This afternoon Breault shot a fawn, and when he made camp that night both he and Peter feasted on fresh meat.

This broke down the last of Peter's suspicion, and Breault laid a hand on his head.

He did not particularly like the feel of the hand, but he tolerated it, and Breault grunted aloud, with a note of commendation in his hard voice.
"A one-man dog--never anything else." Half a dozen times during the day Peter had found the scent of Nada and Roger where they had come ashore, and from this night on he associated Breault as a necessary agent in his search for them.

And with Breault he went, instinctively guessing the truth.
The next day they found where Nada and McKay had abandoned the canoe, and had struck south through the wilderness.

This pleased Breault, who was tired of his poling.