The revolver of the deputy constable came to light.  “Stop right where you’re at.  Don’t take another step.”

The convict snarled rage, but he did not move.  Some sure instinct warned him what the cold light in the eyes of his captor meant, that if he crept one inch farther toward the weapon he would die in his tracks.

“He—­he jumped me,” the murderer said hoarsely.

“Liar!  You’ve been shammin’ for a week to get a chance at us.  I’d like to gun you now and be done with it.”

“Don’t.”  West moistened dry lips.  “Honest to God he jumped me.  Got mad at somethin’ I said.  I wouldn’t lie to you, Tom.”

Morse kept him covered, circled round him to the rifle, and from there to the sled.  One eye still on the desperado, he searched for the steel handcuffs.  They were gone.  He knew instantly that some time within the past day or two West had got a chance to drop them in the snow.

He found rawhide thongs.

“Lie in the snow, face down,” he ordered.  “Hands behind you and crossed at the wrists.”

Presently the prisoner was securely tied.  Morse fastened him to the sled and returned to Beresford.

The arm was broken above the wrist, just as he had feared.  He set it as best he could, binding it with splints.

The young officer groaned and opened his eyes.  He made a motion to rise.

“Don’t get up,” said Morse.  “You’ve been hurt.”

“Hurt?” Beresford’s puzzled gaze wandered to the prisoner.  A flash of understanding lit it.  “He asked me—­to light—­his pipe—­and when I—­turned—­he hit—­me—­with a club,” the battered man whispered.

“About how I figured it.”

“Afraid—­I’m—­done—­in.”

“Not yet, old pal.  We’ll make a fight for it,” the Montanan answered.

“I’m sick.”  The soldier’s head sank down.  His eyes closed.

All the splendid, lithe strength of his athletic youth had been beaten out of him.  To Morse it looked as though he were done for.  Was it possible for one to take such a terrific mauling and not succumb?  If he were at a hospital, under the care of expert surgeons and nurses, with proper food and attention, he might have a chance in a hundred.  But in this Arctic waste, many hundred miles from the nearest doctor, no food but the coarsest to eat, it would be a miracle if he survived.

The bitter night was drawing in.  Morse drove West in front of him to bring back the wood he had been cutting.  He made the man prepare the rubaboo for their supper.  After the convict had eaten, he bound his hands again and let him lie down in his blankets beside the fire.

Morse did not sleep.  He sat beside his friend and watched the fever mount in him till 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.