 The Challenge of the Yukon. The Wonder Dog King, swiftest and strongest of Eskimo Leed dogs, blazes the trail through storm and snow for Sergeant Preston as he meets the Challenge of the Yukon. Sergeant Preston was typical of a 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. Race Moody, owner of the Ace Cafe and Sam Bartlett and veteran prospector were frequent visitors at Sergeant Preston's cabin. Tonight was no exception and King was stretched full length at Preston's feet. And I ain't telling anybody where this new claim of mine is located. We're spiggin' on pushing out for there in the morning. The Madog Cooner says it might snow, so I didn't, what's the matter? All of you old sourdose are just alike. You've spent so much time pushing around this country with a dog team you think they're almost human. I know how Sam feels about Cooner. A smart dog's a priceless possession, especially here in the Yukon. Sergeant, you're as bad as everybody else. While all a dog can do is pull a sled. You're wrong. Race, have you ever owned a dog? Oh, I don't want to. They're all right if you can work them. But otherwise, a dumb mutt is about the most useless... Jump! How can you say that with King lying right here in front of us? King old fella, do you hear what's being said about them? See? We understand each other. King's my partner. Sure. Duke Slade is my partner down at the cafe, but that's no sign he's as smart as I am. How are you and Duke making out at the Golden Age? Oh, great. Business is booming. I handle a day shift and he works at night. The mention of Duke Slade's name reminded King of something he wished he could tell the Sergeant. It had happened that afternoon. Slade was a short, thin-faced gambler who carried the stuffy smell of whiskey and cigar smoke. King remembered how sharp and cold the air had been that afternoon when he'd been running along a snowbank trail. Suddenly the great dog stopped and sampled the air. His keen ears caught the sound of rasping hooks in a partly frozen snow. A frightened antelope was plunging frantically down the slope. On a short distance away, a man, Duke Slade, was leveling a rifle. That critter is just about the right size if I can nail him. That did it. And she won't be too heavy to carry. From a distance, King watched Duke Slade prepare the shorter his kill. The air was strong with the bloodsat of a dead animal and the man bending over it. King was puzzled as he turned away and started to look toward home. Duke Slade was a gambler, not a hunter. The great dog knew this was something that would interest his master, but it would be a hard story to tell. Listen, now what's the matter with him? Oh, nothing. He's just talking to me. That's all. Yeah? What are you saying? I don't know yet, race. But if it's important, King will find some way to make me understand, won't you, boy? If I didn't know you had pretty good sense, I'd think you were as crazy as Sam here. Oh, he's that show, aren't you? No, King. Just stay here. I'll go to the door. Hello, Sergeant. His race here. Hello, Duke. Come on in. He's sitting right over there with a stove. What's the trouble, Duke? Oh, nothing. Just close the cafe. I'm on my way home. You're missing something, Duke. I'm learning all about talking dogs. Pull up a chair, Duke. I can't stay. Had a hard night. I just poked my head in to see who was here. Yeah, wait a minute, Duke. My place is just the other side of yours. I'll walk along with you. All right. Hope the weather holds out for your trip north, Sam. Here, let me help you with your parking. Thanks, Sergeant. Thanks a lot. Well, good night. Good night, race. Good night, Sam. Oh, I don't have to worry about the weather. That mutt doggy yours will tell you when it's going to snow. Sure he will. And I'll listen to what he says, too. You'll do that, Sam. Good night. Good night. It was early the following morning. Sergeant Preston and King had just finished breakfast when someone pounded sharply on the door. Down, King. Down. Wait a minute, boy. Race Moody. Sergeant, Duke's been murdered. I just came from his cabin. Slade, murdered? Are you sure? Stabbed. His body down to that footbridge near the river and pushed it through a hole in the ice. What's more, I'm... I'll put on my pocket and we'll walk down to Slade's cabin. Looks like one day's rest's all we're going to get, King. Come on, boy. All right, race, let's go. The interior of Duke Slade's cabin seemed to offer apple-proof of everything Race Moody had said. There was every evidence of a violent struggle, chairs and table overturned, and reddish brown stains on the floor. Quiet, King. Easy to see what happened, Sergeant. Duke was killed and then dragged down to the river. Hmm. See the tracks and footprints in the snow? They lead right down to the river bank. It looks that way. Did Duke have any money on him last night? Well, something's wrong with our till at the cafe, and he was carrying about $40,000 on him in a money belt. Apparently, that's the reason for the murder. Men have been killed for a lot less than $40,000. Let's follow this trail down the river. Come on, King. Running ahead of Sergeant Preston and Race Moody, King reached the frozen river a few moments later. There were well-defined footprints in the hard-packed snow. They preceded a scooped-out path leading from Slade's cabin to the edge of a gaping hole in the ice. There were also plenty of red stains along the pathway. As he sniffed at these, King's nose wrinkled in perplexity. Here, Sergeant. You see what I mean? Drug the body down here and... With this current so strong under the ice, there's no way to tell for sure until next spring after the thaw. See these sled tracks, Sergeant? Heavily loaded and pulled by a six-dog team. Exactly what I figured. The killer knifed Duke, stole the money, and then headed north. You may be right. I'm right about something