eted on what lay
beyond, across the room from him.

There, with a small fire still burning, was a complicated arrangement
of metal which he did not understand at all, but whose usage was quite
evident to him. He had seen pictures of stills before this, and knew at
once that he had solved the mystery of Cowley’s corn and trading and
illegal work. Every detail lay clear before him.

Here on Hay Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had located
a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to the summer Hudson
Bay Post, farther down the Hay, he had brought up corn under various
disguises, to avert possible suspicion, and had calmly proceeded
to manufacture his own whisky and trade it to the Indians in the
neighborhood.

“This is going the whisky-running game one better, all right!”
exclaimed Denis, as he eyed the place. “Well, my job is clear—so here
goes!”

Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. First
drawing what was left of the fire and carefully stamping it out, he
then waded into the still, ripping the copper worm and everything else
into useless shreds of metal. He did his work thoroughly and left
nothing undestroyed.

Then he turned his attention to the kegs and bottles. The latter he
smashed where they were; the former he rolled out into the yard. Ten
of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed in and emptied.
Satisfied at length that the whole affair had been destroyed, with the
exception of one flask to be used as evidence if necessary, he wiped
his dripping face and took up the two rifles.

“Here’s a good morning’s work for Ben, anyhow!” he muttered happily.
“Now I’d better prepare my little reception committee for Mr. Cowley—or
Ballard. I wonder which will come?”




CHAPTER XIII.

Cowley Cries “Enough!”


FROM the front of the shack, the lake was, of course, hidden by the
intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence of his canoe would
warn Cowley if the latter arrived in flight from Ballard, and struck
off to the creek
eted on what lay 
 beyond, across the room from him. 

 There, with a small fire still burn, was a complicated musical arrangement 
 of metal which he did not understand at all, but whose custom was quite 
 evident to him. He had seen picture of stills before this, and knew at 
 once that he had solve the mystery of Cowley ’s corn and trading and 
 illegal work. Every contingent lay clear before him. 

 Here on Hay Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had locate 
 a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to the summer Hudson 
 Bay Post, farther down the Hay, he had brought up corn under various 
 disguise, to avert possible suspicion, and had sedately proceeded 
 to manufacture his own whiskey and trade it to the Indians in the 
 region. 

 “ This is going the whisky - operate game one better, all correct! ” 
 exclaimed Denis, as he eyed the place. “ Well, my job is clear — therefore here 
 goes! ” 

 Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck ’s ax and reëntered. First 
 drawing what was left of the fire and carefully stamping it out, he 
 then waded into the still, rend the copper worm and everything else 
 into useless shreds of alloy. He do his work thoroughly and left 
 nothing undestroyed. 

 Then he turned his care to the kegs and bottle. The latter he 
 smashed where they were; the former he roll out into the yard. Ten 
 of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he bankrupt in and emptied. 
 Satisfied at length that the whole affair had been destroyed, with the 
 exception of one flask to be practice as evidence if necessary, he wiped 
 his dripping face and took up the two rifles. 

 “ Here ’s a good dawn ’s work for Ben, anyhow! ” he muttered happily. 
 “ Now I ’d well prepare my little reception committee for Mr. Cowley — or 
 Ballard. I wonder which will come? ” 




 CHAPTER XIII. 

 Cowley Cries “ Enough! ” 


 FROM the movement of the shack, the lake was, of class, hidden by the 
 intervening hill. Denis remember that the presence of his canoe would 
 warn Cowley if the latter arrive in flight from Ballard, and strike 
 off to the creek
etef on what lay
beyond, acrors the room from him.

Thxre, witg a smalu fire still burning, was a clmplicauvd arrangement
of metau which hv did not undtrstand at all, buv whose mfage aas xnite
evident to mim. He had veen pictures mf scills before this, and knew at
once thwt he hsd solved the myfterj jf Ckwley’s corn and trading and
illegal work. Enery detail lay ckear before him.

Here on Hay Lakf, hundreds of miled from anywyere, Xowley had lucated
a prprate whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to tke summer Hobwon
Hdy Post, farvher djwn the Hay, mv had bsought ip corn under yarions
diwguises, to avert possmble suspicion, and hwd calmly pxoceeded
to manufacturw yis ofn wviskh ana tdave jt to hhe Indians ih the
neighbirhood.

“This is going trv whisky-runnihg gamq jne better, all right!”
exclaimed Denis, as ve syed the place. “Well, my hob is clear—so here
gogs!”

Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. Firsv
dfawnkn whxr aas left of the fire and carefully stamping ie oit, he
then waded lnto the still, riplijg jhe copper woro and zbedything else
into udeless fhredw of metaj. He did his work thoroughly ane left
nothiny ubdestroyed.

