(no subject)
Mackenzie is hundreds of miles away by now and weeks behind him. The little man the criminals of the North Country call the Silver Corporal hasn't forgotten the nightmare warnings of the people of Milliways, exactly. He's just put the place from his mind for a time. There've been more important things to do- illegal liquor sales to the Indians to bust up, gangs of thieves to put down, and a murderer to catch.
He's still on Shipman's trail, in fact. The man's got a two-day lead, but that's not likely to last long. His stolen dogs are older, tireder, unused to running for a master who uses the whip. His dogs are smaller, but they're more quick-footed, and they've got the hardy endurance and hybrid vigor of every decent Northern breed in them. The four of them'll outlast Shipman's stolen eight any day of the week, he's sure. Besides, the fugitive's got to stop now and again to blot out his trail. That's going to slow him down.
He's thinking these things, and he's watching the trail ahead, when his lead dog suddenly whines. The husky (the Corporal's never named his dogs; he reckons they've got perfectly good names in Dog) is usually the most silent of the four. That's not a good sign. "Whoa up," says the little Mountie, voice scarcely audible over the wind, and the dogs obey.
He hops away from the sled and the trail and comes up to the lead animal, scanning the snowy woods ahead. Nothing he can see looks too dangerous. "What's wrong?" he asks softly, and the dog whines again. When the dog pushes his nose against his master's hand, the Silver Corporal knows there's something wrong. He unbuckles the dog's harness. "Stay," he whispers to the others, and "Show me," he says to the lead dog. Brown and white fur flash in the wintry twilight as the dog bounds off down Shipman's trail, pausing only to look over his shoulder expectantly at his master.
The policeman follows, knowing the rest of his team isn't going anywhere. Neither is the dog they find a few yards into the snowy woods, abandoned- by Shipman most likely, as she's too big to belong to any of the Indian villages hereabouts. She's not long for the world, unfortunately. In her weakened condition, after such a long struggle, there's really only one mercy left for the poor thing. How Shipman could've been so colossally stupid as to steal a pregnant husky, the Corporal doesn't know. It's four more counts of blood to lay at the man's feet when he's captured, though- dog and pups alike. There's only one survivor.
The Eskimos say the Silver Corporal is a man who can wrestle a wolf to the ground without being bit, or break the neck of a bull moose with his bare hands. They call him a tongak for his seemingly impossible deeds- a spirit from the otherworld, a man of magic.
"You go back to the team, all right?" he says to his lead dog as he scoops up the tiny shivering last-born and slips it inside his parka. "I dunno how long I'm gonna be."
He reckons he'll find Milliways just under the hanging fir branches up ahead. Time to find out just how good the 'magic' they credit him with really is.
He's still on Shipman's trail, in fact. The man's got a two-day lead, but that's not likely to last long. His stolen dogs are older, tireder, unused to running for a master who uses the whip. His dogs are smaller, but they're more quick-footed, and they've got the hardy endurance and hybrid vigor of every decent Northern breed in them. The four of them'll outlast Shipman's stolen eight any day of the week, he's sure. Besides, the fugitive's got to stop now and again to blot out his trail. That's going to slow him down.
He's thinking these things, and he's watching the trail ahead, when his lead dog suddenly whines. The husky (the Corporal's never named his dogs; he reckons they've got perfectly good names in Dog) is usually the most silent of the four. That's not a good sign. "Whoa up," says the little Mountie, voice scarcely audible over the wind, and the dogs obey.
He hops away from the sled and the trail and comes up to the lead animal, scanning the snowy woods ahead. Nothing he can see looks too dangerous. "What's wrong?" he asks softly, and the dog whines again. When the dog pushes his nose against his master's hand, the Silver Corporal knows there's something wrong. He unbuckles the dog's harness. "Stay," he whispers to the others, and "Show me," he says to the lead dog. Brown and white fur flash in the wintry twilight as the dog bounds off down Shipman's trail, pausing only to look over his shoulder expectantly at his master.
The policeman follows, knowing the rest of his team isn't going anywhere. Neither is the dog they find a few yards into the snowy woods, abandoned- by Shipman most likely, as she's too big to belong to any of the Indian villages hereabouts. She's not long for the world, unfortunately. In her weakened condition, after such a long struggle, there's really only one mercy left for the poor thing. How Shipman could've been so colossally stupid as to steal a pregnant husky, the Corporal doesn't know. It's four more counts of blood to lay at the man's feet when he's captured, though- dog and pups alike. There's only one survivor.
The Eskimos say the Silver Corporal is a man who can wrestle a wolf to the ground without being bit, or break the neck of a bull moose with his bare hands. They call him a tongak for his seemingly impossible deeds- a spirit from the otherworld, a man of magic.
"You go back to the team, all right?" he says to his lead dog as he scoops up the tiny shivering last-born and slips it inside his parka. "I dunno how long I'm gonna be."
He reckons he'll find Milliways just under the hanging fir branches up ahead. Time to find out just how good the 'magic' they credit him with really is.