Morganson rested his cocked rifle in the notch in the tree.  He became abruptly aware that his fingers were cold, and discovered that his right hand was bare.  He did not know that he had taken off the mitten.  He slipped it on again hastily.  The men and dogs drew closer, and he could see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air.  When the first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his right hand.  He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low.  When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the trail.

In the instant of surprise, Morganson pulled the trigger on John Thompson—­too low, for the latter staggered and sat down suddenly on the sled.  Morganson raised his aim and fired again.  John Thompson sank down backward along the top of the loaded sled.

Morganson turned his attention to Oleson.  At the same time that he noted the latter running away towards Minto he noted that the dogs, coming to where the first man’s body blocked the trail, had halted.  Morganson fired at the fleeing man and missed, and Oleson swerved.  He continued to swerve back and forth, while Morganson fired twice in rapid succession and missed both shots.  Morganson stopped himself just as he was pulling the trigger again.  He had fired six shots.  Only one more cartridge remained, and it was in the chamber.  It was imperative that he should not miss his last shot.

He held his fire and desperately studied Oleson’s flight.  The giant was grotesquely curving and twisting and running at top speed along the trail, the tail of his parka flapping smartly behind.  Morganson trained his rifle on the man and with a swaying action followed his erratic flight.  Morganson’s finger was getting numb.  He could scarcely feel the trigger.  “God help me,” he breathed a prayer aloud, and pulled the trigger.  The running man pitched forward on his face, rebounded from the hard trail, and slid along, rolling over and over.  He threshed for a moment with his arms and then lay quiet.

Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge was gone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow.  Now that he had sprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longer necessary.  He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers making involuntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens.

The snarling of the dogs halted him.  The leader, a heavy dog, half Newfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man that lay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and bared fangs.  The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling and snarling.  Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towards him.  He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening and cajoling by turns.  He noticed the face of the man under the leader’s feet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebb of life and the entrance of the frost.  John Thompson lay back along the top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black beard pointing skyward.