 The challenge of the Yukon. The Wonder Dog King, with the strongest vestibule lead dog, blazes the trail through storm and snow for Sergeant Preston, as he meets the challenge of the Yukon. Sergeant Preston was typical of the small band of northwest-mounted police, who preserved law and order in the new northwest country, where the greed for wealth and power led to frequent violence and bloodshed. But in spite of the odds against them, Sergeant Preston and his Wonder Dog King met that challenge. And justice ruled triumphant. It was early morning when Sergeant Preston and the two men with him sighted the Indian settlement in the distance. The strong ice-flexed wind that whipped against them earlier died down. But even as they approached the village, the Great Dog King, leading the Mounties pack of huskies, caught the unmistakable scent of death. He knew, even before the three men saw the signs, that the village was in mourning. What do you make of it, Sergeant? An engine seemed off the quiet. Yeah, you're right, Marsh. It does seem like something's wrong. I think I know what it is. All right, fellow. Okay. See those men gathered in front of that temple? Yeah. There's been a death in the tribe, Marsh. Here comes one lock. Look who it is. Wouldn't you wonder, too, how the sergeant can tell one engine from another? They all look alike to me. Indian glad Sergeant Preston come. Chia, longtime friend Sergeant Preston, him die. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that one lock. I knew you were in mourning, but I didn't know about Chia. We buried Chia today. You stay for burial? Yes, yes, of course I'll stay. Ah, good. You come with one lock now. All right, King. Come on, fellow. We're gonna stay here with the sled if it's all the same for you, Sergeant. I'll be back shortly. What do you make of that, Stu? That engine, fellow one lock, treats the sergeant like a blood brother or something. He's tried to think a lot of that, Mountie. And no wonder. Yeah? Well, me, I like to get back with this white man. Concerned if I want to be around while his red skin is burying their dead. Never so any good come out of their paw all on around yet. As the time drew nearer for the Indians to begin the burial ceremony, Marsh Ramsey was plainly uneasy. Only the comforting presence of a 45 carried in his belt sustained him. He watched the Indians bring a rude wooden coffin to where a grave had been dug. And then, as the men of the tribe stood waiting, the young Indian brave one lock came forward. He had a book in his hand. From it, he began to read in the language of the Indians. At intervals, the tribesmen responded in unison. Well, I'll be dogged on. What's eating you now, Marsh? Doggone to this don't seem just like a Christian burial. Them engines sound like they're praying. You look like you just seen something you can't quite believe. That's it, all right, Sergeant. You took the words out of my mouth. I've seen a lot of engines in my time, and I've fought plenty of them, too, out in the West in the good old USA. By golly, I've never seen them heathen savages do anything like this before. Well, the answer to that is simple. These Indians aren't heathens. Oh, no. Wait a minute. You can't... You heard the Sergeant, Marsh. And what's more, there's a story behind what you just seen. There has to be some story. Now, the Sergeant here ain't much for going around blowing his own horn, but I happen to know a good part of that story, and I can tell it to you if he won't. That's all. I know what you're talking about, Stu, but King deserves a great deal to the credit. Yeah, sure he does. But what about telling Marsh here how it happened? And as you do, he's likely to go on until his dying day thinking he was seeing things up here. And let me tell you, Marsh, if you get a burial half as decent as the one you just seen, you can rest easy. Well, come on over here to the longhouse, and I'll tell you about it while we're waiting for the sheep. You've heard a lot about Jim McCready since you've been to Yukon, Marsh. But when I first met him, he was well known in a different way. Reverend Jim was a small man. I'd say about five foot two. He didn't weigh very much either. Wherever he went, trappers and prospectus towered head and shoulders over him. And their voices were usually loud enough to drown his out. Well, eight one night several years ago, King and I went into the Penguin Saloon in Cranford. He was crowded and noisy. Hey there, Sergeant, looking for somebody? Oh, I just thought I'd drop in and see if I... Well, that's Big Bill Carson over there, huh? Yeah, he sure having himself a time. Seems like a Reverend come in a while back trying to get some of the fellas to contribute to putting up a church. Oh, must be Reverend Jim. When I gather, Big Bill thinks it's funny. Yeah, sure he does. Because he makes more noise than any of the gents around here, he'll probably talk them out of helping that little preacher. Let's go over. We've got a gentleman of cloth here who's going to show us the air of our ways! Ah, shut up, hell. What do you mean, shut up? Why, your little runner flattened you like a postage fan. Now, gentlemen, please. I had no thought to start an argument. Good evening, Reverend Jim. Sergeant Preston, I'm glad to see you. Indeed, I'm very glad to see you. You see, Marsh, Big Bill Carson was the kind of man who had a genius for stirring up trouble. But it was trouble that ran under the surface. He wasn't bold enough to carry it beyond that point. But sometimes men of that type can be dangerous. Now that I look back, I can remember King watching him, as Bill stood laughing at Reverend Jim. The fur on the back of King's neck bristled. Maybe it was his tone of voice, maybe it was his attitude or something he did, whatever it was, I knew King had taken a dislike to Bill. But later that night, Reverend Jim... I don't like to say