Pierrot’s trap line swung into the north and west, covering in all a matter of fifty miles, with an average of two traps, one deadfall, and a poison bait to each mile.  It was a twisting line blazed along streams for mink, otter, and marten, piercing the deepest forests for fishercat and lynx and crossing lakes and storm-swept strips of barrens where poison baits could be set for fox and wolf.  Halfway over this line Pierrot had built a small log cabin, and at the end of it another, so that a day’s work meant twenty-five miles.  This was easy for Pierrot, and not hard on Nepeese after the first few days.

All through October and November they made the trips regularly, making the round every six days, which gave one day of rest at the cabin on the Gray Loon and another day in the cabin at the end of the trail.  To Pierrot the winter’s work was business, the labor of his people for many generations back.  To Nepeese and Baree it was a wild and joyous adventure that never for a day grew tiresome.  Even Pierrot could not quite immunize himself against their enthusiasm.  It was infectious, and he was happier than he had been since his sun had set that evening the princess mother died.

They were glorious months.  Fur was thick, and it was steadily cold without any bad storms.  Nepeese not only carried a small pack on her shoulders in order that Pierrot’s load might be lighter, but she trained Baree to bear tiny shoulder panniers which she manufactured.  In these panniers Baree carried the bait.  In at least a third of the total number of traps set there was always what Pierrot called trash—­rabbits, owls, whisky jacks, jays, and squirrels.  These, with the skin or feathers stripped off, made up the bulk of the bait for the traps ahead.

One afternoon early in December, as they were returning to the Gray Loon, Pierrot stopped suddenly a dozen paces ahead of Nepeese and stared at the snow.  A strange snowshoe trail had joined their own and was heading toward the cabin.  For half a minute Pierrot was silent and scarcely moved a muscle as he stared.  The trail came straight out of the north—­and off there was Lac Bain.

Also they were the marks of large snowshoes, and the stride indicated was that of a tall man.  Before Pierrot had spoken, Nepeese had guessed what they meant.  “M’sieu the Factor from Lac Bain!” she said.

Baree was sniffing suspiciously at the strange trail.  They heard the low growl in his throat, and Pierrot’s shoulders stiffened.

“Yes, the m’sieu,” he said.

The Willow’s heart beat more swiftly as they went on.  She was not afraid of McTaggart, not physically afraid.  And yet something rose up in her breast and choked her at the thought of his presence on the Gray Loon.  Why was he there?  It was not necessary for Pierrot to answer the question, even had she given voice to it.  She knew.  The factor from Lac Bain had no business there—­except to see her.  The blood burned red in her cheeks as she thought again of that minute on the edge of the chasm when he had almost crushed her in his arms.  Would he try that again?