“Come in,” answered a hoarse voice.
The corporal felt for the moose-hide thong that worked the wooden catch, opened the door, and stepping inside turned to close it behind him.
“That’s right,” said the voice again. “Now put your hands up.”
The corporal jumped and his hands moved instinctively towards the holster as he swung round.
“Don’t!” snapped the voice. “Put them up, or by—” Bracknell recognized the folly of resistance, and as he raised his hands above his head, his eyes swept the cabin for the speaker. A slush lamp against the wall, and the glow from the roaring Yukon stove gave light to the middle of the cabin, but the corners were in comparative darkness, and it was a second or two before he located the owner of the voice. Then, in a bunk in the corner furthest from the door, he caught sight of a man propped among furs and blankets. On the edge of the bunk rested a hand which held a heavy pistol pointing at himself. The face that he looked into was that which he had last seen in death-like repose in the snow near North Star Lodge—the face of Koona Dick. The eyes of the latter glittered wickedly in the firelight, and whilst the officer waited the voice spoke again, mockingly.
“The end of the long trail—hey, bobby?”
The corporal did not reply. Apparently his cousin was alone and comparatively helpless, or he would scarcely have waited his entrance lying in the bunk. His eyes measured the distance between them and he speculated what chance there was of the success of a sudden spring proving successful. But the man on the bunk evidently divined what was passing through his mind, for a second later he broke the silence again.
“I wouldn’t try it, officer, not if I were you. I may be a sick man, but I can still shoot.”
Roger Bracknell looked at the hand resting on the edge of the bunk. It was perfectly steady. He recognized the hopelessness of any attack proving successful, until the sick man was off his guard, and nodded casually.
“I give you best,” he answered, speaking for the first time.