the
snow-room.

A moment later, crawling through his tunnel with Peter close behind
him, there was an exultant singing in Jolly Roger's heart. Again he was
fleeing from the law, but always, as Yellow Bird had predicted in her
sorcery, there were happiness and hope in his going. And always there
was someone to urge him on, and to take a pride in him, like Josephine
Tavish.

He broke through the dune-crust at the end of his tunnel and crawled
out into the thick, gray dawn of a barren-land day. The sky was heavy
overhead, and the wind had died out. It was the beginning of the brief
lull which came in the second day of the Great Storm.

McKay laughed softly as he sensed the odds against them.

"We'll be having the storm at our heels again before long, Pied-Bot," he
said. "We'd better make for the timber a dozen miles south."

He struck out, circling the dune, so that he was traveling straight away
from the first hole he had cut through the shell of the drift. From that
door, made by the outlaw who had saved them, Josephine Tavish watched
the shadowy forms of man and dog until they were lost in the gray-white
chaos of a frozen world.

CHAPTER XV

Through the blizzard Jolly Roger made his way a score of miles southward
from the big dune on the Barren. For a day and a night he made his camp
in the scrub timber which edged the vast treeless tundras reaching to
the Arctic. He believed he was safe, for the unceasing wind and the
blasts of shot-like snow filled his tracks a few moments after they were
made. He struck a straight line for his cabin after that first day and
night in the scrub timber. The storm was still a thing of terrific force
out on the barren, but in the timber he was fairly well sheltered. He
was convinced the police patrol would find his cabin very soon after the
storm had worn itself out. Porter and Tavish did not trouble him. But
from Breault he knew there was no getting away. Breault would nose out
his cabin. And for that reason he was determined to reach it first.

The second night he did not sleep. His mind was a wild thing--wild as a
Loup-Garou seeking out its ghostly trails; it passed beyond his mastery,
keeping sleep away from him though he was dead tired. It carried him
back over all the steps of his outlawry, visioning for him the score of
times he had escaped, as he was narrowly escaping now; and it pictured
for him, like a creature of inquisition, the tightening net ahead of
him, the