On the evening in question, some thirty or forty miles southeast of Radway's camp, a train was crawling over a badly laid track which led towards the Saginaw Valley.

The whole affair was very crude.

To the edge of the right-of-way pushed the dense swamp, like a black curtain shutting the virgin country from the view of civilization.

Even by daylight the sight could have penetrated but a few feet.

The right-of-way itself was rough with upturned stumps, blackened by fire, and gouged by many and varied furrows.