ened out. The hardship of adventuring and the craft of
fighting for food and life had whipped the last of his puppyhood behind
him At six months of age he was scarred, and lithe-muscled, and ready
for instant action at all times. Through the mop of Airedale whiskers
that covered his face his bright eyes were ever alert, and always they
watched the back-trail as he wondered why the slim, blue-eyed girl they
both loved and missed so much did not come. And vaguely he wondered why
it was that his master always went on and on, and never waited for her
to catch up with them.

And Jolly Roger was changed. He was not the plump and rosy-faced
wilderness freebooter who whistled and sang away down at Cragg's Ridge
even when he knew the Law was at his heels. The steadiness of their
flight had thinned him, and a graver look had settled in his face. But
in his clear eyes was still the love of life--a thing even stronger
than the grief which was eating at his heart as their trail reached
steadily toward the Barren Lands.

In the sunset glow of this late afternoon Peter's watchful eyes saw his
master draw forth their treasure.

It was something he had come to look for, and expect--once, twice, and
sometimes half a dozen times between the rising and the setting of the
sun. And at night, when they paused in their flight for the day, Jolly
Roger never failed to do what he was doing now. Peter drew nearer to
where his master was sitting with his back to the big rock, and his
eyes glistened. Always he caught the sweet, illusive perfume of the
girl when Jolly Roger drew out their preciously guarded package. He
unwrapped it gently now, and in a moment held in his hands the tress of
Nada's hair, the last of her they would ever possess or see. And Peter
wondered again why they did not go back to where they had left the rest
of the girl. Many times, seeing his restlessness and his yearning,
Jolly Roger had tried to make him understand. And Peter tried to
comprehend. But always in his dreams he was with the girl he loved,
following her, playing with her, fighting for her, hearing her
voice--feeling the touch of her hand. In his dog soul he wanted her,
just as Jolly Roger wanted her with all the yearning and heartbreak of
the man. Yet always when he awoke from his dreams they went on
again--not south--but north. To Peter this was hopeless mystery, and he
possessed no power of reason to solve it. Nor could he speak in words
the message which he