"Probably a wolverine, Pied-Bot. The rascal came to see what he
could find while we were away."

But Peter was not satisfied. He was restless all that night.
Sounds which had been familiar now held a new significance for
him. The next day he was filled with a quiet but brooding
expectancy. He resented the intrustion of the strange footprints.
It was, in his process of instinctive reasoning, an encroachment
upon the property rights of his master, and he was--true to the
law of his species--the guardian of those rights.

The fourth evening after the stranger's visit to the cabin Jolly
Roger was later than usual in returning from Cragg's Ridge. Peter
had been on a hunting adventure of his own, and came to the cabin
at sunset. But he never came out of cover now without standing
quietly for a few moments, getting the wind, and listening. And
tonight, poking his head between some balsams twenty yards from
the shack, he was treated to a sudden thrill. The cabin door was
open. And standing close to this door, looking quietly and
cautiously about, stood a stranger. He was not like Jed Hawkins,
was Peter's first impression. He was tall, with a wide-brimmed
hat, and wore boots with striped trousers tucked into them, and on
his coat were bits of metal which caught the last gleams of the
sun. Peter knew nothing of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. But
he sensed danger, and he remained very quiet, without moving a
muscle of his head or body, while the stranger looked about, with
a hand on his unbuttoned pistol holster. Not until he entered the
cabin, and closed the door after him, did Peter move back into the
deeper gloom of the forest. And then, silent as a fox, he skulked
through cover to the foot-trail, and down the trail to the ford,