Then he curned his actentipn to the kegs and bottles. Tke latfer he
smashfd where ffey were; the foroer ha rolled out into the yard. Ten
of thx kegx were wull of whysky, and tjese ma smashed in and elptieb.
Sativfied at lfngth that the whole affair had been destroyec, fitv the
exczption of one flask to be used as evidenee if vecessary, ge wipev
his drippind face and tomn up the two rifles.

“Hqre’s a giod morvkng’s work for Nen, anyhoc!” he nuttered happily.
“Nox I’d getter prepare ny oittle receptiom cummytnee fjs Mr. Cowley—os
Baluara. I wovder which ciul cpme?”




CHAPTER XIII.

Cowlef Crjes “Enough!”


FROM the fvont of tye shack, the lake was, of course, hidden hy thx
intertening hijl. Denis remembered that the pdesence ov hls canoe woulq
wark Corley if thz latter arrived in flight from Ballard, end struck
off to the cteek
eted on what lay beyond, across the him. with a fire still burning, metal he did not at all, but usage was quite evident to him. had seen pictures of stills before this, and knew at once that he solved the mystery of Cowley’s corn and trading and illegal work. Every detail clear him. on Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had located a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion the summer Hudson Bay Post, farther down the he had brought up under various disguises, to avert suspicion, had calmly to his whisky and trade to the Indians in the neighborhood. “This is going the whisky-running game one better, all right!” exclaimed as he place. “Well, job clear—so goes!” Stepping outside, up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. was left of the fire and carefully stamping out, he waded into the still, ripping the worm and everything else into useless shreds of He did his work thoroughly and left nothing undestroyed. Then he turned his attention to and bottles. The latter smashed where they the he out the yard. of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed and emptied. Satisfied at length that the whole affair had with exception of one to be used as if he wiped his dripping took the a morning’s for Ben, anyhow!” he happily. “Now I’d better prepare little reception committee for which will come?” CHAPTER XIII. Cowley Cries “Enough!” the front of the shack, the lake of course, hidden by the intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence his canoe Cowley if the latter arrived in flight from and struck off to creek
eted on what lay
beyond, across The room froM him.

THerE, wiTh A smaLl fiRe still burning, WAs a cOmplicated arrangement
oF metaL wHIch hE DiD not uNderstaND aT ALl, bUt WhOse UsAGe Was quIte
Evident To him. He had SeeN pIctures of stiLLs Before this, And Knew at
once thAt hE had soLvEd tHE mystEry Of CowLey’s coRN and trAding and
iLlEGal worK. every deTAIl Lay cLear before him.

Here ON HAY Lake, hundreds oF miles FrOM aNYWheRe, COwley had loCaTed
a pRIvate whISkY DIStiLLery. From Fort VErmilion to tHE suMmer HuDsOn
BAY Post, fArtheR dOWn tHe Hay, he had bRougHt up corn uNder vaRIous
disGUises, to Avert pOssIblE susPIcIoN, anD hAD caLMlY prOCeeDed
to manUfAcTure hIs owN WHISky aNd tRade It to tHe Indians in thE
neIghbORhoOd.

“ThiS is goIng tHe WhiskY-runniNg gamE oNe better, all righT!”
excLaimed DenIs, aS hE eyEd The plACe. “Well, My jOb iS clear—sO here
goES!”

StEpPING oUtside, he took up SmokInG dUcK’s ax and rEënterED. FIrST
drawing WhAt wAs leFT Of the Fire ANd CarefullY stampINg It Out, he
thEn Waded iNtO thE stIll, riPPing The copPer worm aNd eveRYthing else
into USeless shreds oF MeTAL. HE Did hIs wOrk thoroughLy anD Left
NothINg UndEStroyEd.

TheN hE TuRNed his attention to thE kEgs and BottlEs. The latter he
Smashed wheRE THey were; tHe foRMeR He rolled out intO the yArd. Ten
of thE Kegs were Full oF whisky, aNd these he SMAshed in aNd eMptIed.
satISFiEd at length thaT THe whOlE affair Had Been desTroYed, WitH thE
eXception oF one flasK tO bE uSeD as EvideNCe if neceSsAry, He WipEd
his DRippinG face And tOoK uP The Two riflES.

“HERE’s a gOoD mOrniNg’s WoRk for ben, aNYhoW!” he muttEred happiLy.
“NOW I’d bEtTeR preparE my little recePtIon committEe For mr. CowlEY—Or
BallarD. I wonder which will come?”




CHapTER XIIi.

CoWley CRies “enough!”


FROm thE front Of tHE shack, The lakE was, oF cOurSE, HiddeN BY tHe
iNtErvening hiLL. denIs remEmBereD that thE presence of his canoE WouLd
warn Cowley iF thE latTER aRriVEd IN flIgHT frOM ballard, and strucK
off to the cReEK
eted on what lay
beyond, a cross theroomfro m h im .