it, but... I'm afraid I'm not the right shepherd for this flock, Sergeant. Oh, I don't know Reverend Jim. I'm sure of it. When I got this assignment, Bishop Hendricks told me it was a man-sized job and that it would require a great deal of faith and perseverance. I'm just not built for it. These men need someone who can be as tough as they are. To speak frankly. They'll come around and give them time. I'm afraid it's a question of more than time, Sergeant. Several months went by. King and I were busy on patrol duty out on the trails. There'd been many times when I'd wondered about Reverend Jim, how he was making out. I wondered too about Big Bill Carson. I knew Bill was up to no good. But it wasn't until later that my hunch proved to be right. King and I had stopped at Fort Mon, which is several hundred miles up the river from Cranford. We found they were having a serious food shortage there. Carson had evidently got word of it too. He went to the Indians who'd settled outside of Cranford. If you and me had been dealing with a trading post for a long time... That's right. But it's like I told you, you've been overcharged for everything you ever bought there. Just because you're an Indian is no reason why it should cost you more to buy your supplies. You've got a right to clean off themselves at the post to even up the score. Yeah, we call counsel. Talk too brave. Clean off the shelves, I say, and show them cheating traders no mercy. Yeah, we go. Talk too many times. See, lefty? What'd I tell you? These Indians are just like putty in your hands if you know how to handle them. Yeah, but Bill, what if they get up on the warpath and kill the traders? That's murder. And the monkeys will be on our necks for it. They won't be on our necks. The Indians will get the blame for it. Once they get the supplies out of the post, they'll probably start a celebration. Then we'll load what supplies we can on the boat, take them up to Fort and Munn. We'll get any price we ask for them. Come on. Trading post supplies. King and I were just a few miles from Cranford. We'd taken one of the back trails. The townspeople have just discovered what happened, Sergeant. They're going to start after the Indians. I'm afraid there's going to be bloodshed. I was heading for the Indian village to try to tell... Maybe we can head the party off along the trail, Reverend Jim. All right, boy. Let's go. The King was ahead of us, breaking a trail from the timber for my sled and Reverend Jim's. We were about to come out into a clearing. King had reached it a minute or so before we did. The Indians were just crossing it, but King ignored them. He looked instead to a rock formation. He stood for a moment, sniffing the air. Then he turned to the right, circling. He covered the ground so quickly his paws seemed to barely touch the snow. I don't know, Reverend Jim. We'll be out of this timber in a minute. Then we'll deal with the Indians. Look, there's King on top of one of those rocks over there. We're toward the rocks. As I did, I saw the barrel of a rifle glitter for a moment. I realized that Reverend Jim and I were the targets. And before I could reach for my gun, I saw King jump. Well, the shot went wild. Reverend Jim and I had both been saved by King. Well, who was doing the shooting? It was Big Bill Carson, Marsh. A short time later, the Indians stood around and Bill was under arrest for attempted murder. Supplies were saved and could be sent to Fort Munn. Fortunately, the traitors hadn't been killed. That was about the time me and the men from Crampford got there. With Sergeant Preston to act as referee, we got the Indians straightened out on who was cheating who. Bill, without his guns, was standing there with his hands at his sides. But he was still loudmouthed as ever. It took a mounting preacher to break up my plans, huh? You know, Sergeant, I'm beginning to see something I never thought of before. These Indians, they need a shepherd as much as the white men. You're right, Reverend Jim. Seems like you ain't learned yet, Reverend, that what you need to get along in this country is more than just a good book. I've always thought the good book was sufficient, Brother Carson. But, uh, what else do you have in mind? A fighting paraffin you ain't got them. Well, that sounds like a challenge. Like I still say, it takes a man to get along up here. I'm sorry to do this, Brother Carson. And you understand, I bear you no enmity. But would you like to prove that point? Sergeant, with your permission. Well, I... What's the matter, Marty? I ain't gonna run away, but you'll have to carry the Reverend back to town. All right, Brother Carson, I'm ready. I'm terribly sorry, Brother Carson. I didn't mean to hit you so hard. He's out cold, Reverend Jim. Is that so? You know, I never hit a man in my life. I've never been a fighting man person. I suppose it's the air to fear sergeants and living outdoors. Oh, here, Brother Carson, let me help you. What do you know? I'll bet them Indians had a lot of respect for the Reverend after that. They did, Marsh. I never saw him raise his fist to fight after that. But the knowledge that he could must have pleased him. He worked with the Indians for several years, learned their language, and had the church service printed in it for them. Then that must have been a church service that Indian read at the burial this morning. Well, I sure it was. And you know when his bishop heard about what a fine job Reverend Jim did here in the Yukon? Yes, sir. Reverend Jim went back England. And he's a bishop himself now. I'll bet he tells that story often, eh, Sergeant? Yes, I guess he does it that still. And thanks to King here, Reverend Jim and I live to tell the story. These copyrighted dramas originate in the studios of WXY Z Detroit, and all characters, names, places, and incidents used are fictitious. They are sent to you each week at the same time.