A cry from Celie turned his gaze from the broad white trail of ice that
was the Coppermine, and as he looked she pointed eagerly toward a huge
pinnacle of rock that rose like an oddly placed cenotaph out of the
unbroken surface of the plain.
Blake grunted out a laugh in his beard and his eyes lit up with an
unpleasant fire as they rested on her flushed face.
"She's tellin' you that Bram Johnson brought her this way," he
chuckled. "Bram was a fool--like you!"
He seemed not to expect a reply from Philip, but urged the dogs down
the slope into the plain. Fifteen minutes later they were on the
surface of the river.
Philip drew a deep breath of relief, and he found that same relief in
Celie's face when he dropped back to her side. As far as they could see
ahead of them there was no forest. The Coppermine itself seemed to be
swallowed up in the vast white emptiness of the Barren. There could be
no surprise attack here, even at night. And yet there was something in
Blake's face which kept alive within him the strange premonition of a
near and unseen danger. Again and again he tried to shake off the
feeling. He argued with himself against the unreasonableness of the
thing that had begun to oppress him. Blake was in his power. It was
impossible for him to escape, and the outlaw's life depended utterly
upon his success in getting them safely to the cabin. It was not
conceivable to suppose that Blake would sacrifice his life merely that
they might fall into the hands of the Eskimos. And yet--
He watched Blake--watched him more and more closely as they buried
themselves deeper in that unending chaos of the north. And Blake, it
seemed to him, was conscious of that increasing watchfulness. He
increased his speed. Now and then Philip heard a curious chuckling
sound smothered in his beard, and after an hour's travel on the
snow-covered ice of the river he could no longer dull his vision to the
fact that the farther they progressed into the open country, the more
confident Blake was becoming. He did not question him. He realized the
futility of attempting to force his prisoner into conversation. In that
respect it was Blake who held the whip hand. He could lie or tell the
truth, according to the humor of his desire. Blake must have guessed
this thought in Philip's mind. They were traveling side by side when he
suddenly laughed. There was an unmistakable irony in his voice when he
said:
"It's funny, Raine, that I should like you, ain't it? A man who's
mauled you, an' threatened to kill you! I guess it's because I'm so
cussed sorry for you. You're heading straight for the gates of hell,
an' they're open--wide open."
"And you?"
This time Blake's laugh was harsher.
"I don't count--now," he said. "Since you've made up your mind not to
trade me the girl for your life I've sort of dropped out of the game. I
guess you're thinking I can hold Upi's tribe back. Well, I can't--not
when you're getting this far up in their country. If we split the
difference, and you gave me HER, Upi would meet me half way. God, but
you've spoiled a nice dream!"
"A dream?"
Blake uttered a command to the dogs.
"Yes--more'n that. I've got an igloo up there even finer than
Upi's--all built of whalebone and ships' timbers. Think of HER in that,
Raine--with ME! That's the dream you smashed!"
"And her father--and the others--"
This time there was a ferocious undercurrent in Blake's guttural laugh,
as though Philip had by accident reminded him of something that both
amused and enraged him.
"Don't you know how these Kogmollock heathen look on a father-in-law?"
he asked. "He's sort of walkin' delegate over the whole bloomin'
family. A god with two legs. The OTHERS? Why, we killed them. But Upi
and his heathen wouldn't see anything happen to the old man when they
found I was going to take the girl. That's why he's alive up there in
the cabin now. Lord, what a mess you're heading into, Raine! And I'm
wondering, after you kill me, and they kill you, WHO'LL HAVE THE GIRL?
There's a half-breed in the tribe an' she'll probably go to him. The
heathen themselves don't give a flip for women, you know. So it's
certain to be the half-breed."
He surged on ahead, cracking his whip, and crying out to the dogs.
Philip believed that in those few moments he had spoken much that was
truth. He had, without hesitation and of his own volition, confessed
the murder of the companions of Celie's father, and he had explained in
a reasonable way why Armin himself had been spared. These facts alone
increased his apprehension. Unless Blake was utterly confident of the
final outcome he would not so openly expose himself. He was even more
on his guard after this.
For several hours after his brief fit of talking Blake made no effort
to resume the conversation nor any desire to answer Philip when the
latter spoke to him. A number of times it struck Philip that he was
going the pace that would tire out both man and beast before night. He
knew that in Blake's shaggy head there was a brain keenly and
dangerously alive, and he noted the extreme effort he was making to
cover distance with a satisfaction that was not unmixed of suspicion.
