f trees. To the fore
was the third man whose name he had not learnt. Then came eight dogs
drawing the sled. At the front of the sled, guiding it by the gee-pole,
walked John Thompson. The rear was brought up by Oleson, the Swede. He
was certainly a fine man, Morganson thought, as he looked at the bulk of
him in his squirrel-skin _parka_. The men and dogs were silhouetted
sharply against the white of the landscape. They had the seeming of two
dimension, cardboard figures that worked mechanically.

Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree. He became
abruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his right
hand was bare. He did not know that he had taken off the mitten. He
slipped it on again hastily. The men and dogs drew closer, and he could
see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When the
first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his
right hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low.
When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the
trail.

In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on John
Thompson--too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on the
sled. Morganson raised his aim and fired again. John Thompson sank down
backward along the top of the loaded sled.

Morganson turned his attention to Oleson. At the same time that he noted
the latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming to
where the first man's body blocked the trail, had halted. Morganson
fired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved. He continued to
swerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid succession
and missed both shots. Morganson stopped himself just as he was pulling
the trigger again. He had fired six shots. Only one more cartridge
remained, and it was in the chamber. It was imperative that he should
not miss his last shot.

He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson's flight. The giant was
grotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along the
trail, the tail of his _parka_ flapping smartly behind. Morganson
trained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed his
erratic flight. Morganson's finger was getting numb. He could scarcely
feel the trigger. "God help me," he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulled
the trigger. The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded from
the hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over.