“Two steers and a sheep,” said the man, with an oily grin.

“Ah!  I wonder how he acquired ’em.  Well, I’ll go and find him.  Gautier is smart, but he’ll land himself in the penitentiary if he goes on marrying squaws at that price.  Say, which is his shack did you say?”

“Back thar.  You’ll see it.  He’s just limed the outside of it.  Guess white’s the color his new squaw fancies most.  S’long.”

The man was glad to be rid of his visitor.  In spite of the sergeant’s assurance, Gustave never felt comfortable in the officer’s presence.  Horrocks moved off in search of the white hut, while the Breed, with furtive eyes, watched his progress.

There was no difficulty in locating the shack in that colony of grime.  Even in the darkness the gleaming white of the ex-spy’s abode stood out prominently.  The dogs and children now tacitly acknowledged the right of the police-officer’s presence in their camp, and allowed him to move about apparently unnoticed.  He wound his way amongst the huts and tents, ever watchful and alert, always aiming for Gautier’s hut.  He knew that in this place at night his life was not worth much.  A quick aim, and a shot from behind, and no one would ever know who had dropped him.  But the Canadian police are accustomed to take desperate chances in their work, and think less of it than do our police patrols in the slums of London.

He found Gautier sitting at his hut door waiting for him.  Another might have been surprised at the Breed’s cognizance of the police-officer’s intentions, but Horrocks knew the habits of these people, and was fully alive to the fact that while he had been talking to Gustave a messenger was dispatched to warn Gautier that he was sought.

“Well, sergeant, what’s your best news?” Gautier asked civilly.  He was a bright, intelligent-looking, dusky man, of perhaps forty years.  His face was less brutal than that of the other Breed, but it was none the less cunning.  He was short and massively built.

“That’s just what I’ve come to ask you, Gautier.  I think you can tell me all I want to know—­if you’ve a notion to.  Say,” with a keen look round, “can we talk here?”

There was not a soul visible but an occasional playing child.  It was curious how quiet the camp became.  Horrocks was not deceived, however.  He knew that a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him from the reeking recesses of the huts.

“No talk here.”  Gautier was serious, and his words conveyed a lot.  “It’s bad medicine your coming to-night.  But there,” with a return to his cunning look, “I don’t know that I’ve got anything to tell.”

Horrocks laughed softly.

“Yes—­yes, I know.  You needn’t be afraid.”  Then lowering his voice:  “I’ve got a roll of bills in my pocket.”

“Ah, then don’t stay here talking.  There’s lots to tell, but they’d kill me if they suspected.  Where can I see you—­quiet-like?  They won’t lose sight of me if they can help it, but I reckon I’m good for the best of ’em.”