them. A gopher, coming to his supper
bush, gave a little squeak of annoyance, and Peter saw the bright eyes
of the midget glaring at him from under a big fern leaf. Peter wagged
his tail, for the savagery of his existence was qualified by that
mellowing sense of humor which had always been a part of his master. He
yipped softly, in a companionable sort of way.

And then there smote upon his ears a sound which hardened every muscle
in his body.

"Throw up your hands, McKay!"

He turned his head. Close to him stood a man. In an instant he had
recognized him. It was the man whose scent he had first discovered down
at Cragg's Ridge, the man from whom his master was always running away,
the man whose voice he had heard again at Yellow Bird's Camp a few
nights ago--Corporal Terence Cassidy, of the Royal Northwest Mounted
Police.

Twenty paces away stood McKay. His dunnage was on his back, his paddle
in his hand. And Cassidy, smiling grimly, a dangerous humor in his eyes,
was leveling an automatic at his breast. It was, in that instant, a
tableau which no man could ever forget. Cassidy was bareheaded, and the
sun burned hotly in his red hair. And his face was red, and in the pale
blue of his Irish eyes was a fierce joy of achievement. At last, after
months and years, the thrilling game of One against One was at an end.
Cassidy had made the last move, and he was winner.

For half a minute after the command to throw up his hands McKay did not
move. And Cassidy did not repeat the command, for he sensed the shock
that had fallen upon his adversary, and was charitable enough to give
him time. And then, with something like a deep sigh from between his
lips, Jolly Roger's body sagged. The dunnage dropped from his shoulder
to the sand. The paddle slipped from his hand. Slowly he raised his arms
above his head, and Cassidy laughed softly.

A few days ago McKay would have grinned back, coolly, good humoredly,
appreciative of the other's craftsmanship even in the hour of his
defeat. But today there was another soul within him.

His eyes no longer saw the old Cassidy, brave and loyal to his duty,
a chivalrous enemy, the man he had yearned to love as brother loves
brother, even in the hours of sharpest pursuit. In Cassidy he saw now
the hangman himself. The whole world had turned against him, and in this
hour of his greatest despair and hopelessness a bitter fate had turned
up Cassidy to deal him the finishing blow.

A swift rag