Before the last of the cries had died away Philip flung far to one side
of the trail the javelin he carried, and followed it up with Celie's,
impressing on her that every ounce of additional weight meant a
handicap for them now. After the javelins went his club.
"It's going to be the biggest race I've ever run," he smiled at her.
"And we've got to win. If we don't--"
Celie's eyes were aglow as she looked at him, He was splendidly calm.
There was no longer a trace of excitement in his face, and he was
smiling at her even as he picked her up suddenly in his arms. The
movement was so unexpected that she gave a little gasp. Then she found
herself borne swiftly over the trail. For a distance of a hundred yards
Philip ran with her before he placed her on her feet again. In no
better way could he have impressed on her that they were partners in a
race against death and that every energy must be expended in that race.
Scarcely had her feet touched the snow than she was running at his
side, her hand clasped in his. Barely a second was lost.
With the swift directness of the trained man-hunter Philip had measured
his chances of winning. The Eskimos, first of all, would gather about
their dead. After one or two formalities they would join in a
chattering council, all of which meant precious time for them. The
pursuit would be more or less cautious because of the bullet hole in
the Kogmollock's forehead.
If it had been possible for Celie to ask him just what he expected to
gain by following the strange snowshoe trail he would have had
difficulty in answering. It was, like his single shot with Celie's
little revolver, a chance gamble against big odds. A number of
possibilities had suggested themselves to him. It even occurred to him
that the man who was hurrying toward the east might be a member of the
Royal Northwest Mounted Police. Of one thing, however, he was
confident. The maker of the tracks would not be armed with javelins. He
would have a rifle. Friend or foe, he was after that rifle. The trick
was to catch sight of him at the earliest possible moment.
How much of a lead the stranger had was a matter at which he could
guess with considerable accuracy. The freshness of the trail was only
slightly dimmed by snow, which was ample proof that it had been made at
the very tail-end of the storm. He believed that it was not more than
an hour old.
For a good two hundred yards Philip set a dog-trot pace for Celie, who
ran courageously at his side. At the end of that distance he stopped.
Celie was panting for breath. Her hood had slipped back and her face
was flushed like a wildflower by her exertion. Her eyes shone like
stars, and her lips were parted a little. She was temptingly lovely,
but again Philip lost not a second of unnecessary time. He picked her
up in his arms again and continued the race. By using every ounce of
his own strength and endurance in this way he figured that their
progress would be at least a third faster than the Eskimos would
follow. The important question was how long he could keep up the pace.
Against his breast Celie was beginning to understand his scheme as
plainly as if he had explained it to her in words. At the end of the
fourth hundred yards she let him know that she was ready to run another
lap. He carried her on fifty yards more before he placed her on her
feet. In this way they had gone three-quarters of a mile when the trail
turned abruptly from its easterly course to a point of the compass due
north. So sharp was the turn that Philip paused to investigate the
sudden change in direction. The stranger had evidently stood for
several minutes at this point, which was close to the blasted stub of a
dead spruce. In the snow Philip observed for the first time a number of
dark brown spots.
"Here is where he took a new bearing--and a chew of tobacco," said
Philip, more to himself than to Celie. "And there's no snow in his
tracks. By George, I don't believe he's got more than half an hour's
start of us this minute!"
It was his turn to carry Celie again, and in spite of her protest that
she was still good for another run he resumed their pursuit of the
stranger with her in his arms. By her quick breathing and the bit of
tenseness that had gathered about her mouth he knew that the exertion
she had already been put to was having its effect on her. For her
little feet and slender body the big moccasins and cumbersome fur
garments she wore were a burden in themselves, even at a walk. He found
that by holding her higher in his arms, with her own arms encircling
his shoulders, it was easier to run with her at the pace he had set for
himself. And when he held her in this way her hair covered his breast
and shoulders so that now and then his face was smothered in the
velvety sweetness of it. The caress of it and the thrill of her arms
about him spurred him on. Once he made three hundred yards. But he was
gulping for breath when he stopped. That time Celie compelled him to
let her run a little farther, and when they paused she was swaying on
her feet, and panting. He carried her only a hundred and fifty yards in
the interval after that. Both realized what it meant. The pace was
telling on them. The strain of it was in Celie's eyes. The flower-like
flush of her first exertion was gone from her face. It was pale and a
little haggard, and in Philip's face she saw the beginning of the
things which she did not realize was betraying itself so plainly in her
own. She put her hands up to his cheeks, and smiled. It was
tremendous--that moment;--her courage, her splendid pride in him, her
manner of telling him that she was not afraid as her little hands lay
against his face. For the first time he gave way to his desire to hold
her close to him, and kiss the sweet mouth she held up to his as her
head nestled on his breast.
