After a time the great hulk of a man fell asleep and snored stertorously.  But Tom did not sleep.  He dared not.  He had to keep vigilant guard to save both his friend’s life and his own.  For though West’s hands were tied, it would be the work of only a minute to burn away with a live coal the thongs that bound them.

The night wore away.  There was no question of travel.  Beresford was in the grip of a raging fever and could not be moved.  Morse made West chop wood while he stood over him, rifle in hand.  They were short of food and had expected to go hunting next day.  The supplies might last at best six or seven more meals.  What was to be done then?  Morse could not go and leave West where he could get at the man who had put him in prison and with a dog-train to carry him north.  Nor could he let West have a rifle with which to go in search of game.

There were other problems that made the situation impossible.  Another night was at hand, and again Tom must keep awake to save himself and his friend from the gorilla-man who watched him, gloated over him, waited for the moment to come when he could safely strike.  And after that there would be other nights—­many of them.

What should he do?  What could he do?  While he sat beside the delirious officer, Tom pondered that question.  On the other side of the fire lay the prisoner.  Triumph—­a horrible, cruel, menacing triumph—­rode in his eye and strutted in his straddling walk when he got up.  His hour was coming.  It was coming fast.

Once Tom fell asleep for a cat-nap.  He caught himself nodding, and with a jerk flung back his head and himself to wakefulness.  In the air was a burning odor.

Instinct told him what it was.  West had been tampering with the rawhide thongs round his wrists, had been trying to burn them away.

He made sure that the fellow was still fast, then drank a tin cup of strong tea.  After he had fed the sick man a little caribou broth, persuading him with infinite patience to take it, a spoonful at a time, Morse sat down again to wear out the hours of darkness.

The problem that pressed on him could no longer be evaded.  A stark decision lay before him.  To postpone it was to choose one of the alternatives.  He knew now, almost beyond any possibility of doubt, that either West must die or else he and his friend.  If he had not snatched himself awake so promptly an hour ago, Win and he would already be dead men.  It might be that the constable was going to die, anyhow, but he had a right to his chance of life.

On the other hand there was one rigid rule of the North-West Mounted.  The Force prided itself on living up to it literally.  When a man was sent out to get a prisoner, he brought him in alive.  It was a tradition.  The Mounted did not choose the easy way of killing lawbreakers because of the difficulty of capturing them.  They walked through danger, usually with aplomb, got their man, and brought him in.