The girl fell asleep first that night, with her cheek on her father’s shoulder.  Breault, the Ferret, rolled himself in a blanket, and breathed deeply.  Porter still smoked his pipe, and looked wistfully at the pale face of Josephine Tavish.  He smiled a bit proudly at McKay.

“She’s mine,” he whispered.  “We’re going to be married.”

Jolly Roger wanted to reach over and grip his hand.

He nodded, a little lump coming in his throat.

“I know how you feel,” he said.  “When I heard her calling out there—­it made me think—­of a girl down south.”

“Down south?” queried Porter.  “Why down south—­if you care for her—­and you up here?”

McKay shrugged his shoulders.  He had said too much.  Neither he nor Porter knew that Breault’s eyes were half open, and that he was listening.

Jolly Roger held up a hand, as if something in the wailing of the storm had caught his attention.

“We’ll have two or three days of this.  Better turn in, Porter.  I’m going to dig out another room—­for Miss Tavish.  I’m afraid she’ll need the convenience of a private room before we’re able to move.  It’s an easy job—­and passes the time away.”

“I’ll help,” offered Porter.

For an hour they worked, using McKay’s snowshoes as shovels.  During that hour Breault did not close his eyes.  A curious smile curled his thin lips as he watched Jolly Roger.  And when at last Porter turned in, and slept, the Ferret sat up, and stretched himself.  McKay had finished his room, and was beginning a tunnel which would lead as a back door out of the drift, when Breault came in and picked up the snowshoe which Porter had used.

“I’ll take my turn,” he said.  “I’m a bit nervous, and not at all sleepy, Cummings.”  He began digging into the snow.  “Been long in this country?” he asked.

“Three winters.  It’s a good red fox country, with now and then a silver and a black.”

Breault grunted.

“You must have met Cassidy, then,” he said casually, without looking at McKay.  “Corporal Terence Cassidy.  This is his country.”

Jolly Roger did not look up from his work of digging.

“Yes, I know him.  Met him last winter.  Red headed.  A nice chap.  I like him.  You know him?”

“Entered the service together,” said Breault.  “But he’s unlucky.  For two or three years he has been on the trail of a man named McKay.  Jolly Roger, they call him—­Jolly Roger McKay.  Ever hear of him?”

Jolly Roger nodded.

“Cassidy told me about him when he was at my cabin.  From what I’ve heard I—­rather like him.”

“Who—­Cassidy, or Jolly Roger?”

“Both.”

For the first time the Ferret leveled his eyes at his companion.  They were mystifying eyes, never appearing to open fully, but remaining half closed as if to conceal whatever thought might lie behind them.  McKay felt their penetration.  It was like a cold chill entering into him, warning him of a menace deadlier than the storm.