 The challenge of the Yukon. The Wonderdog King, swiftest and strongest of Eskimo lead dogs, blazes the trail through storm and snow for Sergeant Preston, as he meets the challenge of the Yukon. Sergeant Preston is typical of the small band of northwest-minded 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 Wonderdog King met that challenge, and justice ruled triumphant. Sergeant Preston and the Great Dog King traveled a snow-covered trail to Melville, the lean, powerfully built malamute racing far ahead of his master's dog team. As he stood on the runners of his sled, the mountain saw King pause in his tracks to nuzzle the snow, then wait, motionlessly. Oh, you malamute! Well, looks like this man took a bad beating. Wouldn't I see if... Never saw him before. Young chap barely breathing. There's a bullet wound in a nasty cut on his forehead. Yeah, we'll have to get him into town and fast. Whoever threw him off the trail left him for dead. It looks like he's not far from it either. Even as the scarlet-coated policeman carried the unconscious man to his sled, two men were on the trail from Melville to a trading post north of the settlement. One of them sat in the sled, while the other rode the runners, his cold narrow eyes on the dogs ahead of him as he spoke. You got it all ready so you can say whatever's needed? Yeah, sure. That young punk did enough talking on the boat to cover everything, and always life-stoyed backwards and forward. From what he said about the old man, the old fellow ought to be up in years now. It won't be hard to pull a wool over his eyes. Well, just be sure your answer to the name of Lance Peters from now on. First couple of times, it might seem obvious, so be careful. And remember, we're in this together. As soon as the old gent let you know where this strike visit is located, you get rid of them. From there on, it'll be ours. It's quite of you to let me handle the toughest part of this job. What are you complaining about? I got the kid out of the way, didn't I? You look more like him than I do. I'll leave you off the trading post. From there, you're on your own. You know where to find me. Don't worry, pal. You'll hear from me. At a small trading post, it was the meeting place for trappers and prospectors for miles around. A group of men sat around an old iron stove that glowed cherry red. The expressions on their faces were of amusement, disgust and interest. Had they listened to an old timer whose merry blue eyes turned serious as he spoke. Yes, sir. I've lived through all kinds of weather. One year here, it was so cold, I fired my rifle and the bullet froze before it could leave me. You are the limit, Mac. You mean you don't believe me? Believe you. Your stories is all alike, except that one stands higher than the other. Say, what about that nephew of yours? Your say is coming up here to work the goldmine you say you found. Yeah, what about that? If you're sure enough found one, seems like you could let your old friends in on where it is. Well, sharks have already showed you a chunk of gold that got out of the ground. And when he gets here, we're working it together. And I ain't telling nobody but him where it is, neither. We're going to be two of the richest men on earth. Yep. He's all the folks I got now. Yeah, it's a fine thing when you couldn't even tell us what he looked like. I wouldn't put it past you to get somebody up here to pretend he's your nephew. Just to make the story good. Oh, why don't you say he ain't found nothing? Well, come on, son, your hungry hides. I already told you I ain't seen the boy since he was knee-high to a beaver. How could I tell you what he looks like? Now that his mother's dead, he's going to live here with me. Me? I don't believe it when I see him. You two are suspicious sons of guns. Always doubting a man. But you live to eat your words. And by golly, I'm going to make certain you do. Well, I guess I'll get back to the cabin. But remember what I said. You'll learn not to doubt McGregor. The next day at the trading post, Sergeant Preston measured the expression on McGregor's face, which seemed for the first time since the mob he had known the old storyteller, to sag tiredly. You were going to be stopping here long, Sergeant? No, I'm afraid not. Well, we're mighty glad to see you anyway. By the way, Mac, what are we going to see that in a few years? Yes, sir. What about that, Mac? Well, I don't know why you fellas are so damned impatient. He ain't your nephew. It takes a long time to come up from the stage. Say, there was a young fella in here yesterday late, asking the way to your cabin. Didn't say who he was, though. Well, I guess I'll be going. I've got a lot to do. Well, what's your hurry? No stories today? Stories. You know, them hoppers you're always telling. Never know did let a day go by before without adding to that score that you're going to have to settle up when you get to the other side of the great divide. There you go again. Never taken a man serious. Oh, just a minute, Mac. I'll go with you. All right, Sergeant. Shut up, boys. Bye, Mac. Come on, King, old boy. Goodbye, Sam. Back again, Sergeant. I'll do that. You plan to come out to the cabin, Sergeant? Well, I might stop by later in the afternoon, Mac. I expect to be up near the rapid. What are you going to start working that strike I hear you located? Oh, yes, sir. Oh, come on, Sergeant. I guess a man has got to talk to somebody. And if you don't mind listening to me, I'd like to... Well, I don't mind, Mac. You know that. Well, the truth of the matter is, Sergeant, my nephew is here. Well, that's fine. Yeah, sure it is. Only when a man ain't seen his nephew for as long as I ain't seen mine, he shouldn't spend so much time whinging him about it. I mean, uh... Oh, well, I haven't said quite a story by the boy. Seeing as how I don't have a son of my own, he ain't just what I expected Sarri's son to be like. It'll take you a while to get used to having a nephew around, Mac. Sure, sure. That's what I mean. Not that I don't want any of them friends of mine at the post to know what you understand, Sergeant. It's