he took steady aim. His breath came quick. To shoot in the quiet calm of perfect self-composure was quite different from a pitched battle.

He had a perfect bead on the spot between the eyes, when the creature moved.

He came a few paces closer; then again halted and howled.

And now once more the boy had a perfect aim. His finger was on the trigger. It was a high-power rifle. The shot could not fail.

“Now!” he whispered to himself. “Now!”

But at that instant a strange thing happened. Old Ginger, the leader, answered the creature’s call. The answer was not hostile but friendly.

Joe’s rifle dropped with a soft plump into the snow. The next instant he cupped his hands and shouted.

“Pete! Pete, you old fool, come on in here. You nearly got shot.”

It was indeed Pete, the huskie. He had returned safely from his expedition of revenge for a lost comrade.

As he came trotting in, head up and ears pricked forward, he marched straight up to Joe, as a huskie will, and jamming his nose straight against his leg, gave a big sniff. After that he curled up with his comrades to lick his wounds.

Two hours later the camp in the forest was once more in order. The meat had been piled high upon a hastily made cache of strong boughs, roped between trees. The dogs had been bedded down with spruce boughs. All was snug for the night.

They were preparing to turn in. To-morrow would be a busy day. They would spend the greater part of it in camp. The broken sled must be mended. Joe’s dogs must be allowed to recover from the first shock of the battle. Jennings would repair the sled. Curlie and Joe would go ahead breaking the trail on snowshoes for a few miles. This would be the day’s work; that and keeping a sharp lookout for the outlaw of the air.

“The outlaw of the air!” Curlie was thinking of him when there came a rattle from the loud-speaker attached to the receiving set tuned for long wave lengths.

Leaping to the tuner, he touched its knob, twisted it first this way, then that. He touched a second and a third knob, then bent his ear for the message.

“Another government affair,” he told himself. Then, suddenly, as if bursting out from the very room, came a loud, “Bar-r-r-r!”

Instantly his hands flew to the radio-compass as he muttered.

“That’s him, the outlaw!”

He measured the distance accurately, calculated the direction, then located it on the map.

“There!” he murmured. “He’s right there. Not forty miles. A little off the trail. For safety from discovery I suppose. Camped there for the night. By a forced march we could reach that spot before nightfall to-morrow. Question is, shall we do it?”

Throwing on his coat, he went out of the tent. There for ten minutes he bathed his temples, throbbing with excitement, in the cold night air. Pacing up and down on the narrow trail he debated the problem.

“If we try to steal upon him, he may discover us first and elude us,” he told himself. “If he does that, probably we can’t catch him, for his dogs will be fresher than ours. If we wait for him here, he may take some Indian trail which cuts around this point and we may never see him. So there it is.”

It was a difficult decision but much quiet thinking led him to believe that there was more to be gained by waiting than by moving. They ought not break trail beyond the point where they now were. That would but give the man warning. Early in the morning, he would send Joe exploring across-trail for any other trail that might pass close to this one. They would move camp to a position a few yards off trail in the forest. Then he would set a watch.

Instinctively, as he entered the tent, he examined the clip of cartridges in his rifle.

“Not looking for him to-night, are you?” grinned Joe.

“No, not looking for him, but you never can tell,” said Curlie soberly.

“Think it’s necessary to set a watch?”

“No. That dog that guards your sled, old Major, is watch enough. He’ll let us know if anyone comes down the trail, and even if they should attempt to escape us they couldn’t do it—not with two of our teams in prime condition.”