ON THE TRAIL OF PIERRE LAPIERRE

Bob MacNair drove a terrific trail.  He was known throughout the Northland as a hard man to follow at any time.  His huge muscles were tireless at the paddle, and upon the rackets his long swinging stride ate up the miles of the snow-trails.  And when Bob MacNair was an a hurry the man who undertook to keep up with him had his work cut out.

When he headed northward after his release from the Fort Saskatchewan Jail, MacNair was in very much of a hurry.  From daylight until far into the dark he urged his malamutes to their utmost.  And Corporal Ripley, who was by no means a chechako, found himself taxed to the limit of his endurance, although never by word or sign did he indicate that the pace was other than of his own choosing.

Fort McMurray, a ten- to fourteen-day trip under good conditions, was reached in seven days.  Fort Chippewayan in three days more, and Fort Resolution a week later—­seventeen days from Athabasca Landing to Fort Resolution—­a record trip for a dog-train!

MacNair was known as a man of few words, but Ripley wondered at the ominous silence with which his every attempt at conversation was met.  During the whole seventeen days of the snow-trail, MacNair scarcely addressed a word to him—­seemed almost oblivious to his presence.

Upon the last day, with the log buildings of Fort Resolution in sight, MacNair suddenly halted the dogs and faced Corporal Ripley.

“Well, what’s your program?” he asked shortly.

“My program,” returned the other, “is to arrest Pierre Lapierre,”

“How are you going to do it?”

“I’ve got to locate him first, the details will work out later.  I’ve been counting a lot on your help and judgment in the matter.”

“Don’t do it!” snapped MacNair.

The other gazed at him in astonishment.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m not going to help you arrest Lapierre.  He’s mine!  I have sworn to get him, and, by God, I will get him!  From now on we are working against each other.”

Ripley flushed, and his eyes narrowed.  “You mean,” he exclaimed, “that you defy the Mounted!  That you refuse to help when you’re called on?”

MacNair laughed.  “You might put it that way, I suppose, but it don’t sound well.  You know me, Ripley.  You know when my word has passed—­when I’ve once started a thing—­I’ll see it through to the limit.  I’ve sworn to get Lapierre.  And I tell you, he’s mine!  Unless you get him first.  You’re a good man, Ripley, and you may do it—­but if you do, when you get back with him, you’ll know you’ve been somewhere.”

The lines of Ripley’s face softened; as a sporting proposition the situation appealed to him.  He thrust out his hand.  “It’s a go, MacNair,” he said, “and let the best man win!”

MacNair wrung the officer’s hand in a mighty grip, and then just as he was on the point of starting his dogs, paused and gazed thoughtfully after the other who was making his way toward the little buildings of Fort Resolution.