The Arctic legions

Menaced on all sides by the death-dealing hoofs of migrating caribou, Conroy of the Mounted and Yeyik, the half-breed killer, face a struggle for mastery.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Argosy All-Story Weekly March 2 1929. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The monotonous clicking of deer hoofs on the rock valleys of the Barren Lands, and the faint fingers of light touching the granite ridges, told Corporal Conroy that another day had come.

The Mounted Policeman's bronzed face wrinkled with pain as he shifted his body into another position and glanced across the upthrust bowlder that split the waves of migrating caribou.

Yeyik, the Yellowknife killer, was there, huddled down Indian fashion; he still had Conroy's Colt lying on the flat rock before him. In the half light the Mountie could not determine if the blurred figure opposite were asleep or awake; whether the man had purposely laid the gun there to tantalize him, or whether it was a case of rank carelessness on the Indian's part.

Conroy's eyes became pin points of gray light; the muscles stood out on his neck in little pulsing ridges. With a slow flexing movement the corporal yawned, doubled his arms, threw his shoulders back, and at the same time reached out one long leg toward the revolver.

The Indian made no move.

Another yawn, another stretch, and the Mountie's moccasin was within three inches of the weapon. Conroy blinked his eyes, edged along the rock again, and reached out once more. Still the same space existed between his tensed foot and the gun.

"Hai, hai, hai!" Yeyik's shout came all at once, ringing out over the clatter of hoofs and the clicking of horns. "I make the joke, see? Hai! I am a hunter--a strong hunter. I do not sleep."

With his leathery face split by a wide grin, the half-breed removed his right knee. Then Conroy saw that the native had a moccasin tie-string attached to the Colt's trigger guard. With the babiche cord passing under his knee, the native had been able to pull the weapon along without detection.

"Huh-huh. You're clever--at children's games," the corporal sneered as Yeyik rocked back and forth in silent laughter. "You're not clever enough to save your own hide, though. A poor hunter. Tcha!"

"A strong hunter," the half-breed countered, voice savage all at once as he jerked the gun to him.

"You lie, sikak!" Conroy retorted evenly, hard eyes still on the fingers playing with the Colt's trigger. "A strong hunter? You are but a jest for the old squaws squatting in the teepees.

"There are six shells in the little gun, and yet you are afraid to fire one at me!"

[Illustration: "There are six shells in the gun," the Mounted Policeman said, "yet you are afraid to fire one at me!"]

The Yellowknife brought the Colt's muzzle up in line with the Mountie's heart; then he dropped it again and recommenced fiddling with the trigger guard.

In time he remembered Conroy's reputation for both speed and cunning.

"I am a wise hunter, and no fool," the half-breed hissed in Cree, eyelids flickering. "Hah, one shot. What then? If I miss you, you are upon me like a wolf, and I go to the Big Stone House from which none return. Namoya! I live. If you desire death--behold!"