* * * * * * * *
The sight which met Curlie Carson’s gaze as he finally mustered up courage to creep up to the corner of the food depot building and peer around it, made his blood boil hot with anger.
Before him, crouching over and placing the last contributions to a huge bonfire of excelsior, paper and packing-boxes piled against the building, was the outlaw.
“Guessed right,” Curlie told himself, “and just in time. A moment more and the thing would have been done, the house all aflame. He means to burn it, but he won’t.”
A second glance showed him the outlaw’s sled piled high and his dog team grouped about it.
“All ready to race away,” he breathed as he tightened his muscles for a spring.
It was a desperate chance. Three paces from the man a rifle leaned against the cabin. The man was between Curlie and the rifle. There was not a moment to lose.
With a snarl like a tiger Curlie sprang for the other’s back. They went crashing to the snow in a heap.
The struggle was brief and terrific. When they broke their hold Curlie was bruised and bleeding but he had gained a point—an all important point. He was now between the man and his rifle.
Quicker than a cat, he sprang for it and the next instant aimed it square at the other’s breast.