It seemed to Philip, as he stood with the club ready in his hand, that
the world had ceased to breathe in its anticipation of the thing for
which he was waiting--and listening. The wind had dropped dead. There
was not a rustle in the tree-tops, not a sound to break the stillness.
The silence, so close after storm, was an Arctic phenomenon which did
not astonish him, and yet the effect of it was almost painfully
gripping. Minor sounds began to impress themselves on his senses--the
soft murmur of the falling snow, his own breath, the pounding of his
heart. He tried to throw off the strange feeling that oppressed him,
but it was impossible. Out there in the darkness he would have sworn
that there were eyes and ears strained as his own were strained. And
the darkness was lifting. Shadows began to disentangle themselves from
the gray chaos. Trees and bushes took form, and over his head the last
heavy windrows of clouds shouldered their way out of the sky.
Still, as the twilight of dawn took the place of night, he did not
move, except to draw himself a little closer into the shelter of the
scrub spruce behind which he had hidden himself. He wondered if Celie
would be frightened at his absence. But he could not compel himself to
go on--or back. SOMETHING WAS COMING! He was as positive of it as he
was of the fact that night was giving place to day. Yet he could see
nothing--hear nothing. It was light enough now for him to see movement
fifty yards away, and he kept his eyes fastened on the little open
across which their trail had come. If Olaf Anderson the Swede had been
there he might have told him of another night like this, and another
vigil. For Olaf had learned that the Eskimos, like the wolves, trail
two by two and four by four, and that--again like the wolves--they
pursue not ON the trail but with the trail between them.
But it was the trail that Philip watched; and as he kept his
vigil--that inexplicable mental undercurrent telling him that his
enemies were coming--his mind went back sharply to the girl a hundred
yards behind him. The acuteness of the situation sent question after
question rushing through his mind, even as he gripped his club, For her
he was about to fight. For her he was ready to kill, and not afraid to
die. He loved her. And yet--she was a mystery. He had held her in his
arms, had felt her heart beating against his breast, had kissed her
lips and her eyes and her hair, and her response had been to place
herself utterly within the shelter of his arms. She had given herself
to him and he was possessed of the strength of one about to fight for
his own. And with that strength the questions pounded again in his
head. Who was she? And for what reason were mysterious enemies coming
after her through the gray dawn?
In that moment he heard a sound. His heart stood suddenly still. He
held his breath. It was a sound almost indistinguishable from the
whisper of the air and the trees and yet it smote upon his senses like
the detonation of a thunder-clap. It was more of a PRESENCE than a
sound. The trail was clear. He could see to the far side of the open
now, and there was no movement. He turned his head--slowly and without
movement of his body, and in that instant a gasp rose to his lips, and
died there. Scarcely a dozen paces from him stood a poised and hooded
figure, a squat, fire-eyed apparition that looked more like monster
than man in that first glance. Something acted within him that was
swifter than reason--a sub-conscious instinct that works for
self-preservation like the flash of powder in a pan. It was this
sub-conscious self that received the first photographic impression--the
strange poise of the hooded creature, the uplifted arm, the cold,
streaky gleam of something in the dawn-light, and in response to that
impression Philip's physical self crumpled down in the snow as a
javelin hissed through the space where his head and shoulders had been.
So infinitesimal was the space of time between the throwing of the
javelin and Philip's movement that the Eskimo believed he had
transfixed his victim. A scream of triumph rose in his throat. It was
the Kogmollock sakootwow--the blood-cry, a single shriek that split the
air for a mile. It died in another sort of cry. From where he had
dropped Philip was up like a shot. His club swung through the air and
before the amazed hooded creature could dart either to one side or the
other it had fallen with crushing force. That one blow must have
smashed his shoulder to a pulp. As the body lurched downward another
blow caught the hooded head squarely and the beginning of a second cry
ended in a sickening grunt. The force of the blow carried Philip half
off his feet, and before he could recover himself two other figures had
rushed upon him from out of the gloom. Their cries as they came at him
were like the cries of beasts. Philip had no time to use his club. From
his unbalanced position he flung himself upward and at the nearest of
his enemies, saving himself from the upraised javelin by clinching. His
fist shot out and caught the Eskimo squarely in the mouth. He struck
again--and the javelin dropped from the Kogmollock's hand. In that
moment, every vein in his body pounding with the rage and excitement of
battle, Philip let out a yell. The end of it was stifled by a pair of
furry arms. His head snapped back--and he was down.
A thrill of horror shot through him. It was the one unconquerable
fighting trick of the Eskimos--that neck hold. Caught from behind there
was no escape from it. It was the age-old sasaki-wechikun, or
sacrifice-hold, an inheritance that came down from father to son--the
Arctic jiu-jitsu by which one Kogmollock holds the victim helpless
while a second cuts out his heart. Flat on his back, with his head and
shoulders bent under him, Philip lay still for a single instant. He
heard the shrill command of the Eskimo over him--an exhortation for the
other to hurry up with the knife. And then, even as he heard a grunting
reply, his hand came in contact with the pocket which held Celie's
little revolver. He drew it quickly, cocked it under his back, and
twisting his arm until the elbow-joint cracked, he fired. It was a
chance shot. The powder-flash burned the murderous, thick-lipped face
in the sealskin hood. There was no cry, no sound that Philip heard. But
the arms relaxed about his neck. He rolled over and sprang to his feet.
Three or four paces from him was the Eskimo he had struck, crawling
toward him on his hands and knees, still dazed by the blows he had
received. In the snow Philip saw his club. He picked it up and replaced
the revolver in his pocket. A single blow as the groggy Eskimo
staggered to his feet and the fight was over.
It had taken perhaps three or four minutes--no longer than that. His
enemies lay in three dark and motionless heaps in the snow. Fate had
played a strong hand with him. Almost by a miracle he had escaped and
at least two of the Eskimos were dead.
He was still watchful, still guarding against a further attack, and
suddenly he whirled to face a figure that brought from him a cry of
astonishment and alarm. It was Celie. She was standing ten paces from
him, and in the wild terror that had brought her to him she had left
the bearskin behind. Her naked feet were buried in the snow. Her arms,
partly bared, were reaching out to him in the gray Arctic dawn, and
then wildly and moaningly there came to him--
"Philip--Philip--"
He sprang to her, a choking cry on his own lips. This, after all, was
the last proof--when she had thought that their enemies were killing
him SHE HAD COME TO HIM. He was sobbing her name like a boy as he ran
back with her in his arms. Almost fiercely he wrapped the bearskin
about her again, and then crushed her so closely in his arms that he
could hear her gasping faintly for breath. In that wild and glorious
moment he listened. A cold and leaden day was breaking over the world
and as they listened their hearts throbbing against each other, the
same sound came to them both.
It was the sakootwow--the savage, shrieking blood-cry of the
Kogmollocks, a scream that demanded an answer of the three hooded
creatures who, a few minutes before, had attacked Philip in the edge of
the open. The cry came from perhaps a mile away. And then, faintly, it
was answered far to the west. For a moment Philip pressed his face down
to Celie's. In his heart was a prayer, for he knew that the fight had
only begun.