“I will be there,” smiled the other.  “And since we are on the subject, I can put you wise to a little deal that will net you some first-hand evidence.”  The officers looked interested, and Lapierre continued:  “You know where Brown’s old cabin is, just this side of the Methye portage?” Ripley nodded.  “Well, if you should happen to be at Brown’s on New Year’s Day, just pull up the puncheons under the bunk and see what you find.”

“What will we find?” asked Craig.

Lapierre shrugged.  “If I were you fellows I wouldn’t overlook any bets,” he answered meaningly.

“Why New Year’s Day any more than Christmas, or any other day?”

“Because,” answered Lapierre, “on Christmas Day, or any other day before New Year’s Day, you won’t find a damned thing but an empty hole—­that is why.  Well, I must be going.”  He fastened the throat of his parka and drew on his cap and mittens.  “So long!  See you in the spring.  Shouldn’t wonder if I will run onto some Indians, this winter, who will tell what they know, now that MacNair is out of the way.  I know plenty of them that can talk, if they will.”

“So long!” answered Ripley as Lapierre left the room.  “Much obliged for the tip.  Hope your hunch is good.”

“Play it and see,” smiled Lapierre, and banged the door behind him.

Moving slowly northward upon a course that paralleled but studiously avoided the old Methye trail, two men and a dog-team plodded heavily through the snow at the close of a shortening day.  Ostensibly, these men were trappers; and, save for a single freight piece bound securely upon the sled, their outfit varied in no particular from the outfits of others who each winter fare into the North to engage in the taking of fur.  A close observer might have noted that the eyes of these men were hard, and the frequent glances they cast over the back-trail were tense with concern.

The larger and stronger of the two, one Xavier, a sullen riverman of evil countenance, paused at the top of a ridge and pointed across a snow-swept beaver meadow.  “T’night we camp on dees side.  T’mor’ we cross to de mout’ of de leetle creek, and two pipe beyon’ we com’ on de cabin of Baptiste Chambre.”

The smaller man frowned.  He, too, was a riverman, tough and wiry and small.  A man whose pinched, wizened body was a fitting cloister for the warped soul that flashed malignantly from the beady, snakelike eyes.

“Non, non!” he cried, and the venomous glance of the beady eyes was not unmingled with fear.  “We ke’p straight on pas’ de beeg swamp.  Me—­I’m no lak’ dees wintaire trail.”  He pointed meaningly toward the marks of the sled in the snow.

The other laughed derisively. “Sacre! you leetle man, you Du Mont, you ’fraid!”

The other shrugged.  “I’m ‘fraid, Oui, I’m lak’ I ke’p out de jail.  Tostoff, she say, you com’ on de cabin of Brown de Chrees’mas Day. Bien!  Tostoff, she sma’t mans.  Lapierre, too.  Tostoff, she ’fraid for de wintaire trail, but she ’fraid for Lapierre mor’.”