A. DeHerries Smith

“ Scarth’s rumbled cursing and the halfbreed’s clucking sounded dimly in the sergeant’s ears as he rolled over to stare in amazement at the bursting Noonan.
“Oh, my fat sides,” Tim groaned. “Seventeen dried fish, eleven tins of bully beef, five lumps of tallow, an’ a chunk of pemmican as big as a battleship. An’ they polished off the whole works. An’ now Scarth’s offerin’ ’em a dried up old walrus skin for dessert. A dog’s life, that’s what it is.”
Sudden realization stabbed Cleaver’s mind. Tim had sneaked out and fed Scarth’s starving huskies so that they would not attack the skin boat! ”

“ Wooden pans sewn with rawhide, and stone cooking pots were thrown about in confusion. The floor was a wild jumble of feverish natives rolling about on bearskins, sealing spears, snowshoes and mukluks. ”

“ Noonan’s voice panted. “I’m the detective sergeant of this man’s army, an’ that’s good enough for me. All right, you blubber chewer, try a taste of that!”
Whug! Whug!
Cleaver laughed softly, turning back to the squirming Scarth.
“Look here, you insignificant fragment of decayed whale meat,” he growled at the trader. “You’re too small to pound, but I have something nice in store for you. It’ll be daylight in an hour. You and the breed will cut up that walrus and bring it down here. Then you’ll keep on making soup for the Esks until they’re well again. ”

“ Well, now they’re changin’ the diet; goin’ to scoff our old skin boat.”
Cleaver’s right hand jerked back toward his revolver holster, but before it reached the weapon Tim’s fingers fastened on his wrist.
“Not yet! Not yet!” Tim Noonan urged. “See the whole show. Comic’s comin’. Savvy what it is, Dick? We’ve given the king’s word that there’ll be red meat for the sick Esks in the mornin’ an’ Scarth has passed the talk around that there won’t be any. If there ain’t no meat our name is mud, frozen mud at that. An’ how the heck can we get walrus without a boat?” ”