else, too. I know who did it. You do? Sam Bartlett. Sam Bartlett? I discovered the murder about an hour ago. I always come over to Duke's place the first thing every morning. That doesn't prove anything. Wait a minute. On my way up to your place to tell you about it, I met Charlie Furt, an old man's steinbar, who owns a restaurant. They both saw Duke and Sam Bartlett together last night, going into the cabin. Oh, what of it? You know they were together when they left my place. That doesn't mean Bartlett murdered Duke's lane. Oh, but it's mighty suspicious. That old carja knew Duke was carrying money. Now, what could be simpler? Knife and Duke robbing him, hiding the body so there's no evidence, and pulling out for that imaginary gold claim he's got someplace. Bartlett's gone. I found that out. Well, all of that's circumstantial evidence, Ray. Yeah, maybe it is. But you can't argue the fact that Duke is dead. And who killed him? I don't know. That's what we've got to find out. How? Get on the sand, boy. Yeah. All that howl smells is the blood. We know where Duke is. King can follow any kind of trail. Here, boy. Over here. Hmm, I didn't notice this before. What is it? Two sets of footprints. There hasn't been any snow for over a week, so there's no way of... Uh, maybe Bartlett had somebody helping him. Maybe. King, go back to the cabin and get the dogs up. We're hitting the trail. It was an easy job to pick up the trail of footprints and sled tracks. King ran well in front of the sergeant, his head low and his powerful legs breaking a path for the dog team to follow. Whoa! How are you, man? What's the matter, King? Sounds like King's found something. Oh, look. What is it, boy? More trouble, sergeant? Oh, look, there's a split in the trail here. The dog team, the sled and one set of prints follow the canyon. Someone else has headed west into that draw. Sam Bartlett's driving a dog team. We know that. He's the one we want to trail. Hmm, I wonder who these other prints belong to. Well, maybe some trapper or prospector. What do we care? The King seems more interested in these. That mutt's local. We've got to get going, sergeant, before this blizzard closes in. Yes, I know. All right, King, lead off. We're following the sled tracks. What's the matter with him? I don't know. On, King, on! King's mind was in a turmoil. He didn't know what to do. Love, training and alleges to duty meant following Sergeant Preston's orders. He never disobeyed them. But the great dog's trailing sense told him that this time, the sergeant was wrong. A howling blizzard was rapidly closing in. The longer he delayed, the sterner became his master's order. Lead off, King, on! We better turn around and head for Circle City. That dumb mutt of yours ain't got sense enough to follow rabbit tracks. King, you heard me. Lead off! King made a quick decision. If there were no other way to make the sergeant follow him into the canyon, he would have to use a trick. But for something he was almost ashamed to do, pretend he was hurt and gain Preston's sympathy that way. First, he let his right foreleg crumple as though it were bruised. What's the matter with him now? I tell you, sergeant, if we don't get out of here pretty soon, we'll never make it. Wait! I think King's hurt himself. Then, before Sergeant Preston could reach him, the great dog suddenly leaped forward toward the side canyon and fell in the snow again. Ah, look! The crazy mutt takes your plane a game with him. King, come here! During the next few seconds, King realized his fate hung in the balance. If Sergeant Preston could some way understand what he was trying to say, everything was all right. If not... What is it, boy? What's wrong with you? This is your proof of what I was saying last night. A dumb mutt like that ain't worth the powder to blow him up. Wait! Maybe I'm the one who's dumb. What do you mean? We'll follow King's lead instead of the main canyon. Ha! How you've gone, local! Bartlett's lead tracks are right back there, sergeant. He's the critter we're trailing. If King's wrong, I'm wrong. My chips are on him. All right, King, we'll go your way, fella. Come on, race! On, King! On, you man of you! It was less than an hour later at the base of a steep cliff that King reached the trail's end. Hardly visible at first glance, a split-logged door was set flush into the rock wall. The great dog didn't know what it meant, but he was sure that Sergeant Preston would solve the mystery in short order. Go home, my old dog! Well, I'll be doggone. Look at that, Sergeant. A wooden door right in the mountain. What are you supposed to do? We'll find out soon enough. Come on. Open up! Open this door! I'll blast it open! I haven't got a gun. It ain't right to shoot an unarmed man. Well, come in. Duke! It's really you. What are you... I thought you were murdered. Yes, it seems to me, Slade, that you've got a lot of explaining to do. Well, I... I guess there's no use lying. You must have figured it out or you wouldn't have trailed me up here. You see, I... I shot an antelope yesterday afternoon. I tore my cabin up and put the blood on the floor. Then I dumped the critters' carcass through that hole in the ice. Well, I... I figured you'd think I'd been murdered and then I'd get away to the States with a gold... Well, I'll be... You're under arrest, Slade, for robbery and conspiracy to defraud. Sergeant, I... I sure owe that dog of yours an apology. Well, I think I do, too. He was the only one smart enough to know the difference between antelope and human bloodstains. Yes, King old fella, thanks to your help, the case is closed. All the dramas originated in the studios of WXYZ Detroit and all characters, names, places and incidents used are fictitious. They are sent to you each week at the same time and reach you from our transcription studios. Howl Neal speaking, this is the Michigan Radio Network.