Sudden realization stabbed Cleaver’s mind. Tim had sneaked out and fed Scarth’s starving huskies so that they would not attack the skin boat!
“Listen,” Noonan’s voice came again. “Yesterday a big floe grounded beyond the point. There was a walrus on it as big as the side of a house. Uluk shot it. Get the idea? With the skin boat gone we couldn’t pull the Arctic angel stuff, and when we fell down on the job Scarth would lug in his walrus an’ get the glad hand from the Esks. Cripes, you’re in a hurry, eh?”
Cleaver had vaulted from the icy ground with a catlike leap. As Noonan lumbered to his feet he heard Scarth’s surprised cry and the halfbreed’s yelp of dismay.
The trader threw himself face down on the beach when the white faced sergeant raced across the slippery shingle. A single lunge brought Scarth to his feet.
Then sounded the slithering of Noonan’s mukluks on the shingle as the little man raced after the grunting halfbreed.
“I take it all back about the dogs, Timsy,” Cleaver yelled at the flying figure. “Damn it, I’ll recommend you for corporal’s stripes for this!”
“Keep ’em!” Noonan’s voice panted. “I’m the detective sergeant of this man’s army, an’ that’s good enough for me. All right, you blubber chewer, try a taste of that!”
Whug! Whug!
Cleaver laughed softly, turning back to the squirming Scarth.
“Look here, you insignificant fragment of decayed whale meat,” he growled at the trader. “You’re too small to pound, but I have something nice in store for you. It’ll be daylight in an hour. You and the breed will cut up that walrus and bring it down here. Then you’ll keep on making soup for the Esks until they’re well again. On top of that you’re going to wash all their clothes and clean up the tupiks. That’s slow motion death, if you ask me. Not a word, you rat. Move!”