“And change black into the color of the sun?” added Philip, falling purposely into the other’s humor.

“If the rest is true—­”

Pierre did not finish.  He caught himself, swallowing hard, as though a lump had risen in his throat, and for a moment or two Philip saw him fighting with himself, struggling with the age-old superstitions which had flared up for an instant like a powder-flash.  His jaws tightened, and he threw back his head.

“But those stories are not true, M’sieu,” he added in a repressed voice.  “That is why I showed you the snare.  Bram Johnson is not dead.  He is alive.  And there is a woman with him, or—­”

“Or—­”

The same thought was in their eyes again.  And again neither gave voice to it.  Carefully Philip was gathering up the strands of hair, winding them about his forefinger, and placing them afterward in a leather wallet which he took from his pocket.  Then, quite casually, he loaded his pipe and lighted it.  He went to the door, opened it, and for a few moments stood listening to the screech of the wind over the Barren.  Pierre, still seated at the table, watched him attentively.  Philip’s mind was made up when he closed the door and faced the half-breed again.

“It is three hundred miles from here to Fort Churchill,” he said.  “Half way, at the lower end of Jesuche Lake, MacVeigh and his patrol have made their headquarters.  If I go after Bram, Pierre, I must first make certain of getting a message to MacVeigh, and he will see that it gets to Fort Churchill.  Can you leave your foxes and poison-baits and your deadfalls long enough for that?”

A moment Pierre hesitated.

Then he said: 

“I will take the message.”

Until late that night Philip sat up writing his report.  He had started out to run down a band of Indian thieves.  More important business had crossed his trail, and he explained the whole matter to Superintendent Fitzgerald, commanding “M” Division at Fort Churchill.  He told Pierre Breault’s story as he had heard it.  He gave his reasons for believing it, and that Bram Johnson, three times a murderer, was alive.  He asked that another man be sent after the Indians, and explained, as nearly as he could, the direction he would take in his pursuit of Bram.

When the report was finished and sealed he had omitted just one thing.

Not a word had he written about the rabbit snare woven from a woman’s hair.

CHAPTER IV

The next morning the tail of the storm was still sweeping bitterly over the edge of the Barren, but Philip set out, with Pierre Breault as his guide, for the place where the half-breed had seen Bram Johnson and his wolves in camp.  Three days had passed since that exciting night, and when they arrived at the spot where Bram had slept the spruce shelter was half buried in a windrow of the hard, shot like snow that the blizzard had rolled in off the open spaces.