The forest was cool and shady, thick with pine needles and smelling of damp moss and ferns, moist earth and puffy white toadstools. Not far away we could hear the crack of a sledge driver's whip as he cursed at his horse, urging it to drag the heavy load of pine logs a little faster. To my left stood Father, talking with Vince, the foreman of the camp, a dark, swarthy man with a kindly smile and a squared-off chin. On my right, still looking slightly uncomfortable, stood Justin McKay. Both of us had been surprised when, very early that morning, we had met on the railroad station platform behind Father's hotel. Father explained that Justin had agreed to check over the medical facilities of both camps and perhaps the new resort, if there was time. While he told Justin why I was going, too, I thought how odd it was that Justin would take a two-or three-day trip so soon after a bullet had nearly killed him. He still wore a bandage over his right temple, yet he was up at six-fifteen to meet the train Father had ordered.
