nce. A lot of yellow people.
But what do we care for color as long as we have her with us? I say--"

Suddenly he stopped. And Peter's body grew tense. Both faced the round
hole, half filled with softly packed snow, which McKay had cut as a door
into the heart of the big drift. They had grown accustomed to the tumult
of the storm. Its strange wailings and the shrieking voices which at
times seemed borne in the moaning sweep of it no longer sent shivers
of apprehension through Peter. But in that moment when both turned to
listen there came a sound which was not like the other sounds they had
heard. It was a voice--not one of the phantom voices of the screaming
wind, but a voice so real and so near that for a beat or two even Jolly
Roger McKay's heart stood still. It was as if a man, standing just
beyond their snow barricade, had shouted a name. But there came no
second call. The wind lulled, so that for a space there was stillness
outside.

Jolly Roger laughed a little uneasily.

"Good thing we don't believe in ghosts, Peter, or we would swear it was
a Loup-Garou smelling us through the wall!" He thumbed the tobacco down
in his pine, and nodded. "Then--there is South America," he said. "They
have everything down there--the biggest rivers in the world, the biggest
mountains, and so much room that even a Loup-Garou couldn't hunt us out.
She will love it, Pied-Bot. But if it happens she likes Africa better,
or Australia, or the South Sea--Now, what the devil was that?"

Peter had jumped as if stung, and for a moment Jolly Roger sat tense
as a carven Indian. Then he rose to his feet, a look of perplexity and
doubt in his eyes.

"What was it, Peter? Can the wind shoot a gun--like THAT?"

Peter was sniffing at the loosely blocked door of their snow-room.
A whimper rose in his throat. He looked up at Jolly Roger, his eyes
glowing fiercely through the mass of Airedale whiskers that covered
his face. He wanted to dig. He wanted to plunge out into the howling
darkness. Slowly McKay beat the ash out of his pipe and placed the pipe
in his pocket.

"We'll take a look," he said, something repressive in his voice. "But
it isn't reasonable, Peter. It is the wind. There couldn't be a man out
there, and it wasn't a rifle we heard. It is the wind--with the devil
himself behind it!"

With a few sweeps of his hands and arms he scooped out the loose snow
from the hole. The opening was on the sheltered side of the drift, and
only the