NOVEMBER JOE
on the run, you may be sure he thinks he's got a good reason for getting to the end of it. This trail leads nowhere but to my shack, and we'll sure find our man there."
Ten minutes later, when we came in sight of November's home, we were aware of a big man sitting on a log smoking his pipe beside the door. He was middle-aged, with a hard face, and there was more grey in his russet beard than his age warranted. As soon as we appeared he leaped up and came across the open to meet us.
"Blackmask is at it again!" he cried.
I saw a gleam of anticipation, if not of pleasure, cross November's face. He turned to me.
"This is Mr. Close, manager of the River Star Pulp Company's Camp C," he said. "I'd like to make you known to Mr. Quaritch, Mr. Close." This courtesy concluded, he added in his deliberate tones, "What's Blackmask done now?"
"He's at his old tricks! But this year we'll lay him by the heels, or my name's not Joshua Close." The speaker looked up, and, seeing my puzzled expression, addressed himself to me.
"Last year there were five separate robberies
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