r had
cleared himself a spot for his tepee or shack, Jolly Roger had paused
to rest after his fight through the storm--and had then continued on his
way. And into this clearing, three hours after they left the Missioner's
cabin, came Nada and Peter.

They came slowly, the girl a slim wraith in the moon-light; in the open
they stood for a moment, and Peter's heart weighed heavily within him as
his mistress cried out once more for Jolly Roger. Her voice rose only in
a sob, and ended in a sob. The last of her strength was gone. Her little
figure swayed, and her face was white and haggard, and in her drawn lips
and staring eyes was the agony of despair. She had lost, and she
knew that she had lost as she crumpled down in the trail, crying out
sobbingly to the footprints which led so clearly ahead of her.

"Peter, I can't go on," she moaned. "I can't--go on--"

Her hands clutched at her breast. Peter saw the glint of the moonlight
on the ivory sheath of the Eskimo knife, and he saw her white face
turned up to the sky--and also that her lips were moving, but he did not
hear his name come from them, or any other sound. He whined, and foot by
foot began to nose along the trail on the scent left by Jolly Roger. It
was very clear to his nostrils, and it thrilled him. He looked back, and
again he whined his encouragement to the girl.

"Peter!" she called. "Peter!"

He returned to her. She had drawn the knife out of its scabbard, and the
cold steel glistened in her hand. Her eyes were shining, and she reached
out and clutched Peter close up against her, so that he could hear the
choke and throb of her heart.

"Oh, Peter, Peter," she panted. "If you could only talk! If you could
run and catch Mister Roger, an' tell him I'm here, an' that he must come
back--"

She hugged him closer. He sensed the sudden thrill that leapt through
her body.

"Peter," she whispered, "will you do it?"

For a few moments she did not seem to breathe. Then he heard a quick
little cry, a sob of inspiration and hope, and her arms came from about
him, and he saw the knife flashing in the yellow moonlight.

He did not understand, but he knew that he must watch her carefully. She
had bent her head, and her hair, nearly dry, glowed softly in the face
of the moon. Her hands were fumbling in the disheveled curls, and Peter
saw the knife flash back and forth, and heard the cut of it, and then he
saw that in her hand she held a thick brown tress of hair t