from the force. But he had called Bucky out in fair fight and had whipped him within an inch of his life. The old hatred burned in the corporal’s eyes as he stared into Billy’s face. Billy ignored the look, and shook hands with the other men. One of them was a Hudson’s Bay Company’s driver, and the other was Constable Walker, from Churchill.
“Thought we’d never live to reach shelter,” gasped Walker, as they shook hands. “We’re out after Scottie Deane, and we ain’t losing a minute. We’re going to get him, too. His trail is so hot we can smell it. My God, but I’m bushed!”
The dogs, with the company man at their head, were already making for the camp. Billy grinned at the corporal as they followed.
“Had a pretty good chance to get me, if you’d been alone, didn’t you, Bucky?” he asked, in a voice that Walker did not hear. “You see, I haven’t forgotten your threat.”
There was a steely hardness behind his laugh. He knew that Bucky Smith was a scoundrel whose good fortune was that he had never been found out in some of his evil work. In a flash his mind traveled back to that day at Norway House when Rousseau, the half Frenchman, had come to him from a sick-bed to tell him that Bucky had ruined his young wife. Rousseau, who should have been in bed with his fever, died two days later. Billy could still hear the taunt in Bucky’s voice when he had cornered him with Rousseau’s accusation, and the fight had followed. The thought that this man was now close after Isobel and Deane filled him with a sort of rage, and as Walker went ahead he laid a hand on Bucky’s arm.
“I’ve been thinking about you of late, Bucky,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that affair down at Norway, an’ I’ve been lacking myself for not reporting it. I’m going to do it—unless you cut a right-angle track to the one you’re taking. I’m after Scottie Deane myself!”
In the next breath he could have cut out his tongue for having uttered the words. A gleam of triumph shot into Bucky’s eyes.
“I thought we was right,” he said. “We sort of lost the trail in the storm. Glad we found you to set us right. How much of a start of us has he and that squaw that’s traveling with him got?”
Billy’s mittened hands clenched fiercely. He made no reply, but followed quickly after Walker. His mind worked swiftly. As he came in to the fire he saw that the dogs had already dropped down in their traces and that they were exhausted. Walker’s face was pinched, his eyes half closed by the sting of the snow. The driver was half stretched out on the sledge, his feet to the fire. In a glance he had assured himself that both dogs and men had gone through a long and desperate struggle in the storm. He looked at Bucky, and this time there was neither rancor nor threat in his voice when he spoke.
“You fellows have had a hard time of it,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. I’m not overburdened with grub, but if you’ll dig out some of your own rations I’ll get it ready while you thaw out.”
Bucky was looking curiously at the two tents.
“Who’s with you?” he asked.
Billy shrugged his shoulders. His voice was almost affable.
“Hate to tell you who was with me, Bucky,” he laughed, “I came in late last night, half dead, and found a half-breed camped here—in that silk tent. He was quite chummy—mighty fine chap. Young fellow, too—almost a kid. When I got up this morning—” Billy shrugged his shoulders again and pointed to his empty pistol holster. “Everything was gone—dogs, sledge, extra tent, even my rifle and automatic. He wasn’t quite bad, though, for he left me my grub. He was a funny cuss, too. Look at that!” He pointed to the bakneesh wreath that still hung to the front of his tent. “`In honor of the living,’ ” he read, aloud, “Just a sort of reminder, you know, that he might have hit me on the head with a club if he’d wanted to.” He came nearer to Bucky, and said, good-naturedly: “I guess you’ve got me beat this time, Bucky. Scottie Deane is pretty safe from me, wherever he is. I haven’t even got a gun!”
“He must have left a trail,” remarked Bucky, eying him shrewdly.
“He did—out there!”
As Bucky went to examine what was left of the trail Billy thanked Heaven that Deane had placed Isobel on the sledge before he left camp. There was nothing to betray her presence. Walker had unlaced their outfit, and Billy was busy preparing a meal when Bucky returned. There was a sneer on his lips.
“Didn’t know you was that easy,” he said. “Wonder why he didn’t take his tent! Pretty good tent, isn’t it?”
He went inside. A minute later he appeared at the flap and called to Billy.
“Look here!” he said, and there was a tremble of excitement in his voice. His eyes were blazing with an ugly triumph. “Your half-breed had pretty long hair, didn’t he?”
He pointed to a splinter on one of the light tent-poles. Billy’s heart gave a sudden jump. A tress of Isobel’s long, loose hair had caught in the splinter, and a dozen golden-brown strands had remained to give him away. For a moment he forgot that Bucky Smith was watching him. He saw Isobel again as she had last entered the tent, her beautiful hair flowing in a firelit glory about her, her eyes still filled with tender gratitude. Once more he felt the warmth of her lips, the touch of her hand, the thrill of her presence near him. Perhaps these emotions covered any suspicious movement or word by which he might otherwise have betrayed himself. By the time they were gone he had recovered himself, and he turned to his companion with a low laugh.
“It’s a woman’s hair, all right, Bucky. He told me all sorts of nice things about a girl `back home.’ They must have been true.”
The eyes of the two men met unflinchingly. There was a sneer on Buck’s lips; Billy was smiling.
“I’m going to follow this Frenchman after we’ve had a little rest,” said the corporal, trying to cover a certain note of excitement and triumph in his voice. “There’s a woman traveling with Scottie Deane, you know—a white woman—and there’s only one other north of Churchill. Of course, you’re anxious to get back your stolen outfit?”
“You bet I am,” exclaimed Billy, concealing the effect of the bull’s-eye shot Bucky had made. “I’m not particularly happy in the thought of reporting myself stripped in this sort of way. The breed will hang to thick cover, and it won’t be difficult to follow his trail.”
He saw that Bucky was a little taken aback by his ready acquiescence, and before the other could reply he hurried out to join Walker in the preparation of breakfast. He made a gallon of tea, fried some bacon, and brought out and toasted his own stock of frozen bannock. He made a second kettle of tea while the others were eating, and shook out the blankets in his own tent. Walker had told him that they had traveled nearly all night.
“Better have an hour or two of sleep before you go on,” he invited.
The driver’s name was Conway. He was the first to accept Billy’s invitation. When he had finished eating, Walker followed him into the tent. When they were gone Bucky looked hard at Billy.
“What’s your game?” he asked.
“The Golden Rule, that’s all,” replied Billy, proffering his tobacco. “The half-breed treated me square and made me comfortable, even if he did take his pay afterward. I’m doing the same.”
“And what do you expect to take—afterward?”
Billy’s eyes narrowed as he returned the other’s searching look.
“Bucky, I didn’t think you were quite a fool,” he said. “You’ve got a little decency in your hide, haven’t you? A man might as well be in jail as up here without a gun. I expect you to contribute one—when you go after the half-breed—you or Walker. He’ll do it if you won’t. Better go in with the others. I’ll keep up the fire.”
Bucky rose sullenly. He was still suspicious of Billy’s hospitality, but at the same