He adventured a little distance up to the edge of the green
willows and the young birch and the crimson masses of fire flowers
that fringed the beginning of the forest. It had rained recently
here, and the scents were fresh and sweet.
He found a wild currant bush, glistening with its juscious black
berries, and began nibbling at them. A gopher, coming to his
supper bush, gave a little squeak of annoyance, and Peter saw the
bright eyes of the midget glaring at him from under a big fern
leaf. Peter wagged his tail, for the savagery of his existence was
qualified by that mellowing sense of humor which had always been a
part of his master. He yipped softly, in a companionable sort of
way.
And then there smote upon his ears a sound which hardened every
muscle in his body.
"Throw up your hands, McKay!"
He turned his head. Close to him stood a man. In an instant he had
recognized him. It was the man whose scent he had first discovered
down at Cragg's Ridge, the man from whom his master was always
running away, the man whose voice he had heard again at Yellow
Bird's Camp a few nights ago--Corporal Terence Cassidy, of the
Royal Northwest Mounted Police.
Twenty paces away stood McKay. His dunnage was on his back, his
paddle in his hand. And Cassidy, smiling grimly, a dangerous humor
in his eyes, was leveling an automatic at his breast.
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