just that I want to kindly get used to the boy myself first. Well, don't worry. You can trust me not to mention him. And now that he's here, you'll spend most of your time prospecting, won't you? Well, I aimed to show him the location this afternoon. Well, then we may see you later. Get the dogs up, King. Yeah, mine's well-trailed again. Sergeant Preston was silent as his team pulled along the snow-covered trail. He thought of McGregor's nephew and the old man's disparate attitude. But the unconscious young man he'd found along the trail still concerned the mountain, and he turned toward the village of a neighboring Indian tribe where he planned to question the chief. However, his curry shed no light on a mysterious traveler who'd been left without identification. It was late afternoon when he turned his team toward McGregor's cabin, following the trail beside Blackstone Creek. Meanwhile, several miles up the creek where the lads jutted over a stretch of treacherous rapids, McGregor stood talking to the man who masqueraded as his nephew. Trail over here, Lance. And there's more gold in this year's ground than you and me have ever seen before. Sure is a lucky break for me. Yeah, and it's all ours. Wait a minute, old timer. Not ours. It's mine. What'd you say? I said it's mine. Oh, my... Lance! That gun! Have you lost your senses? The name doesn't land, Grandpa. It's George Thompson. I ain't gonna make any difference to you. Then you're not... Ah, I'm not your nephew. I came up here on the steamer city of Seattle with your real nephew. He told me all about you and the strike of yours. Too bad for him that he couldn't keep his mouth shut. But, Lance, where's Lance? Dad, somewhere on the trail from Seahorse to Melville. There won't be anybody who'll ever know who he was because I took his papers and identification. You killed him. That's right, old timer, and you're gonna get a dose of the same medicine. Well, you wouldn't get it, Dad. I wouldn't dare pull a murder, but this ain't gonna look like a murder. I'll talk you with a part of this revolver and toss you over the wrap. I can't stop you. You've already committed one murder, but you won't get away with this. You'll... Sergeant Preston's dog team rounded a curb in the trail just in time to see the man push McGregor into the rushing waters. In the space of a minute, the Monty had the imposter covered with his gun, but he looked helplessly toward the water where Mack was caught in the current. The iciness of the water had revived the old man. Though waited by his Mack-anaw, he was powerless. His play from the rapid rose slightly beyond him. It was a mad swirl of water. A horrible death trap. Sergeant Preston looked from his prisoner to the ledge where King was poised for an incident. You don't have a thing on me, Mally. Hanging is the penalty for murder in this country. Yes. What are you gonna do about the old man? You could throw him a rope and save him. The police knew the man in front of him was weighing the chances of escape. It was then King hit the icy water. He was caught in the current, but he caught it, struggling to reach the man who was frantically trying to keep afloat. King swam toward him, the water chopping, pulling, tearing against his body. But the powerful muscles surged through it, turning him to the middle of the water that seemed possessed of a demon. The great malamute, healthy impact as McGregor was helplessly thrown against him. Weekly the man flung both arms about the great dog's neck. Then King turned and drained every ounce of his strength to pull his burden to safety. Good boy, King. Come on now. Here, boy. Here. Here. I got it. It was a panting but triumphant dog who lay five minutes later at his master's feet, while McGregor huddled shivering in blankets. George Thompson turned cold eyes to the dog and to the man he'd attempted to murder. Late the next day, Sergeant Preston and the great dog King were at McGregor's cabin, where the men from the trading post sat around a bunk where Lance Peters rested against pillows. A broad grin was on his bandaged face as they watched his uncle sip a steaming cup of tea. Yes, sir. Why, Charlie, after that cold swim I had yesterday, I can't drink enough hot tea. Swim, he calls it, Sergeant. I'm thinking it was that dog of yours that had to swim. And you should have seen him swimming, too. Only a Hercules could have made out in that current, I can tell you. Hercules a king, I guess. Yes, he did a grand job. Both you and Lance are safe, Mac. Yeah, and both of us own our safety to you. Well, after you told me what Thompson had said before he threw you into the creek, I knew immediately who Lance was. Yes. It's too bad I wasn't conscious to tell you. I could have saved you a lot of trouble, Sergeant. No, you took a pretty bad beating. Well, beat up an arty sure looks better to me than that shifty I cooked that was posing at him. Oh, I'm telling you, my boy, when I saw him, I was mighty disappointed in what I thought was my nephew. You got the fellow who was working with Thompson, too, didn't you, Sergeant? Yes, they're both behind bars. Yes, and I'll bet if I told this story to the bunch of you, none of you would have believed it, would you? Well, now, Mac, I wouldn't say that. Oh, no, you wouldn't. Well, you would if you hadn't had got it word for word from the Sergeant himself. Maybe from now on, you won't be so ready to doubt me. You have told some things it was pretty hard to believe, Mac. Not that we didn't believe you understand, but it looks like this is on the level and you've got a mighty fine nephew. Yes, sir. You see, I told you I'd make you eat your words. Oh, oh. What's wrong, Mac? Oh, I was just thinking, Sergeant, if it wasn't for King here, I wouldn't be able to... I guess maybe I shouldn't do so much talking, huh? Yes, fellow, everything here is going to be all right. These copyrighted dramas originate in the studios of WXYZ Detroit. All characters, names, places and incidents used are fictitious. They are sent to you each week at this same time and originate in our transcription studios. Bob Hite speaking, this is...