THE NICKED BULLET The grey daylight was creeping into the little tent and Alton sleeping at last when Seaforth rose to his feet.

His eyes were heavy with the long night's watch which had followed a twelve hours' march, and he shivered as he went out.

The morning was bitterly cold, and a fire burned redly outside the tent, but there was no sign of Okanagan, who had joined him during the night, nor had any preparations for breakfast been made.
"Tom," he twice called softly, but only the moaning of the branches overhead answered him, and with a little gesture of impatience he strode into the bush.
Seaforth had no definite purpose, but he was glad to stretch his stiffened limbs, and instinctively turned towards the spot where he had found his comrade.

As he approached it he stopped, and watched the dim moving object that caught his eyes with some bewilderment.

Tom of Okanagan was kneeling beside a thicket with a stick in his hand, and apparently holding it carefully in line with a fir.