Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1914-Jan 1915)

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SURGEON WARREN'S WARD 55 "Halt!" He broke into a snow-clogged run. Then a whining hum in the air, a searing pain in his side, and he sank down into soft unconsciousness. When he came to, a group of trappers surrounded him. They were mostly darkskinned C r e e or ScotchCree, dangerous, hot-headed half-breeds, and Gordon knew that his life wasn't worth wasting a prayer over ; for the thief of food in the frozen North is God's most despised creature. A gun cocked like the snapping of dry branches. Gordon closed his eyes and waited for the explosion. ' ' Stop ! I know this man ; he is a soldier man and rich, very rich. He will give you one hundred, five hundred skins to save his life." Gordon thought hard before opening his eyes. "Where had he heard that strangely familiar voice before ? Thru the fringe of his lashes the pleading, sensitive face above him took shape. By all that was miraculous, it was Warren, the outcast, his outcast from all that was dear ! There was a palaver of guttural tongues, which ended by -the Crees picking up the wounded man and bearing him to Warren's shack. The door closed and the two ex-officers were left alone. "Well?" Gordon's eyes flung open, and he stared at the surgeon with every appearance of incredulity. "Enough of that," said Warren, curtly. ' ' Tell me what has become of her." "I married her," said Gordon, painfully; "but there was no love. I felt it my duty. She felt your disgrace so and gradually pined away. Shall I go on?" "Yes," sternly. "We buried her in the drift where the spring anemones bloom, and her last breath sighed out for you." Warren turned away, and for a long time he did not speak. But his shoulders slouched like a GORDON CONFESSES man who was stricken to death. "I'll take care of you," he said gruffly, "and nurse you back to health. My only request is that you do not speak of the past." In three days Gordon, his side bandaged, was on his feet again. He displayed a feverish anxiety to be off. Warren offered to loan him a dog-sled and driver, but he steadily refused further aid. As Gordon walked slowly down the frozen river, Warren eyed him moodily. ' ' Those eyes, ' ' he mused, ' ' frightened, inscrutable, lying. Hang it! there's something back of all this, something queer, and I'm going to track the rogue to his hang-out." In the ghostly light of a Northwest sunset two figures neared a lonely shack on the banks of the Athabasca. The one in advance hurried forward, stumbling under his heavy pack ; the pursuer dogged him like a wolf tracking his prey. In the shack's doorway Gordon