From the "dig-in" of the snow-bank where he had spent the blizzard night in comparative comfort, Constable La Marr of the Royal Mounted looked out upon a full-grown day. The storm that had driven him to shelter had passed, or at least was taking a rest. For once he had overslept and where days, even in winter's youth, are but seven hours long, the fault caused him chagrin.
That a "Mountie" in close pursuit of a murder suspect should have made such a slip was disconcerting even to one so young as La Marr. He found little consolation in the fact that when he had enlisted in the Force he had not dreamed of an Arctic assignment, but had expected one of those gayly uniformed details in Montreal or Quebec.
His concern, if the news ever leaked out, was of the reaction upon his immediate superior, Staff-Sergeant Russell Seymour. But small chance of that leakage unless he himself weakened—or strengthened—and tested the adage that confession is good for the soul. Seymour, a grimly handsome wolf of the North in command of the detachment post at Armistice, was now two months absent on an irksome detail of snow patrol, one that should have fallen to the rookie constable, except for his inexperience.
La Marr stamped out of the snow-hole that had sheltered him and restored circulation by vigorous gymnastics. Light as was his trail equipment, being without sled or dogs, he had not suffered, having learned rapidly the first protective measures of the Arctic "cop."
He was about to make a belated breakfast from his emergency pack when his glance chanced toward the north and focused upon a furred figure headed down the snow ruff on a course that would bring him within easy reach.
"Aye, not so bad!" he congratulated audibly. "I get me man by sleeping on his trail!"
He chuckled as he watched the snow-shoed Eskimo stumble directly toward the trap that was set for him by chance of Morpheus.
Yet the young constable took no chances.
A murder had been committed two days before at Armistice, almost within the shadow of the police post. The crime seemed a particularly atrocious one to him from the fact that a white man, a trader's clerk, had been the victim. Any Eskimo who would go to such lengths was either desperate or insane. La Marr felt called upon to be very much on guard as he waited within the shelter of the snow-trap.
He had not a doubt that the native approaching was his quarry, any more than he had of that quarry's guilt. He wondered if the slogan of the Mounted applied in case one had to deal with an insane native. It would be easy—and providentially safe—to wing the oncomer, undoubtedly unaware of the nearness of a Nemesis.