ering. A groan was wrenched from
between his teeth.

"Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully.

It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man kicking around in the
snow.

"I've ripped something loose--here." Mort's palms were pressed in upon
his groin, his fingers were clutching something. "Ruptured--I guess." He
tried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen off and his
forehead glistened with sweat.

Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the first time in many days
that their hands had touched, and the sensation affected him strangely.
He struggled to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that Grant had
played out--it amounted to that and nothing less; the trail had
delivered him into his enemy's hands, his hour had struck. Johnny
determined to square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own mind
clean of that poison which corroded it. His muscles were strong, his
brain clear, he had never felt his strength so irresistible as at this
moment, while Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but a
nerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. Providence had arranged
it all. The younger man was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee,
and yet--his helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him.

He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at the face he had not met
for many days. He saw how white it was, how wet and cold, how weak and
dazed, then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph of his
moment was spoiled.

The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a piece of ice, its helve
protruded handily, but there was no need of it now; his fingers were all
the weapons Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in fact, for
Mort was like a child.

Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North had coarsened him,
yet underneath the surface was a chivalrous regard for all things weak,
and this the trail-madness had not affected. He had longed for this
instant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoyment, since he could
not harm a sick man and waged no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort had
rested, they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a place as
any. The storm hid them, they would leave no traces, there could be no
interruption.

But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; movement brought excruciating
pain.

Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: "Better wrap up and lie still for
a while. I'll get the dogs underway." His words amazed him dully. Th