The “Mad Trapper’s’’ Nemesis. The late
Captain “‘Wop’’ May solved the difficulties
of Arctic transportation with the aeroplane.

anger. Now him pull up my traps an’
hang ‘em in trees. Say him trapline,

17?

Injun no trap dere!

Hit the Trail

“That bird Johnson again!” Millen
growled and turned to Constable
King. “I hate like hell to ask you to
buck this weather, but there’s no way
out of it. Hit the trail in the morning.
Check up on this hombre and see if
he’s got a trapping license. If he
hasn't, he’s no business trapping
at all.”

On the bitterly cold winter night
of December 28th, Constable King, in
company with Joe Bernard, his native
eu'de, trudged through a spume of

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TWENTY-SEVENTH EDITION

Inspector Eames’ broadcast over Station UKZ

at Aklavic, ““Votce of The Northern Lights,”

brought Mounties from all directions for the
final stages of the chase.

snow and halted his dog-team before
the Johnson cabin. Squat, ugly and
forbidding, built of massive logs loop-
holed at the corners and resembling a
frontier blockhouse more than a
trapper’s cabin, it stood in a snow-
filled clearing on the north bank of
the Rat.

King pounded on the door. “Open
up!” he shouted. His only response
was the whining of the knife-edged
Arctic blasts which whipped his face
with stinging force. Convinced that
Johnson was within, he pounded
again and waited but without result.
“This means,” he snached angrily at
the headline of his toboggan, “we
slog 160 to Aklavik, and back, to get a
warrant.”

In the noon twilight of New Year’s
Eye, Constable King, Constable R. G.
McDowell, and Lazarus Sitchinilli

Censiable “Spike” or “Newt Millen, who
fell before the desperado’s bullets.

again appeared before the loop-holed
cabin on the Rat. With McDowell
beside him, King pounded on the
door. “Open up in the name of the
King!” he commanded, lifting an axe
above his head. “Open up, or we'll
smash the door in!”

Bang!

A bullet ripped through the door
of the cabin. Clutching himself, Con-
stable King reeled backwards. As he
crawled painfully toward the bush,
leaving a scarlet trail upon the snow,
McDowell poured gunfire into the
cabin to draw attention from the
wounded man. Still firing, he made
his way to King, slung him over his
shoulder and carried him to the
safety of the river bank.

With the aid of Sitchinilli he

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