“Your guess is just as good as any,” the Canadian admitted.  “He’s cut out a man-sized job for himself.  I’ll say that for him.  It’s a five-to-one bet he never gets through alive, even if we don’t nab him.”

“What else can he do?  He’s got to keep going or be dragged back to be hanged.  I’d travel too if I were in his place.”

“So would I. He’s certainly hitting her up.  Wish he’d break his leg for a week or two,” the constable said airily.

They swung into a dense spruce swamp and jumped up a half-grown bear.  He was so close to them that Tom, who was breaking trail, could see his little shining eyes.  Morse was carrying his rifle, in the hope that he might see a lynx or a moose.  The bear turned to scamper away, but the intention never became a fact.  A bullet crashed through the head and brought the animal down.

An hour later they reached an Indian camp on the edge of a lake.  On stages, built well up from the ground, drying fish were hanging out of reach of the dogs.  These animals came charging toward the travelers as usual, lean, bristling, wolfish creatures that never had been half-tamed.

Beresford lashed them back with the whip.  Indians came out from the huts, matted hair hanging over their eyes.  After the usual greetings and small presents had been made, the man-hunters asked questions.

“Great Bear Lake—­wah-he-o-che (how far)?”

The head man opened his eyes.  Nobody in his right mind went to the great water at this time of year.  It was maybe fifteen, maybe twenty days’ travel.  Who could tell?  Were all the fair skins mad?  Only three days since another dog-train had passed through driven by a big shaggy man who had left them no presents after he had bought fish.  Three whites in as many days, and before that none but voyageur half-breeds in twice that number of years.

The trooper let out a boyish whoop.  “Gaining fast.  Only three days behind him, Tom.  If our luck stands up, he’ll never reach the Great Bear.”

There was reason back of Beresford’s exultant shout.  At least one of West’s dogs had bleeding feet.  This the stained snow on the trail told them.  Either the big man had no shoes for the animals or was too careless to use them when needed, the constable had suggested to his friend.

“It’s not carelessness,” Morse said.  “It’s his bullying nature.  Likely he’s got the shoes, only he won’t put ’em on.  He’ll beat the poor brute over the head instead and curse his luck when he breaks down.  He’s too bull-headed to be a good driver.”

On the fourth day after this they came upon one of the minor tragedies of sub-Arctic travel.  The skeleton of a dog lay beside the trail.  Its bones had been picked clean by its ravenous cannibal companions.

“Three left,” Beresford commented.  “He’ll be figuring on picking up another when he meets any Indians or Eskimos.”

“If he does it won’t be any good to work with his train.  I believe we’ve got him.  He isn’t twenty-five miles ahead of us right now.”