A fierce shout from Gouter and his dogs swung round.  The sled under him heeled over, and took a desperate chance on a single runner.  But the half-breed’s skill saved them from catastrophe.  It righted itself, and the dogs slowed to a trot.  Then they halted.  And the occupants of the sled flung themselves prone, with their guns ready for the first sign of movement in the tangled mass of their adversary’s outfit.

* * * * *

Two of the dogs lay buried under the overturned sled.  Three others were sprawling at the end of their rawhide tugs.  They were alive.  They were unhurt.  They lay there taking full advantage of the situation for rest.

But for the moment interest centred round the body of a white man lying some yards away.  A groan of pain came up to the two men standing over him.

Bull dropped on his knees.  He reached down and turned the body over.  The eyes of the man were visible between the sides of his fur hood.  But that was all.

There was a moment of silent contemplation.  Then the injured man struggled desperately to rise.

“Sternford?” he ejaculated

Gouter was on him in a moment.  He heard the tone of voice, and interpreted the man’s movement in his own savage fashion.  He knew the man to be the driver of the team, whom his boss had told him was his man.  So he threw him back and held him.

Bull stood up.  The man’s voice told him all he wanted to know.

“Laval, eh?” he said quietly.  “A second time.  I didn’t expect it.  No.”

Then he laughed and turned away.  And the sound of his laugh possessed something terribly mocking in the night silence of the wilderness.

He passed back to the sled.  There had been two men in it.  He had seen that for himself.

The wreckage looked hopeless.  The sled was completely overturned and its gleaming runners caught and reflected the white rays of the moon.  It had been thrown by reason of the fallen bodies of the dogs which lay under it, pinned by its weight, and additionally held fast by their own tangled harness.

Bull had no thought for anything but the purpose in his mind.  So he reached out and caught the steel runners in his mitted hands and flung the vehicle aside.

Yes, it was there in the midst of a confusion of baggage and lying cheek by jowl with the mangled remains of the dogs.  He cleared the debris, and dragged the dogs aside.  Then he stood and gazed down at the figure that remained.

It was clad in a voluminous beaver coat.  It was hooded, as was every man who faced the fierce Labrador trail.  But—­

The figure moved.  It stirred, and deliberately sat up.  Bull’s hands had been on his guns at the first movement.  But he released them, as the hood fell back from the face which was ghastly pale in the moonlight.

He flung himself on his knees, and tenderly supported the swaying figure.