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Page 51
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.
Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail
into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the
sled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in its
tangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could move
only slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried to
retreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge,
sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn,
but Morganson managed to drag himself clear.
He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied with
neck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against their
breastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them and
went along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. It
was bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not know
it.
Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede,
who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was like
white marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carved
statue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before.
Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was no
money-belt around the waist next to the skin, nor did he find a
gold-sack. In a breast pocket he lit on a small wallet. With fingers
that swiftly went numb with the frost, he hurried through the contents
of the wallet. There were letters with foreign stamps and postmarks on
them, and several receipts and memorandum accounts, and a letter of
credit for eight hundred dollars. That was all. There was no money.
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