Creeping around the edge of a smoking headland, he had
caught sight of a man and a canoe.
"There's a man in a canoe!" he cried, "He sees us! O'Grady--"
He tried to lift himself, but fell back with a groan. Then he laughed,
and, in spite of his agony, there was a quivering happiness in his voice.
"He's coming, O'Grady. And it looks--it looks like a canoe we both know.
We'll go back to her cabin together, O'Grady. And when we're on our legs
again--well, I never wanted the gold. That's yours--all of it."
A determined look had settled in O'Grady's face. He groped his way to
Jan's side, and their hands met in a clasp that told more than either
could have expressed of the brotherhood and strength of men.
"You can't throw me off like that, Jan Larose," he said. "We're
pardners!"
THE MATCH
Sergeant Brokaw was hatchet-faced, with shifting pale blue eyes that had
a glint of cruelty in them. He was tall, and thin, and lithe as a cat. He
belonged to the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and was one of the best
men on the trail that had ever gone into the North. His business was man
hunting. Ten years of seeking after human prey had given to him many of
the characteristics of a fox. For six of those ten years he had
represented law north of fifty-three. Now he had come to the end of his
last hunt, close up to the Arctic Circle. For one hundred and
eighty-seven days he had been following a man.
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