an endless round of wrestling with ow-drifted glaciers. Out of iced sleep- x-bags at dawn; hot tea made over a ‘imus stove gulped down in scalding vuuthfuls with halt-frozen beans and nnock; baggage lashed with freezing nds to komatiks; dogs thrust, whimper- x, into frosted harness, then on again rough clammy fog which congealed on eek-bones and ahtegis. When. starlit y deepened into the purple gloom of sht; while cold stars winked down like e eyes of Fate, and Northern Lights st their ghostly greenish phosphor- cence athwart ghostly mountain tops, e patrol huddled in their fireless camp. -ozen fish were tossed to famished dogs, od thawed over the hissing flame of a ckering Primus stove, and into sleeping es and the swift oblivion of exhausted ep, leaving the Arctic night to the yap- ng foxes and the padding feet of gaunt jlves that ever skirmished on the heels the party.

On the 29th of April, two months after ving, they pushed their tired dogs ross a frozen bay broken by countless ‘thrusts of razor-sharp ice.

As excited huskies threw themselves ith short, sharp barks into the breast- raps, and komatiks hurtled at express eed over the jolting ice, McInnes won- red what would be the attitude of Neuk- k’s superstition-crazed fanatics in the ualid snowhouses ahead. Already from e black voids of igloo tunnels hairy

figures emerged on hands and knees and shambled like shaggy giants towards them, brandishing guns and ivory snow- knives. :

DoustruL RECEPTION

In a pandemonium of snarling canines, bared ivory fangs, tangled traces and gut- tural shouts, they cascaded into the Stone Age village, caught a glimpse of the de- serted and smokeless post of Hector Pitch- ford and, next second, were hemmed in by a milling horde of cowled figures that seemed to belong to a bygone age. Wicked harpoons and sabre-like knives of walrus ivory grasped in mittened hands, the savages eyed them with lowering brows. Their matted hair, their torn gar- ments patched with skins of birds, and their low, gorilla-like brows and broad flat noses showed them to be but a degree re- moved from the creatures they preyed upon for a living.

“Chimo!” MacGregor hands in the peace sign.

raised empty

“Chimo!” came the reluctant acknowl- edgement of the greeting.

From the Tartar-faced horde of glow- ering savagery emerged a tall, shaggy- haired hunter clad in patched polar bear- skins. Motioning to the Eskimos to un- hitch the dogs and carry in the baggage, he led the Mounties down a dark tunnel stored with odoriferous caribou carcasses in various degrees of disintegration. Crawling through the opening, they found

themselves in a dome-shaped snowhouse crowded with barbarians, some stripped to the waist, others in skins of birds, seal and polar bear. Overcome by the combined heat and nauseous odour, McInnes conquered dangerous drowsiness, aware of the Eskimo habit of simulating friendship only to shoot or stab a fancied enemy in the back.

“Mac”, he turned to MacGregor, “you've got a smattering of this lingo. Go ahead and interpret.”

greasy

“Strange stories have come to us of the doings at this village,” he eyed the hunter, “stories of an Eskimo who calls himself ‘God’ and has been murdering his people. Where is this man, Neuktuk?”

“Me Widlappik,”’ the hunter pounded himself on the chest. With the snake-like eyes of the shaggy concourse centred suspiciously on the Mounties he plunged into a rambling story which MacGregor managed to piece together.

Jusr Deserts

Lifted to the heights of arrogance and blood-lust by vanquishing his enemy, Limik, Neuktuk’s sadistic soul had promptly sought more victims. Dragged from her igloo and tossed on the blood- drenched floor before the snowy throne of the Arctic “God”, Agluktuk, wife of the unfortunate Limik, heard her death sentence fall from the thick lips of the imposter. Moaning in frightened resigna- tion, she saw the mad gleam in his satyr-

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