By three o'clock in the afternoon they were thirty-five miles from the
cabin in which Blake had become a prisoner. All that distance they had
traveled through a treeless barren without a sign of life. It was
between three and four when they began to strike timber once more, and
Philip asked himself if it had been Blake's scheme to reach this timber
before dusk. In places the spruce and banskian pine thickened until
they formed dark walls of forest and whenever they approached these
patches Philip commanded Blake to take the middle of the river. The
width of the stream was a comforting protection. It was seldom less
than two hundred yards from shore to shore and frequently twice that
distance. From the possible ambuscades they passed only a rifle could
be used effectively, and whenever there appeared to be the possibility
of that danger Philip traveled close to Blake, with the revolver in his
hand. The crack of a rifle even if the bullet should find its way home,
meant Blake's life. Of that fact the outlaw could no longer have a
doubt.
For an hour before the gray dusk of Arctic night began to gather about
them Philip began to feel the effect of their strenuous pace. Hours of
cramped inactivity on the sledge had brought into Celie's face lines of
exhaustion. Since middle-afternoon the dogs had dragged at times in
their traces. Now they were dead-tired. Blake, and Blake alone, seemed
tireless. It was six o'clock when they entered a country that was
mostly plain, with a thin fringe of timber along the shores. They had
raced for nine hours, and had traveled fifty miles. It was here, in a
wide reach of river, that Philip gave the command to halt.
His first caution was to secure Blake hand and foot, with his back
resting against a frozen snow-hummock a dozen paces from the sledge.
The outlaw accepted the situation with an indifference which seemed to
Philip more forced than philosophical. After that, while Celie was
walking back and forth to produce a warmer circulation in her numbed
body, he hurried to the scrub timber that grew along the shore and
returned with a small armful of dry wood. The fire he built was small,
and concealed as much as possible by the sledge. Ten minutes sufficed
to cook the meat for their supper. Then he stamped out the fire, fed
the dogs, and made a comfortable nest of bear skins for himself and
Celie, facing Blake. The night had thickened until he could make out
only dimly the form of the outlaw against the snow-hummock. His
revolver lay ready at his side.
In that darkness he drew Celie close up into his arms. Her head lay on
his breast. He buried his lips in the smothering sweetness of her hair,
and her arms crept gently about his neck. Even then he did not take his
eyes from Blake, nor for an instant did he cease to listen for other
sounds than the deep breathing of the exhausted dogs. It was only a
little while before the stars began to fill the sky. The gloom lifted
slowly, and out of darkness rose the white world in a cold, shimmering
glory. In that starlight he could see the glisten of Celie's hair as it
covered them like a golden veil, and once or twice through the space
that separated them he caught the flash of a strange fire in the
outlaw's eyes. Both shores were visible. He could have seen the
approach of a man two hundred yards away.
After a little he observed that Blake's head was drooping upon his
chest, and that his breathing had become deeper. His prisoner, he
believed, was asleep. And Celie, nestling on his breast, was soon in
slumber. He alone was awake,--and watching. The dogs, flat on their
bellies, were dead to the world. For an hour he kept his vigil. In that
time he could not see that Blake moved. He heard nothing suspicious.
And the night grew steadily brighter with the white glow of the stars.
He held the revolver in his hand now. The starlight played on it in a
steely glitter that could not fail to catch Blake's eyes should he
awake.
And then Philip found himself fighting--fighting desperately to keep
awake. Again and again his eyes closed, and he forced them open with an
effort. He had planned that they would rest for two or three hours. The
two hours were gone when for the twentieth time his eyes shot open, and
he looked at Blake. The outlaw had not moved. His head hung still lower
on his breast, and again--slowly--irresistibly--exhaustion closed
Philip's eyes. Even then Philip was conscious of fighting against the
overmastering desire to sleep. It seemed to him that he was struggling
for hours, and all that time his subconsciousness was crying out for
him to awake, struggling to rouse him to the nearness of a great
danger. It succeeded at last. His eyes opened, and he stared in a dazed
and half blinded tray toward Blake. His first sensation was one of vast
relief that he had awakened. The stars were brighter. The night was
still. And there, a dozen paces from him was the snow-hummock.
But Blake--Blake--
His heart leapt into his throat.
BLAKE WAS GONE!