After a moment or two he looked at his watch. Since striking the
strange trail they had traveled forty minutes. In that tine they had
covered at least three miles, and were a good four miles from the scene
of the fight. It was a big start. The Eskimos were undoubtedly a half
that distance behind them, and the stranger whom they were following
could not be far ahead.
They went on at a walk. For the third time they came to a point in the
trail where the stranger had stopped to make observations. It was
apparent to Philip that the man he was after was not quite sure of
himself. Yet he did not hesitate in the course due north.
For half an hour they continued in that direction. Not for an instant
now did Philip allow; his caution to lag. Eyes and ears were alert for
sound or movement either behind or ahead of them, and more and more
frequently he turned to scan the back trail. They were at least five
miles from the edge of the open where the fight had occurred when they
came to the foot of a ridge, and Philip's heart gave a sudden thump of
hope. He remembered that ridge. It was a curiously formed
"hog-back"--like a great windrow of snow piled up and frozen. Probably
it was miles in length. Somewhere he and Bram had crossed it soon after
passing the first cabin. He had not tried to tell Celie of this cabin.
Time had been too precious. But now, in the short interval of rest he
allowed themselves, he drew a picture of it in the snow and made her
understand that it was somewhere close to the ridge and that it looked
as though the stranger was making for it. He half carried Celie up the
ridge after that. She could not hide from him that her feet were
dragging even at a walk. Exhaustion showed in her face, and once when
she tried to speak to him her voice broke in a little gasping sob. On
the far side of the ridge he took her in his arms and carried her again.
"It can't be much farther," he encouraged her. "We've got to overtake
him pretty soon, dear. Mighty soon." Her hand pressed gently against
his cheek, and he swallowed a thickness that in spite of his effort
gathered in his throat. During that last half hour a different look had
come into her eyes. It was there now as she lay limply with her head on
his breast--a look of unutterable tenderness, and of something else. It
was that which brought the thickness into his throat. It was not fear.
It was the soft glow of a great love--and of understanding. She knew
that even he was almost at the end of his fight. His endurance was
giving out. One of two things must happen very soon. She continued to
stroke his cheek gently until he placed her on her feet again, and then
she held one of his hands close to her breast as they looked behind
them, and listened. He could feel the soft throbbing of her heart. If
he needed greater courage then it was given to him.
They went on. And then, so suddenly that it brought a stifled cry from
the girl's lips, they came upon the cabin. It was not a hundred yards
from them when they first saw it. It was no longer abandoned. A thin
spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney. There was no sign of life
other than that.
For half a minute Philip stared at it. Here, at last, was the final
hope. Life or death, all that the world might hold for him and the girl
at his side, was in that cabin. Gently he drew her so that she would be
unseen. And then, still looking at the cabin, he drew off his coat and
dropped it in the snow. It was the preparation of a man about to fight.
The look of it was in his face and the stiffening of his muscles, and
when he turned to his little companion she was as white as the snow
under her feet.
"We're in time," he breathed. "You--you stay here."
She understood. Her hands clutched at him as he left her. A gulp rose
in her throat. She wanted to call out. She wanted to hold him back--or
go with him. Yet she obeyed. She stood with a heart that choked her and
watched him go. For she knew, after all, that it was the thing to do.
Sobbingly she breathed his name. It was a prayer. For she knew what
would happen in the cabin.