was another lantern, borne in the hand
of another fur-clad figure. It passed through the gateway. A string
of panting dogs followed close behind, clawing at the ground for
foothold, bellies low to the ground as they hauled at the rawhide tugs
which harnessed them to their burden behind. One by one they passed
the waiting figure. One by one they were swallowed up by the blackness
within the Fort. Five in all were counted. Then came a long dark
shape, which glided over the snow with a soft, hissing sound.

The waiting man made a sign with his mitted hand as the shape passed
him. His lips moved in silent prayer. Then he turned to the gates.
They swung to. The heavy bars lumbered into their places under his
guidance. Then, as though in the bitterness of disappointment, the
howling gale flung itself with redoubled fury against them, till the
stout timbers creaked and groaned under the wanton attack.

CHAPTER VI

JOHN KARS

Seven months of dreadful winter had passed. Seven months since the
mutilated body of Allan Mowbray had been packed home by dog-train to
its last resting place within the storm-swept Fort he had labored so
hard to serve. It was the open season again. That joyous season of
the annual awakening of the northern world from its nightmare of stress
and storm, a nightmare which drives human vitality down to the very
limit of its mental and physical endurance.

Father Jose and Ailsa Mowbray had been absent from the post for the
last three months of the winter. Their return from Leaping Horse, the
golden heart of the northern wild, had occurred at the moment when the
ice-pack had vanished from the rivers, and the mud-sodden trail had
begun to harden under the brisk, drying winds of spring. They had made
the return journey at the earliest moment, before the summer movements
of the glacial fields had converted river and trail into a constant
danger for the unwary.

Allan Mowbray had left his affairs in Father Jose's hands. They were
as simple and straight as a simple man could make them. The will had
contained no mention of his partner, Murray's name, except in the way
of thanks. To the little priest he had confided the care of his
bereaved family. And it was obvious, from the wording of his will,
that the burden thus imposed upon his lifelong friend had been
willingly undertaken.

His wishes were clear, concise. All his property, all his business
interests were for his wife. Apart