THE OWNER OF THE SMALL GENERAL STORE AT ORION LAKE, ninety miles due west of Seattle, turned slightly and peered at the man who opened the door and stood momentarily on the threshold. Orion Lake was off the beaten track to most traffic, and Dick Colburn knew everyone in this rugged area of the Olympic Peninsula mountains. The stranger was either a tourist passing through or a fisherman from the city trying his luck with either the salmon or trout stocked in the nearby lake by the Forest Service. He wore a short leather jacket over an Irish knit sweater and corduroy pants. No hat covered a mass of wavy black hair that was streaked gray at the temples. Colburn watched as the stranger stared unblinkingly at the shelves and display cases before stepping inside.

Out of habit Colburn studied the man for a few moments. The stranger was tall; his head cleared the top of the door by less than three fingers. Not the face of an office worker, Colburn decided. The skin was too tan and craggy for a life spent indoors. The cheeks and chin were in need of a shave. The body seemed thin for the frame. There was the unmistakable look about him of a man who had seen too much; who had suffered hardship and grief. He appeared tired, not physically

tired, but emotionally used up, someone who cared little about life anymore. It was almost as if he had been tapped on the shoulder by death but had somehow shrugged him off. Yet there was a quiet cheerfulness in the opaline-green eyes that broke through the haggard features, and an obscure sense of pride.

Colburn concealed his interest well and went about his business of stocking the shelves. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Just dropped by to pick up a few groceries," replied the stranger. Colburn's store was too small for shopping carts, so he picked up a basket, slinging the carrying handles over one arm.

"How's the fishing?"

"Haven't tried my luck yet."

"There's a good hole at the south end of the lake where they've been known to bite."

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

"Got you a fishing license yet?"

"No, but I'll bet you're authorized to sell me one."

"Resident or nonresident of the state of Washington?"

"Non."

The grocer pulled out a form from beneath the counter and handed the stranger a pen. "Just fill in the applicable blanks. I'll add the fee onto your groceries." To Colburn's practiced ear the accent was vaguely southwestern. "The eggs are fresh. Laid right here hi town. There's a sale on cans of Shamus O'Malley's stew. And the smoked salmon and the elk steaks taste like they came from heaven."

For the first time a hint of a smile crossed the stranger's lips. "The elk steaks and the salmon sound good, but I think I'll pass on Mr. O'Malley's stew."