he was wildly delirious. Such nursing as was
possible he gave.

The prisoner, like a chained wild beast, glowered at him hungrily. Tom
knew that if West found a chance to kill, he would strike. No scruple
would deter him. The fellow was without conscience, driven by the fear
of the fate that drew nearer with every step southward. His safety and
the desire of revenge marched together. Beresford was out of the way.
It would be his companion's turn next.

After a time the great hulk of a man fell asleep and snored
stertorously. But Tom did not sleep. He dared not. He had to keep
vigilant guard to save both his friend's life and his own. For though
West's hands were tied, it would be the work of only a minute to burn
away with a live coal the thongs that bound them.

The night wore away. There was no question of travel. Beresford was
in the grip of a raging fever and could not be moved. Morse made West
chop wood while he stood over him, rifle in hand. They were short of
food and had expected to go hunting next day. The supplies might last
at best six or seven more meals. What was to be done then? Morse could
not go and leave West where he could get at the man who had put him in
prison and with a dog-train to carry him north. Nor could he let West
have a rifle with which to go in search of game.

There were other problems that made the situation impossible. Another
night was at hand, and again Tom must keep awake to save himself and
his friend from the gorilla-man who watched him, gloated over him,
waited for the moment to come when he could safely strike. And after
that there would be other nights--many of them.

What should he do? What could he do? While he sat beside the delirious
officer, Tom pondered that question. On the other side of the fire lay
the prisoner. Triumph--a horrible, cruel, menacing triumph--rode in
his eye and strutted in his straddling walk when he got up. His hour
was coming. It was coming fast.

Once Tom fell asleep for a cat-nap. He caught himself nodding, and
with a jerk flung back his head and himself to wakefulness. In the air
was a burning odor.

Instinct told him what it was. West had been tampering with the
rawhide thongs round his wrists, had been trying to burn them away.

He made sure that the fellow was still fast, then drank a tin cup of
strong tea. After he had fed the sick man a little caribou broth,
persuading him with infinite patience to take it, a spoonful at a
time, Morse