in the woods,
and the hiss and whish of driving snow. The folds of his _capote_
protected him partially from the stinging particles, and his
gauntleted hands shielded his eyes somewhat.

Not another man in Fort Severn could have found the old Beaver
Trail that night, and many a time during the hour Donald blessed
the memory of Jean Fitzpatrick and their many excursions in the
vicinity of the post. By devious zigzags and retracings, he suddenly
found himself face to face with a ten-foot stump that Indians had
long ago carved into a sort of totem, which had been left standing
as a curiosity. There, the trail began, and he was able to make
faster time, although all evidence of a footway were, of course,
obliterated. As he went deeper into the forest, the wind became
steadier and less changeable in direction, and the snow lost the
worst of its sting.

Still guided by old, friendly landmarks, Donald drew near the
rendezvous. He knew the place well. It was slightly off the trail,
behind a bowlder. At last he reached it and peered around. There,
sleeping in a huddle, his feet to a camp-fire, the sleigh snow-banked
as a wind break, and the dogs curled in a black-and-white, steaming
bundle, Peter Rainy lay unconcernedly.

With a cry of joy, Donald awakened his faithful servant, and, in
the comparative shelter of the rock, told his story briefly.

"Quick, kick the dogs up!" he cried. "We must push on at once. I
am followed."

CHAPTER XI

A HOT SCENT

Without a word, Rainy made preparations for moving. A lesser woodsman
or lazier servant would have demurred, for, while the blizzard
lasted, there was scarcely a chance in a million that any searcher
from the fort would find their hiding-place. Even now, the newcomer's
tracks were already wiped clean from the white page of the snow.

But, when the storm cleared away, as it might do with great
suddenness, they would be in great peril of observation, for, until
they should reach the denser forest to the south, there would be
many open spots to be crossed--open spots well within the range of
a field-glass at the fort.

While Peter hitched up the growling dogs, Donald made the pack,
and fastened it on the sledge. But, before they were ready to
scatter the fire and plunge into the maelstrom of the storm, the
Scotchman pulled the other's sleeve.

"What was that clew you had in regard to Jean Fitzpatrick?" he
shouted above the wind.

"Friends told me, very quiet, that