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.
"Hello, Carr," he greeted affably. "Feeling better? Tables sort of
turned, ain't they?"
Carr made no answer. His white lips were set like thin bands of steel.
"I'm getting ready to leave you," Falkner explained, as he rolled up a
blanket and shoved it into his rubber pack-pouch.
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