We've been looking for days."

"In a cabin on Bull Creek. Mr. Whaley took me there, but West
followed."

"How did you get away?"

"We were out of food. They went hunting. West took my snowshoes.
Onistah came. He saw them coming back and gave me his shoes. He went
and hid in the woods. But they'll see his tracks. They'll find him. We
must hurry back."

"Yes," agreed McRae. "I'm thinkin' if West finds the lad, he'll do him
ill."

Morse spoke for the first time, his voice dry as a chip. "We'd better
hurry on, Beresford and I. You and Miss McRae can bring the sled."

McRae hesitated, but assented. There might be desperate need of haste.
"That'll be the best way. But you'll be carefu', lad. Yon West's a
wolf. He'd as lief kill ye baith as look at ye."

The younger men were out of sight over the brow of the hill long
before McRae and Jessie had the dogs harnessed.

"You'll ride, lass," the father announced.

She demurred. "We can go faster if I walk. Let me drive. Then you can
break trail where the snow's soft."

"No. You'll ride, my dear. There's nae sic a hurry. The lads'll do
what's to be done. On wi' ye."

Jessie got into the cariole and was bundled up to the tip of the nose
with buffalo robes, the capote of her own fur being drawn over the
head and face. For riding in the sub-Arctic winter is a freezing
business.

"Marche,"[6] ordered McRae.

[Footnote: Most of the dogs of the North were trained by trappers
who talked French and gave commands in that language. Hence even
the Anglo-Saxon drivers used in driving a good many words of that
language. (W.M.R.)]

Cuffy led the dogs up the hill, following the trail already broken.
The train made good time, but to Jessie it seemed to crawl. She was
tortured with anxiety for Onistah. An express could not have carried
her fast enough. It was small comfort to tell herself that Onistah was
a Blackfoot and knew every ruse of the woods. His tracks would lead
straight to him and the veriest child could follow them. Nor could she
persuade herself that Whaley would stand between him and West's anger.
To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie.

The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the lake. Here the
going was better. The sun was down and the snow-crust held dogs and
sled. A hundred fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team.
He moved forward and examined the snow.

With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that wrapped her and jumped
from the ca