his murder?"

Donald sat at the dinner table in Fort Dickey with John Buller
and Pierre Cardepie, his two assistants. A roaring log fire barely
fought off the cold as they ate their caribou steak, beans, bread,
and tea.

"Not much," replied Buller. "The day after you left, one of the
Indians tore in at midnight with the news. He said that he and his
partner, the murdered man, had been met by Charley Seguis while
running their trap-line, and that Charley had drawn the other aside
in private conversation. Half an hour later, there had been sudden
words, followed by blows, and, before Johnny could defend himself,
Seguis had stabbed him. What they had been talking about the Indian
didn't know, for Charley had hurried off immediately after the
murder."

"What direction did he take?" asked McTavish.

"The rumor declared that he went north, toward Beaver Lake."

"Could he give any motive for the deed?"

"No. So far as he knew, Johnny had never seen Charley Seguis before."

"Well, boys, I'm off in the morning after him. The factor is
particularly keen for having him brought in right away. He also
wants to know what I have done with all the furs that he claims
have disappeared from this district during the last year." Donald's
tone was contemptuous.

"I didn't know any had disappeared," said Buller, in amazement.

"Nor me! I tink dat Feetzpatreeck ees gone crazy in hees old age,"
added Cardepie, with a snort.

"Well, whatever it is, he claims the Company has lost twenty thousand
pounds, and that I'm to blame for it," said Donald.

"There's something wrong here, Mac," remarked Duller, decisively.
"This isn't all accident, and, if you say so, I'll go with you
to-morrow."

"It's awfully good of you, John, but I think I'll tackle it alone."
And McTavish wearily rose from the table.

The next morning, he again took the trail, but this time alone. On
his feet were the light moose-webbed snowshoes; from head to heel,
he was clad in white caribou such as the Indian hunters affect,
and on his _capote_ he bore the branching antlers that were left
there as a decoy for the wary animals. With a long whip in one
hand and his rifle held easily in the other, he strode beside the
straining dog-train. In the east, the frost-mist hung low like a
fog. In the south, the sun, which barely showed itself above the
horizon each day, was commencing to engrave faint tree shadows on
the snow. The west was purplish gray, but the north was