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had waited for them in the trail. Rydal threw up his rifle. The shot came. It burned a crease in Wapi’s shoulder and tore a hole as big as a man’s fist in the breast of a dog about to spring upon him f rom behind. Again he was down, and Rydal dropped his rifle, and snatched a whip from the hand of an Eskimo. Shouting and cursing, he lashed the pack, and in a moment he saw a huge, open-jawed shadow rise up on the far side and start off into the open starlight. He sprang back to his rifle. Twice he fired at the retreating shadow before it disappeared. And the Eskimo dogs made no movement to follow. Five of the fifteen were dead. The remaining ten, torn and bleeding—three of them with legs that dragged in the bloody snow—gathered in a whipped and whimpering group. And the Eskimos, shivering in their fear of this devil that had entered into the body of Wapi, the Walrus, failed to respond to Rydal’s command when he pointed to the red trail that ran out under the stars.

At Fort Confidence, one hundred and fifty miles to the south, there was day—day that was like cold, gray dawn, the day one finds just beyond the edge of the Arctic night, in which the sun hangs like a pale lantern over the far southern horizon. In a log-built room that faced this bit of glorious red glow lay Peter, bolstered up in his bed so that he could see it until it faded from the sky. There was a new light in his face, and there was something of the old Peter back in his eyes. Watching the final glow with him was Dolores. It was their second day.

Into this world, in the twilight that was falling swiftly as they watched the setting of the sun, came Wapi, the Walrus. Blinded in the eye, gaunt with hunger and exhaustion, covered with wounds, and with his great heart almost ready to die, he came at last to the river across which lay the barracks. His vision was nearly gone, but under his nose he could still smell faintly the trail he was following until the last. It led him across the river. And in darkness it brought him to a door.

After a little the door opened, and with its opening came at last the fulfilment of the promise of his dreams—hope, happiness, things to live for in a new, a white-man’s world. For Wapi, the Walrus, forty years removed from Tao of Vancouver, had at last come home.

THE YELLOW-BACK

Above God’s Lake, where the Bent Arrow runs red as pale blood under its crust of ice, Reese Beaudin heard of the dog auction that was to take place at Post Lac Bain three days later. It was in the cabin of Joe Delesse, a trapper, who lived at Lac Bain during the summer, and trapped the fox and the lynx sixty miles farther north in this month of February.

“Diantre, but I tell you it is to be the greatest sale of dogs that has ever happened at Lac Bain!” said Delesse. “To this Wakao they are coming from all the four directions. There will be a hundred dogs, huskies, and malamutes, and Mackenzie hounds, and mongrels from the south, and I should not wonder if some of the little Eskimo devils were brought from the north to be sold as breeders. Surely you will not miss it, my friend?”

“I am going by way of Post Lac Bain,” replied Reese Beaudin equivocally.

But his mind was not on the sale of dogs. From his pipe he puffed out thick clouds of smoke, and his eyes narrowed until they seemed like coals peering out of cracks; and he said, in his quiet, soft voice:

“Do you know of a man named Jacques Dupont, m’sieu?”

Joe Delesse tried to peer through the cloud of smoke at Reese Beaudin’s face.

“Yes, I know him. Does he happen to be a friend of yours?”

Reese laughed softly.

“I have heard of him. They say that he is a devil. To the west I was told that he can whip any man between Hudson’s Bay and the Great Bear, that he is a beast in man-shape, and that he will surely be at the big sale at Lac Bain.”

On his knees the huge hands of Joe Delesse clenched slowly, gripping in their imaginary clutch a hated thing.

“Oui, I know him,” he said. “I know also—Elise—his wife. See!”

He thrust suddenly his two huge knotted hands through the smoke that drifted between him and the stranger who had sought the shelter of his cabin that night.

“See—I am a man full-grown, m’sieu—a man—and yet I am afraid of him! That is how much of a devil and a beast in man-shape he is.”

Again Reese Beaudin laughed in his low, soft voice.

“And his wife, mon ami? Is she afraid of him?”

He had stopped smoking. Joe Delesse saw his face. The stranger’s eyes made him look twice and think twice.

“You have known her—sometime?”

“Yes, a long time ago. “We were children together. And I have heard all has not gone well with her. Is it so?”

“Does it go well when a dove is mated to a vulture, m’sieu?”

“I have also heard that she grew up to be very beautiful,” said Reese Beaudin, “and that Jacques Dupont killed a man for her. If that is so—”

“It is not so,” interrupted Delesse. “He drove another man away—no, not a man, but a yellow-livered coward who had no more fight in him than a porcupine without quills! And yet she says he was not a coward. She has always said, even to Dupont, that it was the way le Bon Dieu made him, and that because he was made that way he was greater than all other men in the North Country. How do I know? Because, m’sieu, I am Elise Dupont’s cousin.”

