Code of the Mounted

Long and steadily he stared at the uniform—his own, of course!
By Floria Howe Bruess
An amazing man-hunt in Arctic snows—and how Sergeant Hardy and Keith Morely played the game, each according to his own strict code.
“Halt!”
The curt command cut through the frost-bound silence. The Northern mail driver froze in his tracks.
He shot a glance at his companion, Sergeant Hardy, and saw the officer had whipped his .45 Colt from its holster.
“Quick on the draw, aren’t you? But I’ve got you both covered. Put that gun back in your holster before I count three, or this load of shot will blow your head off.”
The voice came from above. Intently the two men on the narrow defile below scanned the overhanging show-covered rocks, but no form was visible.
“One—” The relentless voice had begun to count.
“Two—”
Grimly Sergeant Hardy slipped his gun in its holster. “The winner of the opening hand does not always win the game,” he thought, dispassionately.
“I want the mail bag,” the unseen speaker went on. “Put the bag on that rock shelf on the right, and be quick.”