k sagged; his
teeth clicked as he shivered in his agony. To THIS man he betrayed his
weakness. In his bloodshot eyes there was a hungering look as he
watched Carvel--the self-confessed outlaw. And Jim Carvel again held
out his hand--much nearer this time.

"You poor devil," he said, the smile going out of his face. "You poor
devil!"

The words were like a caress to Baree--the first he had known since the
loss of Nepeese and Pierrot. He dropped his head until his jaw lay flat
in the snow. Carvel could see the blood dripping slowly from it.

"You poor devil!" he repeated.

There was no fear in the way he put forth his hand. It was the
confidence of a great sincerity and a great compassion. It touched
Baree's head and patted it in a brotherly fashion, and then--slowly and
with a bit more caution--it went to the trap fastened to Baree's
forepaw. In his half-crazed brain Baree was fighting to understand
things, and the truth came finally when he felt the steel jaws of the
trap open, and he drew forth his maimed foot. He did then what he had
done to no other creature but Nepeese. Just once his hot tongue shot
out and licked Carvel's hand. The man laughed. With his powerful hands
he opened the other traps, and Baree was free.

For a few moments he lay without moving, his eyes fixed on the man.
Carvel had seated himself on the snow-covered end of a birch log and
was filling his pipe. Baree watched him light it; he noted with new
interest the first purplish cloud of smoke that left Carvel's mouth.
The man was not more than the length of two trap chains away--and he
grinned at Baree.

"Screw up your nerve, old chap," he encouraged. "No bones broke. Just a
little stiff. Mebby we'd better--get out."

He turned his face in the direction of Lac Bain. The suspicion was in
his mind that McTaggart might turn back. Perhaps that same suspicion
was impressed upon Baree, for when Carvel looked at him again he was on
his feet, staggering a bit as he gained his equilibrium. In another
moment the outlaw had swung the packsack from his shoulders and was
opening it. He thrust in his hand and drew out a chunk of raw, red meat.

"Killed it this morning," he explained to Baree. "Yearling bull, tender
as partridge--and that's as fine a sweetbread as ever came out from
under a backbone. Try it!"

He tossed the flesh to Baree. There was no equivocation in the manner
of its acceptance. Baree was famished--and the meat was flung to him by
a