Delesse wondered why Reese Beaudin’s eyes were glowing like living coals.

“And yet—again, it is only rumor I have heard—they say this man, whoever he was, did actually run away, like a dog that had been whipped and was afraid to return to its kennel.”

“Pst!” Joe Delesse flung his great arms wide. “Like that—he was gone. And no one ever saw him again, or heard of him again. But I know that she knew—my cousin, Elise. What word it was he left for her at the last she has always kept in her own heart, mon Dieu, and what a wonderful thing he had to fight for! You knew the child. But the woman—non? She was like an angel. Her eyes, when you looked into them—hat can I say, m’sieu? They made you forget. And I have seen her hair, unbound, black and glossy as the velvet side of a sable, covering her to the hips. And two years ago I saw Jacques Dupont’s hands in that hair, and he was dragging her by it—”

Something snapped. It was a muscle in Reese Beaudin’s arm. He had stiffened like iron.

“And you let him do that!”

Joe Delesse shrugged his shoulders. It was a shrug of hopelessness, of disgust.

“For the third time I interfered, and for the third time Jacques Dupont beat me until I was nearer dead than alive. And since then I have made it none of my business. It was, after all, the fault of the man who ran away. You see, m’sieu, it was like this: Dupont was mad for her, and this man who ran away—the Yellow-back—wanted her, and Elise loved the Yellow-back. This Yellow-back was twenty-three or four, and he read books, and played a fiddle and drew strange pictures—and was weak in the heart when it came to a fight. But Elise loved him. She loved him for those very things that made him a fool and a weakling, m’sieu, the books and the fiddle and the pictures; and she stood up with the courage for them both. And she would have married him, too, and would have fought for him with a club if it had come to that, when the thing happened that made him run away. It was at the midsummer carnival, when all the trappers and their wives and children were at Lac Bain. And Dupont followed the Yellow-back about like a dog. He taunted him, he insulted him, he got down on his knees and offered to fight him without getting on his feet; and there, before the very eyes of Elise, he washed the Yellow-back’s face in the grease of one of the roasted caribou! And the Yellow-back was a man! Yes, a grown man! And it was then that Jacques Dupont shouted out his challenge to all that crowd. He would fight the Yellow-back. He would fight him with his right arm tied behind his back! And before Elise and the Yellow-back, and all that crowd, friends tied his arm so that it was like a piece of wood behind him, and it was his right arm, his fighting arm, the better half of him that was gone. And even then the Yellow-back was as white as the paper he drew pictures on. Ventre saint gris, but then was his chance to have killed Jacques Dupont! Half a man could have done it. Did he, m’sieu? No, he did not. With his one arm and his one hand Jacques Dupont whipped that Yellow-back, and he would have killed him if Elise had not rushed in to sav e the Yellow-back’s purple face from going dead black. And that night the Yellow-back slunk away. Shame? Yes. From that night he was ashamed to show his face ever again at Lac Bain. And no one knows where he went. No one—except Elise. And her secret is in her own breast.”

“And after that?” questioned Reese Beaudin, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.

“I cannot understand,” said Joe Delesse. “It was strange, m’sieu, very strange. I know that Elise, even after that coward ran away, still loved him. And yet—well, something happened. I overheard a terrible quarrel one day between Jan Thiebout, father of Elise, and Jacques Dupont. After that Thiebout was very much afraid of Dupont. I have my own suspicion. Now that Thiebout is dead it is not wrong for me to say what it is. I think Thiebout killed the halfbreed Bedore who was found dead on his trap-line five years ago. There was a feud between them. And Dupont, discovering Thiebout’s secret—well, you can understand how easy it would be after that, m’sieu. Thiebout’s winter trapping was in that Burntwood country, fifty miles from neighbor to neighbor, and very soon after Bedore’s death Jacques Dupont became Thiebout’s partner. I know that Elise was forced to marry him. That was four years ago. The next year old Thiebout died, and in all that time not once has Elise been to Post Lac Bain!”

“Like the Yellow-back—she never returned,” breathed Reese Beaudin.

“Never. And now—it is strange—”

“What is strange, Joe Delesse?”

“That for the first time in all these years she is going to Lac Bain—to the dog sale.”

Reese Beaudin’s face was again hidden in the smoke of his pipe. Through it his voice came.

“It is a cold night, M’sieu Delesse. Hear the wind howl!”

“Yes, it is cold—so cold the foxes will not run. My traps and poison-baits will need no tending tomorrow.”

“Unless you dig them out of the drifts.”

“I will stay in the cabin.”

“What! You are not going to Lac Bain!”

“I doubt it.”

“Even though Elise, your cousin, is to be there?”

“I have no stomach for it, m’sieu. Nor would you were you in my boots, and did you know why he is going. Par les mille cornes d’u