Nor after that did he pay the slightest attention to Peter.

For Breault knew dogs possibly even better than he knew men, and not by the smallest sign did he give Peter to understand that he was interested in him at all.

He washed his dishes, whistling and humming, reloaded his pack on the raft, and once more began poling his way downstream.
Peter, still in the edge of the scrub, was not only puzzled, but felt a further sense of abandonment.

After all, this man was not his enemy, and he was leaving him as his master and mistress had left him.

He whined.
And Breault was not out of sight when he trotted down to the sandbar, and quickly found the scent of Nada and McKay.