to get a grip on himself. A quarter of an hour ago he had laughed at the
thought of the law. Never had it seemed to be so far away from him, and
never had he been more utterly isolated from the world. His mind was
still a bit dazed by the thing that had happened. The police had not
trailed him. They had not ferreted him out, nor had they stumbled
upon him by accident. It was he who had gone out into the night and
deliberately dragged them in! Of all the trickery fate had played upon
him this was the least to be expected.

His mind began to work more swiftly as in darkness he cut the babiche
cordage that bound the patrol dunnage to the sledge. "N" Division, he
told himself, was away over in the Athabasca country. He had never heard
of Porter, nor of Superintendent Tavish, and inasmuch as the outfit was
evidently a special escort to Fort Churchill it was very likely
that Porter and his companions would not be thinking of outlaws, and
especially of Jolly Roger McKay. This was his one chance. To attempt
an escape through the blizzard was not only a desperate hazard. It was
death.

There were only two packs on the sledge, and these he passed through the
hole to Porter. A few moments later he was holding a flask of liquor to
the lips of the gray-bearded man, while the girl looked at him with eyes
that were widening as the snow-sting left them. Tavish gulped, and his
mittened hand closed on the girl's arm.

"I'm all right, Jo," he mumbled. "All right--"

His eyes met McKay's, and then took in the snow walls of the dug-out.
They were deep, piercing eyes, overhung by shaggy brows. Jolly Roger
felt the intentness of their gaze as he gave the girl a swallow of the
brandy, and then passed the flask to Porter.

"You have saved our lives," said Tavish, in a voice that was clearer.
"I don't just understand how it happened. I remember stumbling in the
darkness, and being unable to rise. I was behind the sledge. Porter
and Breault were dragging it, and Josephine, my daughter, was sheltered
under the blankets. After that--"

He paused, and Jolly Roger explained how it all had come about. He
pointed to Peter. It was the dog, he said. Peter had insisted there was
someone outside, and they had taken a chance by going in search of them.
He was John Cummings, a fox trapper, and the storm had caught him fifty
miles from his cabin. He was traveling without a dog-sledge, and had
only a pack-outfit.

Breault, the third man, had regained