Jim Carvel held out his hand, and the snarl that was in Baree’s throat died away.  The man rose to his feet.  He stood there, looking in the direction taken by Bush McTaggart, and chuckled in a curious, exultant sort of way.

There was friendliness even in that chuckle.  There was friendliness in his eyes and in the shine of his teeth as he looked again at Baree.  About him there was something that seemed to make the gray day brighter, that seemed to warm the chill air—­a strange something that radiated cheer and hope and comradeship just as a hot stove sends out the glow of heat.  Baree felt it.  For the first time since the two men had come his trap-torn body lost its tenseness; his back sagged; his teeth clicked as he shivered in his agony.  To this man he betrayed his weakness.  In his bloodshot eyes there was a hungering look as he watched Carvel—­the self-confessed outlaw.  And Jim Carvel again held out his hand—­much nearer this time.

“You poor devil,” he said, the smile going out of his face.  “You poor devil!”

The words were like a caress to Baree—­the first he had known since the loss of Nepeese and Pierrot.  He dropped his head until his jaw lay flat in the snow.  Carvel could see the blood dripping slowly from it.

“You poor devil!” he repeated.

There was no fear in the way he put forth his hand.  It was the confidence of a great sincerity and a great compassion.  It touched Baree’s head and patted it in a brotherly fashion, and then—­slowly and with a bit more caution—­it went to the trap fastened to Baree’s forepaw.  In his half-crazed brain Baree was fighting to understand things, and the truth came finally when he felt the steel jaws of the trap open, and he drew forth his maimed foot.  He did then what he had done to no other creature but Nepeese.  Just once his hot tongue shot out and licked Carvel’s hand.  The man laughed.  With his powerful hands he opened the other traps, and Baree was free.

For a few moments he lay without moving, his eyes fixed on the man.  Carvel had seated himself on the snow-covered end of a birch log and was filling his pipe.  Baree watched him light it; he noted with new interest the first purplish cloud of smoke that left Carvel’s mouth.  The man was not more than the length of two trap chains away—­and he grinned at Baree.

“Screw up your nerve, old chap,” he encouraged.  “No bones broke.  Just a little stiff.  Mebby we’d better—­get out.”

He turned his face in the direction of Lac Bain.  The suspicion was in his mind that McTaggart might turn back.  Perhaps that same suspicion was impressed upon Baree, for when Carvel looked at him again he was on his feet, staggering a bit as he gained his equilibrium.  In another moment the outlaw had swung the packsack from his shoulders and was opening it.  He thrust in his hand and drew out a chunk of raw, red meat.

“Killed it this morning,” he explained to Baree.  “Yearling bull, tender as partridge—­and that’s as fine a sweetbread as ever came out from under a backbone.  Try it!”