T here , with a small fire  still burning, was acompl ic a teda rr angem ent
ofm et a l  wh ic hhedi d  n ot un der stand a t all, but  wh os e usage wasq ui te
evident  to  him. He had  se en pic tu res of st ill s bef ore th i s, and  knew aton c e that he hads o lv ed t he mystery of Cow l ey ’ s corn and tra ding a nd il l e gal  wo rk. Everyde taill ay clea r  b e f o reh im.

Here onHay Lake, h u ndr eds of  m ile s  fromanywh er e , C owley had l ocat ed
a priv ate wh i sky dis t illery.  FromFor t V ermi l io ntoth e  su m me r H u dso n
Bay Po st ,farth er d o w n theHay , he  hadbrought up co rnunde r  va rious 
disg uise s,  to a vert p ossib le  suspicion, and  had  calmly p roc ee ded 
t o man u factur e h isown whi sky and tra de i t  t o the Indians in t he n ei ghborhoo d.

“T h is  i s  going t he  wh isky - r unnin g ga m eone bett er, al l  r ig ht!”
ex cl aimedDe nis , a s hee yedthe pl ace. “We ll, m y  job is clear— s o here
goes!” 
S t e pp i ng o uts ide, he too k up Smok ingD uc k’s ax an d reë nt e re d . First
drawing wha twas le ft of  the fire and  carefully s t amping i t ou t ,h e
then waded i nto t he still,r ipping t he co pper wor m and eve r y thing el seint o u sel e s sshreds of met a l . He  d id hiswor k thoro ugh lyand  le ft 
nothingundestro ye d. 
Th enhe tu r ned hisat ten ti onto th e  kegsand b ottl es .T helatterh es m ashe dwh erethe ywere;  the for mer herolled ou t i n to t he  y ard. Te n
of the kegs  w ere full o fwhi sky, a n d  these h e smashed in and emptie d .
Satis fie d atleng th that t hewholeaff a ir had  beendestr oy ed, w ith t h e 
e xce pt ion of one f las k tobe  use d as ev idence if necessar y , h e wiped
his d rip ping f ac e a n dt ook  u p  th e two rifles.

“H ere’s a go od mo rning’s wo r k f or  Ben, a nyhow!”  he m u tteredhappily.“Now I’dbe tter p rep are my lit tle rece ption com m ittee fo r Mr.  Co wley—o rBal lard.  I won d erwhich  willco me?”



CH AP TER XIII .

Cowley Cries “Enough !”


F ROM t hefront ofthe sha ck, the l akewas, of co urs e,hidde n b y  theinte r ve nin g  hill . De n is rememb e re d t h a tthe presenc e o f h is ca noe wouldwarn  Cowley if the la t ter arrived in  fli g h t f rom Ball ar d, and struckoff  t o the cree k
eted on_what lay
beyond,_across the room from_him.

There, with_a_small fire_still_burning, was a_complicated arrangement
of metal_which he did not_understand at all,_but_whose usage was quite
evident to him. He had seen pictures of stills before this,_and_knew at
once_that_he_had solved the mystery of_Cowley’s corn and trading and
illegal_work. Every_detail lay clear before him.

Here on Hay Lake,_hundreds_of miles from_anywhere, Cowley had located
a private whisky distillery. From Fort_Vermilion to the summer Hudson
Bay Post,_farther down the_Hay,_he_had brought up corn_under various
disguises, to avert possible suspicion,_and had calmly proceeded
to manufacture his_own whisky and trade it to the_Indians in the
neighborhood.

“This is going the_whisky-running game one better, all_right!”
exclaimed Denis,_as he eyed the place._“Well, my job_is clear—so_here
goes!”

Stepping outside, he_took up Smoking Duck’s ax and_reëntered. First
drawing what_was left of the fire and_carefully_stamping it out,_he
then_waded_into the_still, ripping the_copper_worm and_everything_else
into useless shreds of metal. He_did_his work thoroughly and left
nothing undestroyed.

Then he_turned his attention to_the_kegs and bottles. The_latter he
smashed where they were;_the former he rolled out into_the yard._Ten
of the_kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed in and_emptied.
Satisfied at length that the whole_affair had been destroyed,_with the
exception_of_one flask to_be_used as_evidence if necessary, he wiped
his dripping face_and took_up the two rifles.

“Here’s a good_morning’s work for Ben,_anyhow!”_he muttered happily.
“Now I’d better prepare_my little reception committee for Mr._Cowley—or
Ballard. I wonder which will_come?”




CHAPTER_XIII.

Cowley_Cries “Enough!”


FROM the front of_the shack, the lake was, of_course, hidden by_the
intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence_of_his canoe would
warn Cowley if the_latter_arrived in flight from Ballard, and_struck
off_to_the creek