"But those stories are NOT true, M'sieu," he added in a repressed
voice. "That is why I showed you the snare. Bram Johnson is not
dead. He is alive. And there is a woman with him, or--"

"Or--"

The same thought was in their eyes again. And again neither gave
voice to it. Carefully Philip was gathering up the strands of
hair, winding them about his forefinger, and placing them
afterward in a leather wallet which he took from his pocket. Then,
quite casually, he loaded his pipe and lighted it. He went to the
door, opened it, and for a few moments stood listening to the
screech of the wind over the Barren. Pierre, still seated at the
table, watched him attentively. Philip's mind was made up when he
closed the door and faced the half-breed again.

"It is three hundred miles from here to Fort Churchill," he said.
"Half way, at the lower end of Jesuche Lake, MacVeigh and his
patrol have made their headquarters. If I go after Bram, Pierre, I
must first make certain of getting a message to MacVeigh, and he
will see that it gets to Fort Churchill. Can you leave your foxes
and poison-baits and your deadfalls long enough for that?"

A moment Pierre hesitated.

Then he said:

"I will take the message."

Until late that night Philip sat up writing his report. He had