snarled rage, but he did not move. Some sure instinct
warned him what the cold light in the eyes of his captor meant, that
if he crept one inch farther toward the weapon he would die in his
tracks.

"He--he jumped me," the murderer said hoarsely.

"Liar! You've been shammin' for a week to get a chance at us. I'd like
to gun you now and be done with it."

"Don't." West moistened dry lips. "Honest to God he jumped me. Got mad
at somethin' I said. I wouldn't lie to you, Tom."

Morse kept him covered, circled round him to the rifle, and from there
to the sled. One eye still on the desperado, he searched for the steel
handcuffs. They were gone. He knew instantly that some time within the
past day or two West had got a chance to drop them in the snow.

He found rawhide thongs.

"Lie in the snow, face down," he ordered. "Hands behind you and
crossed at the wrists."

Presently the prisoner was securely tied. Morse fastened him to the
sled and returned to Beresford.

The arm was broken above the wrist, just as he had feared. He set it
as best he could, binding it with splints.

The young officer groaned and opened his eyes. He made a motion to
rise.

"Don't get up," said Morse. "You've been hurt."

"Hurt?" Beresford's puzzled gaze wandered to the prisoner. A flash
of understanding lit it. "He asked me--to light--his pipe--and when
I--turned--he hit--me--with a club," the battered man whispered.

"About how I figured it."

"Afraid--I'm--done--in."

"Not yet, old pal. We'll make a fight for it," the Montanan answered.

"I'm sick." The soldier's head sank down. His eyes closed.

All the splendid, lithe strength of his athletic youth had been beaten
out of him. To Morse it looked as though he were done for. Was it
possible for one to take such a terrific mauling and not succumb? If
he were at a hospital, under the care of expert surgeons and nurses,
with proper food and attention, he might have a chance in a hundred.
But in this Arctic waste, many hundred miles from the nearest doctor,
no food but the coarsest to eat, it would be a miracle if he survived.

The bitter night was drawing in. Morse drove West in front of him to
bring back the wood he had been cutting. He made the man prepare the
rubaboo for their supper. After the convict had eaten, he bound his
hands again and let him lie down in his blankets beside the fire.

Morse did not sleep. He sat beside his friend and watched the fever
mount in him till