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Updated: June 14, 2025
I think the storm is over there is no wind and if you are here when day comes " Her fingers loosened. Jolly Roger reached out and somewhere in the darkness he found her hand. It clasped his own firm, warm, thrilling. "I thank you for what you have done," she whispered. "But the law and Breault they have no mercy!"
Suddenly his hands tightened, and the Leaf Bud, watching him slyly, saw the last of suspense go out of his face. "And now they are safe," he cried exultantly. "They must be on their way and Breault has not come across the clearing!" He rose to his feet, and began pacing back and forth, while Peter sniffed yearningly at the door again.
If there was any emotion at all in his face it was one of vindictiveness an emotion roused by an intense and terrible hatred that in this hour saw the fulfilment of its vengeance. Few men nursed a hatred as Breault had nursed his. And it gave him strength now, when another man would have died. He measured the distance between himself and the sledge. It was, perhaps, a dozen paces.
But after a time, with his back and not his face toward Peter, Breault called in the most natural and matter-of-fact voice in the world, "Come on, Peter. Breakfast is ready!" Peter's jaws dropped in amazement.
Blake laughed such a big, healthy, happy laugh, with an odd tremble in it. He stroked her hair again, and his fingers lay for an instant against her warm cheek. And then, quite casually, he played his second big card. "A man was found dead on the trail yesterday," he said. "Some one killed him. He had a bullet through his lung. He was the mail-runner, Francois Breault."
Yet Breault was seeing everything. Five times that morning he saw Peter, but not once did he make a sign or call to him. He drove his raft ashore at twelve o'clock to prepare his dinner, and after he had built a fire, and his cooking things were scattered about, he straightened himself up and called in that same matter-of-fact way, as if expecting an immediate response, "Here, Peter! Peter!
He left the alcohol lamp burning, but in his own room, after he had spread out his bed, he extinguished the light. Then, very quietly, he dug a hole through the snow partition between the two rooms. He waited for ten minutes before he thrust a finger-tip through the last thin crust of snow. With his eye close to the aperture he could see Breault.
For a few minutes after the wolf-man and his hunters had gone from the corral Philip did not move from the window. He almost forgot that the girl was standing behind him. At no time since Pierre Breault had revealed the golden snare had the situation been more of an enigma to him than now. Was Bram Johnson actually mad or was he playing a colossal sham?
But one would not have reckoned it as such in Breault. A hard man, the forests called him; a man with the hunting instincts of the fox and the wolf and the merciless persistency of the weazel a man who lived his code to the last letter of the law, without pity and without favoritism.
"But you've got Peter to thank for it. Peter led me to you." He stood up, and in a most casual fashion covered Jolly Roger with his automatic. "Would you mind stepping out, McKay?" he asked. In his other hand he dangled a pair of handcuffs. McKay stood up, and Nada rose beside him, gripping his arms with both hands. "No need of those things, Breault," he said. "I'll go peaceably."
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