Billy shrugged his shoulders. His voice was almost affable.
“Hate to tell you who was with me, Bucky,” he laughed, “I came in late last night, half dead, and found a half-breed camped here— in that silk tent. He was quite chummy— mighty fine chap. Young fellow, too— almost a kid. When I got up this morning—” Billy shrugged his shoulders again and pointed to his empty pistol holster. “Everything was gone— dogs, sledge, extra tent, even my rifle and automatic. He wasn’t quite bad, though, for he left me my grub. He was a funny cuss, too. Look at that!” He pointed to the bakneesh wreath that still hung to the front of his tent. “`In honor of the living,’” he read, aloud, “Just a sort of reminder, you know, that he might have hit me on the head with a club if he’d wanted to.” He came nearer to Bucky, and said, good-naturedly: “I guess you’ve got me beat this time, Bucky. Scottie Deane is pretty safe from me, wherever he is. I haven’t even got a gun!”
“He must have left a trail,” remarked Bucky, eying him shrewdly.
“He did— out there!”
As Bucky went to examine what was left of the trail Billy thanked Heaven that Deane had placed Isobel on the sledge before he left camp. There was nothing to betray her presence. Walker had unlaced their outfit, and Billy was busy preparing a meal when Bucky returned. There was a sneer on his lips.
“Didn’t know you was that easy,” he said. “Wonder why he didn’t take his tent! Pretty good tent, isn’t it?”
He went inside. A minute later he appeared at the flap and called to Billy.
“Look here!” he said, and there was a tremble of excitement in his voice. His eyes were blazing with an ugly triumph. “Your half-breed had pretty long hair, didn’t he?”
He pointed to a splinter on one of the light tent-poles. Billy’s heart gave a sudden jump. A tress of Isobel’s long, loose hair had caught in the splinter, and a dozen golden-brown strands had remained to give him away. For a moment he forgot that Bucky Smith was watching him. He saw Isobel again as she had last entered the tent, her beautiful hair flowing in a firelit glory about her, her eyes still filled with tender gratitude. Once more he felt the warmth of her lips, the touch of her hand, the thrill of her presence near him. Perhaps these emotions covered any suspicious movement or word by which he might otherwise have betrayed himself. By the time they were gone he had recovered himself, and he turned to his companion with a low laugh.
“It’s a woman’s hair, all right, Bucky. He told me all sorts of nice things about a girl `back home.’ They must have been true.”