o their usual fare.

Though both the men were experienced in the use of snowshoes, their
feet were raw from the chafing of the thongs. Before the camp-fire
they greased the sore places with tallow. In a few days the irritation
due to the webs would disappear and the leg muscles brought into
service by this new and steady shuffle would harden and grow fit.

They had built a wind-break of brush beside the sled and covered the
ground with spruce boughs after clearing away the snow. Here they
rested after supper, drying socks, duffles, and moccasins, which were
wet with perspiration, before the popping fire.

Beresford pulled out his English briar pipe and Tom one picked from
the Company stock. Smoke wreathed their heads while they lounged
indolently on the spruce bed and occasionally exchanged a remark. They
knew each other well enough for long silences. When they talked, it
was because they had something to say.

The Canadian looked at his friend's new gun-case and remarked with a
gleam in his eye:

"I spoke for that first, Tom. Had miners on it, I thought."

The American laughed sardonically. "It was a present for a good boy,"
he explained. "I've a notion somebody was glad I was mushin' with you
on this trip. Maybe you can guess why. Anyhow, I drew a present out of
it."

"I see you did," Beresford answered, grinning.

"I'm to look after you proper an' see you're tucked up."

"Oh, that's it?"

"That's just it."

The constable looked at him queerly, started to say something, then
changed his mind.

CHAPTER XXXII

A PICTURE IN A LOCKET

It was characteristic of McRae that he had insisted on bringing Whaley
to his own home to recuperate. "It's nursin' you need, man, an' guid
food. Ye'll get baith at the hoose."

The trader protested, and was overruled. His Cree wife was not just
now able to look after him. McRae's wife and daughter made good his
promise, and the wounded man thrived under their care.

On an afternoon Whaley lay on the bed in his room smoking. Beside him
sat Lemoine, also puffing at a pipe. The trapper had brought to the
ex-gambler a strange tale of a locket and a ring he had seen bought
by a half-breed from a Blackfoot squaw who claimed to have had it
eighteen years. He had just finished telling of it when Jessie knocked
at the door and came into the room with a bowl of caribou broth.

Whaley pretended to resent this solicitude, but his objection was a
fraud. He liked this girl