The rafters were low-so low that a tall man, standing on tiptoe, might easily unhook the smoked hams and sides of bacon that hungthere, swaying back and forth when the wind shook the house.Walls, ceiling, and floor were of logs, cut into a semblance of smoothness. The chinks wereplastered with a bluish clay, and the crevices in the floor were filled with a mixture of clayand small chips. At the left of the chimney was a rude ladder which led to the loft throughan opening in the ceiling. Fingers of sleet tapped at the glass, swirling phantoms of snowdrifted by, pausing for a moment at the windows, as if to look within, and one of the menmoved his chair closer to the fire."You fed the cattle, didn't you, Chan?" The half-breed grunted assent.It was the eldest of the three who had spoken. His crouching position in his chair partiallyconcealed his great height, but the firelight shone full upon his iron-grey hair and the deeplines seamed upon his kindly face. His hands were rough and knotted, his fingers straightand square at the tips-hands without beauty, but full of strength.The hand which rested on the arm of the chair next to him was entirely different. It was fairand smooth and slender, with tapering fingers, and with the outer line of the palmdelicately curved; instinct with strength of another sort, yet gentle almost to the point offemininity. The hand accorded ill with the deep, melodious voice of the man, when he said: "Uncle, you don't know how glad I am to be here with you and Aunt Eleanor. I feel as if Ihad come home at last, after many wanderings.""You're welcome, my boy," was the hearty answer. "I'm glad you got through before thisstorm came, 'cause travellin' 'cross country isn't good in February, as a rule. Things will beclosed up now till Spring.""And then-what?" asked the young man."Trains of pack-horses from Rock River and the Illinois. Canoes and a bateau fromMilwaukee, in charge of Canadian engag s.