The Weber Literary Journal The Last Trail By Reed Helm FURRING expedition had brought me into the far Northland, that land where might makes right, and the only power of law enforcement is the report of a gun or the release of long inches of crimson steel from the body of the criminal. We had camped in a small valley surrounded by high mountains, whose only outlet was a small canyon. We had been delayed that day because of threatening storms, so I decided to survey the country to the north. A small ravine brought me into a grove of pines whose density and ominous silence gave me a sudden chill of terror. I struggled thru the dry leaves and fell full length upon my face. There upon the ground beside me, staring out of the dead leaves like a spectre, was a human skull! I desperately tore my way from the cave of trees and dropped exhausted on the ground near the camp. However, my curiosity soon overcame my fear of the place, and at length I returned to investigate. After scratching in the dead leaves for a small distance around I succeeded in uncovering a whole skeleton! I placed each of the bones in the original form, stood at a distance, and tried to think of a cause for a man's having died in such a lonely place. As I looked closely, I found that the arms and hands of the skeleton were missing, so again I began to search among the dry leaves. Suddenly I saw a rusty bear trap. I picked it up, and a cold shudder went over me, for between the jaws of the trap, crushed almost in half by the intense pressure of the springs, were the arms of the skeleton. That night in camp I lay half dazed from the shock of the terrible scene. One by one vague fancies came into my mind, and gruesome pictures would not leave me at rest. In this state I fell into a troubled sleep. "I know I shouldn't have made this stay so long, but I've 14 The Weber Literary Journal got to get the one with the silver finish, and then my fortune in a moose hide pouch, and a gun at my side, on the sled Marie" He let the last words dwell on his lips, for he was thinking of a shy little girl, whose gold-seeking father had been killed in a saloon brawl, and left the girl to his care. He had decided that it was best for her to take her away to a civilized land, because he had fallen in love with her, and wanted her for his own. The words he spoke were to himself, for no one was near enough to hear. Hal Farnsworth was a lone trapper, kept alive in this wild country by his gigantic strength. He was alone, because he could trust no man "North of 63," for if he was a law-abiding man when he came to the country, the land of ice and snow soon taught him the rule of taking the law into his own hands. There was danger from snowstorms that blinded men before they could regain shelter; there was danger from hungry beasts that pounced upon them while asleep, but there was safety from the craftiness of men. He started to pack his few belongings to return to the settlement, because his provisions had run short. "I ought to make Leettle Canyon by tomorrow,where I can cache some of the things I won't need. Then a good half day's drive from there will bring me in that is, if the crust isn't melted by then." From the window of a hotel, which bore the inscription "Devil's Roost", looked a man, Pierre, a French-Canadian by birth. He was waiting for a man, a rival whom he knew would come, but whom he hoped he could outwit. His black eyes suddenly flinched, and he sprang hastily to his feet to disappear in a crowd at the other end of the bar. A man of huge form slouched into the room and slammed the door behind him. He walked over to the bar, took off his fur cap, and looked carelessly from one to another as if he were not familiar with the place. "Hal?" questioned one. 15