Half a pistol shot down the trail he saw indistinctly the twisting of black objects in the snow, and as he stared one of the objects came toward him.
"Do not fire, M'seur Howland," he heard a voice call.

"It ees I--Jean Croisset, a friend! Blessed Saints, that was--what you call heem ?--close heem ?--close call ?" The half-breed's thin dark face came up smiling out of the white gloom.
For a moment Howland did not see him, scarcely heard his words.

Wildly he looked about him for the girl.

She was gone.
"I happened here--just in time--with a club," continued Croisset.

"Come, we must go." The smile had gone from his face and there was a commanding firmness in the grip that fell on the young engineer's arm.