Public-domain ebook
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In: Crime, Thrillers and Mystery·Adventure·Novels
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #74699.
The opening · free to read
An amazing man-hunt in Arctic snows--and how Sergeant Hardy and Keith Morely played the game, each according to his own strict code.
“Halt!”
The curt command cut through the frost-bound silence. The Northern mail driver froze in his tracks.
He shot a glance at his companion, Sergeant Hardy, and saw the officer had whipped his .45 Colt from its holster.
“Quick on the draw, aren’t you? But I’ve got you both covered. Put that gun back in your holster before I count three, or this load of shot will blow your head off.”
The voice came from above. Intently the two men on the narrow defile below scanned the overhanging show-covered rocks, but no form was visible.
“One--” The relentless voice had begun to count.
“Two--”
Grimly Sergeant Hardy slipped his gun in its holster. “The winner of the opening hand does not always win the game,” he thought, dispassionately.
“I want the mail bag,” the unseen speaker went on. “Put the bag on that rock shelf on the right, and be quick.”
Intently the officer listened to that voice. So carefully did he memorize every inflection in it, he would recognize it immediately, anywhere.
“Keep cool, King. He has the advantage now.” Sergeant Hardy’s voice was low, reassuring, but his eyes, hard, vigilant swept the rocks above him carefully.
“Must I put the mail--”
“Yes, or he’ll blow both of our heads off. He has you covered now.”
“Hurry up there.” Impatiently the voice rang out. The man, in his eagerness, leaned over the jutting rock on which he lay. In that instant Hardy obtained a good look at the face of the man.
It was a young face. Not more than thirty or so, clean-shaven. The features were fine, regular, with well molded chin. The man drew back swiftly as his eyes met the officer’s.
Reluctantly the driver deposited the bag of mail on the designated shelf.
“Now, keep going. And, remember, the trail is straight ahead. I can see you both for a mile. Try to double back and I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Nevertheless I’ll see you--again.” Hardy’s voice was still cool, dispassionate. It was as though he said, “this is fine traveling weather.”
“Mush on, King,” Hardy urged in a low voice.
The trail lay clear. Not a dark spot broke its gleaming covering.
Repeatedly Hardy looked back. The fur-clad figure of the man stood motionless. He had descended from his rocky perch, and now stood on the trail watching the swiftly moving dogs, sled and men.
Eagerly he bent over the mail.
Hardy, in a swift backward glance, saw that stooping figure. Instantly he fell out of the dog train.
“Keep going. Notify district headquarters. I’m going back for my man.” The words came with shot-like swiftness.
Keith Morely straightened from the mail bags, gazed ahead. Surely there was but one man with the team! Yet the trail still led straight, unbroken by any dark object, save the one man, the dogs and sled.
Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes. A man could not vanish in thin air?
The mail driver plied the whip, the dogs raced. He would rather have stayed with the sergeant, fought the thing through, shoulder to shoulder. But the officer had spoken, and he was the law!
Finally he cautiously raised his snow-covered hooded head. He saw the man standing motionless, then watched him turn, scale the slabs of rock until he reached the top, and disappear.
Lithe as a cat, Hardy scaled the overhanging rocks. Crouching like an Indian, his soft ankle-depth moccasins over his boots as noiseless as the footfall of a cougar, he sped after Keith Morely.
“Thank the powers for a fine day,” Hardy thought. The sun shone dazzlingly. The prisms of a million ice-drops on shrub and tree flashed like jewels, bewilderingly beautiful.
Warily, Hardy followed the moccasin imprints left on the crusted snow.
“He is heading directly away from the trail, and he knows exactly where he’s going. No hesitation in his stride. Ha, he has stopped here to put on his webs.”
The snow was crushed into a circular basin where the man had sat to don his snow shoes.
At a little distance ahead came the shrill scolding voices of a pair of chickadees. Hardy nodded in satisfaction. He knew some passing creature had startled the birds. It was their custom to give warning thus from their lofty perches.
The trail led from the rocky plateau through a narrow ravine to the open ground beyond. Keeping a sharp lookout, Hardy paused in this ravine to don his webs, then took up the trail.
“The man is a bird; he doesn’t web, he flies!” the officer muttered. “I’m pretty fast myself, but he is faster.”
For hours he followed. The sun was casting crimson shadows; the sparse woods grew denser; the short day became the short twilight.
Hardy was strangely tired, but he was not growing cold, though the air was sharpening. It became too dark to distinguish the faint imprint of the webs. Hardy paused, debating whether to build a fire, then walked on, seeking suitable site for night camp.
There appeared to be a clearing ahead. A dark snow-capped smudge sprang before his eyes. “A cabin,” he ejaculated. “I’ll spend the night there.”
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