“How much will you take to get into your canoe and paddle back the way you came?” he asked.

The breed laughed.  “Wen I’m keel you I’m got you money, anyway.  But I’m ain’ wan’ so mooch de money.  I’m wan’ you heart.”  A dangerous glitter supplanted the smouldering glow of the black eyes.  “Me—­I’m stay ten year in de prison, for ‘cause I’m keel my own fadder, an’ dat dam’ good t’ing.  For why I’m keel heem?  ‘Cause he whip me wit’ de dog-whip.  In de prison de guards whip me mor’ as wan t’ousan’ tam.  In de night w’en I ain’ can sleep ’cause my back hurt so bad from de whip, I’m lay in de dark an’ keel dem all.  Every wan I ha’ keel wan hondre tam dere in de dark w’en I lay an’ t’ink ‘bout it.  An’ I know how I’m goin’ do dat.  Den you hit me wit de whip on de trail.  All right.  I’m ain’ kin keel de guards.  I keel you here in de bush; I shoot you in de head, an’ I’m cut de heart out before he quit jumpin’.”

Wentworth moistened his lips with his tongue.  “Downey will take you in, if you do.  And they’ll hang you—­choke you to death with a rope.”

“No.  Downey ain’ kin fin’.  I’m bur’ you in de bush—­all but de heart.  I’m keep de heart all tam.”

“Good God, man, you couldn’t kill me like that—­in cold blood!” Beyond the fire the half-breed laughed, a dry evil laugh that held nothing of mirth.  With a scream of terror Wentworth leaped to his feet and crashed into the bush.

Beside the fire Alex Thumb laughed—­and spread his blankets for the night.

Four hours later the breed wriggled from his blanket and lighted the fire.  While the water heated for his tea, he carried the two canoes back into the scrub and cached them, together with the two packs.  He swallowed his breakfast and picking up his rifle walked slowly into the bush, his eyes on the ground.  A mile away the lips twisted into their sardonic grin as he noted where the fleeing man had floundered through a muskeg, the flattened grass telling of his frequent falls.  In a balsam thicket he lifted a scrap of cloth from a protruding limb, and again he smiled.  Where Wentworth forded a waist-deep stream he had lain down to rest on the sand of the opposite bank.  The trail started toward the south.  By midforenoon Thumb noted with a grin that he was traveling due east.

At noon he overtook Wentworth, mired to the middle in a marl bed, supporting himself on a half sunken spruce.

Laying aside his rifle, the breed cut a pole with his belt ax and after some difficulty succeeded in dragging the engineer to solid ground.  Wentworth was muttering and mumbling about a Russian sable coat, and Thumb had to support him as he bound him to a spruce tree.

On the edge of the lake Corporal Downey picked up the trail.  He located the cached canoes, and returning to the fire, he reached down and picked Wentworth’s pipe from the gravel.  “It’s Thumb, all right,” he said, as he stood holding the pipe.  “I know his canoe.  They were both here at the same time.  I don’t savvy that, because Wentworth left first.  Thumb’s trail is only three hours old.  Maybe—­if I hurry——­”