In the minutes that followed Falkner scarcely breathed.  He could feel the mouse when it worked.  Above the stifled beating of his heart he could hear its tiny jaws.  In those moments he knew that his last hope of life hung in the balance.  Five, ten minutes passed, and not until then did he strain at the thongs that bound his wrists.  Was that the bed that had snapped?  Or was it the breaking of one of the babiche cords?  He strained harder.  The thongs were loosening; his wrists were freer; with a cry that sent the mouse scurrying to the floor he doubled himself half erect, and fought like a madman.  Five minutes later and he was free.

He staggered to his feet, and looked at his wrists.  They were torn and bleeding.  His second thought was of Corporal Carr—­and a weapon.  The man-hunter had taken the precaution to empty the chambers of Falkner’s revolver and rifle and throw his cartridges out in the snow.  But his skinning-knife was still in its sheath and belt, and he buckled it about his waist.  He had no thought of killing Carr, though he hated the man almost to the point of murder.  But his lips set in a grim smile as he thought of what he would do.

He knew that when Carr returned he would not enter at once into the cabin.  He was the sort of man who would never take an unnecessary chance.  He would go first to the little window—­and look in.  Falkner turned the lamp-wick lower, and placed the lamp on the table directly between the window and the bunk.  Then he rolled his blankets into something like a human form, and went to the window to see the effect.  The bunk was in deep shadow.  From the window Corporal Carr could not see beyond the lamp.  Then Falkner waited, out of range of the window, and close to the door.

It was not long before he heard something above the wailing of the storm.  It was the whine of a dog, and he knew that a moment later the Corporal’s ghostly face was peering in at the window.  Then there came the sudden, swift opening of the door, and Carr sprang in like a cat, his hand on the butt of his revolver, still obeying that first governing law of his merciless life—­caution, Falkner was so near that he could reach out and touch Carr, and in an instant he was at his enemy’s throat.  Not a cry fell from Carr’s lips.  There was death in the terrible grip of Falkner’s hands, and like one whose neck had been broken Carr sank to the floor.  Falkner’s grip tightened, and he did not loosen it until Carr was black in the face and his jaw fell open.  Then Falkner bound him hand and foot with the babiche thongs, and dragged him to the bunk.

Through the open door one of the sledge-dogs had thrust his head and shoulders.  It was a Barracks team, accustomed to warmth and shelter, and Falkner had no difficulty in getting the leader and his three mates inside.  To make friends with them he fed them chunks of raw caribou meat, and when Carr opened his eyes he was busy packing.  He laughed joyously when he saw that the man-hunter had regained consciousness, and was staring at him with evident malice.