One evening he stopped for camp at the edge of the Burntwood.  From his feet reached out the wide river, ankle deep in places, knee deep in others, rippling and singing between sandbars and driftwood where in May and June it had roared with the fury of flood Peter, half asleep after their day’s travel through a hot forests watched his master.  Since their flight from the edge of civilization far south he had grown heavier and broadened out.  The hardship of adventuring and the craft of fighting for food and life had whipped the last of his puppyhood behind him At six months of age he was scarred, and lithe-muscled, and ready for instant action at all times.  Through the mop of Airedale whiskers that covered his face his bright eyes were ever alert, and always they watched the back-trail as he wondered why the slim, blue-eyed girl they both loved and missed so much did not come.  And vaguely he wondered why it was that his master always went on and on, and never waited for her to catch up with them.

And Jolly Roger was changed.  He was not the plump and rosy-faced wilderness freebooter who whistled and sang away down at Cragg’s Ridge even when he knew the Law was at his heels.  The steadiness of their flight had thinned him, and a graver look had settled in his face.  But in his clear eyes was still the love of life—­a thing even stronger than the grief which was eating at his heart as their trail reached steadily toward the Barren Lands.

In the sunset glow of this late afternoon Peter’s watchful eyes saw his master draw forth their treasure.

It was something he had come to look for, and expect—­once, twice, and sometimes half a dozen times between the rising and the setting of the sun.  And at night, when they paused in their flight for the day, Jolly Roger never failed to do what he was doing now.  Peter drew nearer to where his master was sitting with his back to the big rock, and his eyes glistened.  Always he caught the sweet, illusive perfume of the girl when Jolly Roger drew out their preciously guarded package.  He unwrapped it gently now, and in a moment held in his hands the tress of Nada’s hair, the last of her they would ever possess or see.  And Peter wondered again why they did not go back to where they had left the rest of the girl.  Many times, seeing his restlessness and his yearning, Jolly Roger had tried to make him understand.  And Peter tried to comprehend.  But always in his dreams he was with the girl he loved, following her, playing with her, fighting for her, hearing her voice—­feeling the touch of her hand.  In his dog soul he wanted her, just as Jolly Roger wanted her with all the yearning and heartbreak of the man.  Yet always when he awoke from his dreams they went on again—­not south—­but north.  To Peter this was hopeless mystery, and he possessed no power of reason to solve it.  Nor could he speak in words the message which he carried in his heart—­that last crying agony of the girl when she had sent him out on the trail of Roger McKay, entreating him to bring back the man she loved and would always love in spite of all the broken and unbroken laws in the world.