"It was an old book. One that the man had picked up over in the Hudson Bay country. Its title was torn off, but upon one of its pages was written a man's name, probably the name of the former owner of the book. I have often wondered who he was. The name was Murdo MacFarlane."
"Murdo MacFarlane!" cried the girl, sitting bolt upright, and staring at Brent.
"Yes," answered the man, "Do you know him?"
The girl reached out and tossed her belt to Brent. "It is the name upon the sheath of the knife," she answered, "It is Wananebish's knife. I broke the point of mine."
Brent took the sheath and held it close to the light of the little fire. "Murdo MacFarlane," he deciphered, "Yes, the name is the same." And long after the girl's regular breathing told him she was sleeping, he repeated the name again: "Murdo MacFarlane. I don't know who you were or who you are, if you still live, but whoever you were, or whoever you are—here's good luck to you—Murdo MacFarlane!"
CHAPTER XV
MOONLIGHT
The wind had died down, although the snow continued to fall thickly the following morning, as Brent and Snowdrift crept from the wikiup and struck out for the river. It was heavy going, even the broad webbed snowshoes sinking deeply into the fluffy white smother that covered the wind-packed fall of the night. Brent offered to break trail, but Snowdrift insisted upon taking her turn, and as he labored in her wake, the man marveled at the strength and the untiring endurance of the slender, lithe-bodied girl. He marveled also at the unfailing sureness of her sense of direction. Twice, when he was leading she corrected him and when after nearly four hours of continuous plodding, they stood upon the bank of the river, he realized that without her correction, his course would have carried him miles to the southward.
"Good bye," he smiled, extending his bared hand, when at length they came to the parting of the ways, "I don't want but one of the caribou I shot. Divide the other two between the families of the Indians that skipped out."
Slipping off her mitten, the girl took the proffered hand unhesitatingly and an ecstatic thrill shot through Brent's heart at the touch of the firm slender fingers that closed about his own—a thrill that half-consciously, half-unconsciously, caused him to press the hand that lay warm within his clasp.