r the opposite shore, turned about. As it approached the clump
that hid the halfbreed, ears came forward to assist eyes and nose, and
a waggle of welcome told that all was well. With a shudder that sent a
cloud of spray about, a great cross-bred Russian wolf-hound, with the
head of a mastiff, clambered up the bank and bounded into the trees.
The halfbreed threw his arms about the wet neck and hugged it in silent
joy. His eyes were moist as he glanced sheepishly across to the other
shore.

"Juno, ole woman, I sure love yuh to-night."

From about the dog's neck he untied a tiny water-proof bag and exposed
a note, which he laboriously spelt out. Then, moving to the water's
edge, he reached down and waved a hand twice back and forward.

Followed by the dog, he struck noiselessly upstream through the woods,
and at last lowered himself over the gravel bank by means of
overhanging boughs. Ankle-deep, screened by the foliage, he untied a
raft of freshly cut logs, made a careful survey of the shore about him,
and shoved out into the river, pointing slightly upstream. The dog
established herself on the bow, her eyes on the shore they were
approaching.

As he worked the sweep at the stern the man talked to the dog.

"Guess you 'n' Whiskers 'n' the missus has bin gallivantin', eh, Juno,
ole woman? Sort o' leadin' the gay life all down them coupla hunderd
miles to the Hills whar nobody lives. Trust the women! Yuh wudn't
'member thar was a feller back here chewin' his fingers off worryin'
about yuh . . . an' workin' the shart offen his back an' gittin' thin
fer the fambly, an' not even a horse to git about. . . . Nobody but a
bunch o' roughnecks an' houn's--'poligisin' tuh yuh, Juno, fer callin'
them critters houn's. They're c'yutes, that's wot they are. Ef thar
was trees 'nough I'd len' my bes' rope to hang 'em . . . every dang one
of 'em, 'cept Mister Conrad 'n' the boss."

Juno's only response was a periodic and perfunctory wagging of a
limited tail, further limited by being sat on.

"'Magine me, Blue Pete, bes' shot in the Badlands, an' Canada, too, fer
that matter--least that's so, now Dutchy's gone, an' it was nip 'n'
tuck between us--'magine me, cow-puncher from my born days, sometime
rustler, sometime Mounted P'lice detective, sometime--oh, sometime
pretty near everythin' with a horse in it, an' a rifle, an' a
rope--'magine me workin' 'longside a gang o' Dagoes 'n' Poles that
think a knife's fer stickin' p