“Haven’t any idea where one might come upon this Jolly Roger, have you?”

“No.”

“You see, he thinks he killed a man down south.  Well, he didn’t.  The man lived.  If you happen to see him at any time give him that information, will you?”

Jolly Roger thrust his head and shoulders into the growing tunnel.

“Yes, I will.”

He knew Breault was lying.  And also knew that back of the narrow slits of Breault’s eyes was the cunning of a fox.

“You might also tell him the law has a mind to forgive him for sticking up that free trader’s post a few years ago.”

Jolly Roger turned with his snowshoe piled high with a load of snow.

“I’ll tell him that, too,” he said, chuckling at the obviousness of the other’s trap.  “What do you think my cabin is, Breault—­a Rest for Homeless Outlaws?”

Breault grinned.  It was an odd sort of grin, and Jolly Roger caught it over his shoulder.  When he returned from dumping his load, Breault said: 

“You see, we know this Jolly Roger fellow is spending the winter somewhere up here.  And Cassidy says there is a girl down south—­”

Jolly Roger’s face was hidden in the tunnel.

“—­who would like to see him,” finished Breault.

When McKay turned toward him the Ferret was carelessly lighting his pipe.

“I remember—­Cassidy told me about this girl,” said Jolly Roger.  “He said—­some day—­he would trap this—­this man—­through the girl.  So if I happen to meet Jolly Roger McKay, and send him back to the girl, it will help out the law.  Is that it, Breault?  And is there any reward tacked to it?  Anything in it for me?”

Breault was looking at him in the pale light of the alcohol lamp, puffing out tobacco smoke, and with that odd twist of a smile about his thin lips.

“Listen to the storm,” he said.  “I think it’s getting worse—­ Cummings!”

Suddenly he held out a hand to Peter, who sat near the lamp, his bright eyes fixed watchfully on the stranger.

“Nice dog you have, Cummings.  Come here, Peter!  Peter—­Peter—­”

Tight ringers seemed to grip at McKay’s throat.  He had not spoken Peter’s name since the rescue of Breault.

“Peter—­Peter—­”

The Ferret was smiling affably.  But Peter did not move.  He made no response to the outstretched hand.  His eyes were steady and challenging.  In that moment McKay wanted to hug him up in his arms.

The Ferret laughed.

“He’s a good dog, a very good dog, Cummings.  I like a one-man dog, and I also like a one-dog man.  That’s what Jolly Roger McKay is, if you ever happen to meet him.  Travels with one dog.  An Airedale, with whiskers on him like a Mormon.  And his name is Peter.  Funny name for a dog, isn’t it?”

He faced the outer room, stretching his long arms above his head.

“I’m going to try sleep again, Cummings.  Goodnight!  And—­Mother of Heaven!—­listen to the wind.”