Peter wagged his tail, for the savagery of his existence was qualified by that mellowing sense of humor which had always been a part of his master.

He yipped softly, in a companionable sort of way.
And then there smote upon his ears a sound which hardened every muscle in his body.
"Throw up your hands, McKay!" He turned his head.

Close to him stood a man.

In an instant he had recognized him.

It was the man whose scent he had first discovered down at Cragg's Ridge, the man from whom his master was always running away, the man whose voice he had heard again at Yellow Bird's Camp a few nights ago--Corporal Terence Cassidy, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police.
Twenty paces away stood McKay.