He remembered the shrewd gray eyes of Murchison--eyes
that bespoke wisdom, and justice tempered with mercy.
He smote his leg with his mittened fist. He would go North, straight
to old Dugald Murchison, and he would tell him the whole story.
Murchison would help him, and if Wentworth were innocent, then he,
Hedin would return to Terrace City and give himself up. He would not
be a fugitive from justice, for justice owed him the chance to prove
his innocence.
Once his mind was made up, Hedin rose to his feet and slung the light
pack to his back. Then he lowered the pack, and stood thinking. He
would hit for Pipe Lake, but Hanson, the storekeeper at Pipe Lake,
would recognize him. Tossing his pack aside, he scooped a hole in the
snow, built a tiny fire of balsam twigs, and melted some water in his
drinking cup. Then, setting a small hand mirror upon the log, he
produced his razor and proceeded to shave off his mustache. This done,
he grinned at himself in the mirror, as he reflected that Hanson had
never seen him except in conventional clothing, and that he would never
recognize him in mackinaw and larrigans, with his mustache gone.
Once more he stood up, kicked snow over his fire, swung the pack to his
back, and started to skirt the swamp. Then suddenly he halted in his
tracks. There was a mighty crackling of dry twigs close at hand, and a
voice commanded gruffly, "Hands up!"
Instinctively Hedin elevated his hands as he stared into the muzzle of
a revolver.
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