The man was a stranger, and he was younger than McTaggart by ten years.  At least he looked no more than thirty-five or six, even with the short growth of blond beard he wore.  He was of that sort that the average man would like at first glance; boyish, and yet a man; with clear eyes that looked out frankly from under the rim of his fur cap, a form lithe as an Indian’s, and a face that did not bear the hard lines of the wilderness.  Yet McTaggart knew before he had spoken that this man was of the wilderness, that he was heart and soul a part of it.  His cap was of fisher skin.  He wore a windproof coat of softly tanned caribou skin, belted at the waist with a long sash, and Indian fringed.  The inside of the coat was furred.  He was traveling on the long, slender bush country snowshoe.  His pack, strapped over the shoulders, was small and compact; he was carrying his rifle in a cloth jacket.  And from cap to snowshoes he was travel worn.  McTaggart, at a guess, would have said that he had traveled a thousand miles in the last few weeks.  It was not this thought that sent the strange and chilling thrill up his back; but the sudden fear that in some strange way a whisper of the truth might have found its way down into the south—­the truth of what had happened on the Gray Loon—­and that this travel-worn stranger wore under his caribou-skin coat the badge of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.  For that instant it was almost a terror that possessed him, and he stood mute.

The stranger had uttered only an amazed exclamation before.  Now he said, with his eyes on Baree: 

“God save us, but you’ve got the poor devil in a right proper mess, haven’t you?”

There was something in the voice that reassured McTaggart.  It was not a suspicious voice, and he saw that the stranger was more interested in the captured animal than in himself.  He drew a deep breath.

“A trap robber,” he said.

The stranger was staring still more closely at Baree.  He thrust his gun stock downward in the snow and drew nearer to him.

“God save us again—­a dog!” he exclaimed.

From behind, McTaggart was watching the man with the eyes of a ferret.

“Yes, a dog,” he answered.  “A wild dog, half wolf at least.  He’s robbed me of a thousand dollars’ worth of fur this winter.”

The stranger squatted himself before Baree, with his mittened hands resting on his knees, and his white teeth gleaming in a half smile.

“You poor devil!” he said sympathetically.  “So you’re a trap robber, eh?  An outlaw?  And—­the police have got you!  And—­God save us once more—­they haven’t played you a very square game!”

He rose and faced McTaggart.

“I had to set a lot of traps like that,” the factor apologized, his face reddening slightly under the steady gaze of the stranger’s blue eyes.  Suddenly his animus rose.  “And he’s going to die there, inch by inch.  I’m going to let him starve, and rot in the traps, to pay for all he’s done.”  He picked up his gun, and added, with his eyes on the stranger and his finger ready at the trigger, “I’m Bush McTaggart, the factor at Lac Bain.  Are you bound that way, M’sieu?”