Morse kept him covered, circled round him to the rifle, and from there to the sled. One eye still on the desperado, he searched for the steel handcuffs. They were gone. He knew instantly that some time within the past day or two West had got a chance to drop them in the snow.
He found rawhide thongs.
"Lie in the snow, face down," he ordered. "Hands behind you and crossed at the wrists."
Presently the prisoner was securely tied. Morse fastened him to the sled and returned to Beresford.
The arm was broken above the wrist, just as he had feared. He set it as best he could, binding it with splints.
The young officer groaned and opened his eyes. He made a motion to rise.
"Don't get up," said Morse. "You've been hurt."
"Hurt?" Beresford's puzzled gaze wandered to the prisoner. A flash of understanding lit it. "He asked me—to light—his pipe—and when I—turned—he hit—me—with a club," the battered man whispered.
"About how I figured it."
"Afraid—I'm—done—in."