A bright moon bathed Kannequoq Inlet, flooding the open spaces with soft radiance, softening the rugged coast’s raw contours. The two men stood motionless, ears filled with the subdued tinkling of the ice pans and the distant honking of some migrant geese seeking open water.
Noonan caught the other man’s sleeve and pointed down to Scarth’s trading post. Cleaver nodded. Yes, the lights were out—and for the first time in a month the unfortunate huskies had ceased howling. He turned to peer down at the constable, but Tim avoided the glance, padding off and beckoning his comrade to follow.
Swinging wide of the settlement below, the little man made his way over the moonlight bathed ridges until at length he arrived at one of the giant boulders that studded the beach. Beyond him, and less than a dozen yards away, the police skin boat lay overturned on the white sands.
“Well?” the sergeant’s glance read as he lowered himself to the cold shingle alongside his comrade.
Noonan made no offer to enlighten him, signaling for silence.
The sergeant and the constable lay motionless, staring up at the stars.
All at once the constable twisted over on his face, when Cleaver’s hard hand gripped his thick arm.
A new sound had been added to the faint night noises. Both Mounties knew what it was; the soft slithering of sealskin boots over the rocks.
Then suddenly two upright figures were blurred against the ice filled waters when Scarth and the halfbreed stepped down from the rocks and padded over to the skin boat. Each man was leading a number of the trader’s huskies.
“Pst!”