er.

They landed on a beach of sand, soft as a velvet carpet. Peter jumped
out. A long-legged sandpiper and her mate ran down the shore ahead of
him. He perked up his angular ears, and then his nose caught a fresh
scent under his feet where a porcupine had left his trail. And he heard
more clearly the raucous tumult of the jay and the musical chattering
of the red squirrels.

All these things were satisfactory to Peter. They were life, and life
thrilled him, just as it had thrilled his master a few days ago. 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 luscious 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. It was, in that instant,
a tableau which no man could ever forget. Cassidy was bareheaded, and
the sun burned hotly in his red hair. And his face was red, and in the
pale blue of his Irish eyes was a fierce joy of achievement. At last,
after months and years, the thrilling game of One against One was at an
end. Cassidy had made the last move, and he was winner.

For half a minute after the command to throw up his hands McKay did not
move. And Cassidy did not repeat the command, for he sensed the shock
that had fallen upon his adversary, and was charitable enough to give
him time