answered, “an’ the telegraph line—an’ here’s a little trick that’ll send word faster’n what he c’n travel.” The Sergeant fumbled in his pack and drew forth a small brass instrument about which were carefully coiled two lengths of insulated wire. It was a lineman’s “test set.” “They’ll be a Constable waitin’ for Squigg an’ his pardner at Dawson,” he grinned.
Twenty minutes later they proceeded to the trail and Sergeant McKeever climbed a pole and made the connection. He slid to the ground and opened his key—the result was the dull click of a dead wire. The Sergeant whistled. “Wire’s cut,” he growled, after another attempt. “He’s a slick one!” And, indeed, the full extent of Squigg’s “slickness” was soon manifest, for he had cut the wires where the telegraph line crosses Indian River, and the loose ends trailed in the swollen torrent beyond any hope of recovery. With a deep scowl, McKeever headed toward the Yukon and at the mouth of Indian River came to a small shack built close against the bank. A tousle-headed half-breed threw open the door in answer to McKeever’s peremptory knock, and blinked stupidly at his visitors.
