Following that first wild stare of uncertainty and disbelief in the big
Swede's eyes came a look of sudden and joyous recognition. He was
clutching at Philip's hand like a drowning man before he made an effort
to speak, still with his eyes on the other's face as if he was not
quite sure they had not betrayed him. Then he grinned. There was only
one man in the world who could grin like Olaf Anderson. In spite of
blood and swollen features it transformed him. Men loved the red-headed
Swede because of that grin. Not a man in the service who knew him but
swore that Olaf would die with the grin on his face, because the
tighter the hole he was in the more surely would the grin be there. It
was the grin that answered Philip's question.
"Just in time--to the dot," said Olaf, still pumping Philip's hand, and
grinning hard. "All dead but me--Calkins, Harris, and that little
Dutchman, O'Flynn, Cold and stiff, Phil, every one of them. I knew an
investigating patrol would be coming up pretty soon. Been looking for
it every day. How many men you got?"
He looked beyond Philip to the cabin and the sledge. The grin slowly
went out of his face, and Philip heard the sudden catch in his breath.
A swift glance revealed the amazing truth to Olaf. He dropped Philip's
hand and stepped back, taking him in suddenly from head to foot.
"Alone!"
"Yes, alone," nodded Philip. "With the exception of Celie Armin. I
brought her back to her father. A fellow named Blake is back there a
little way with Upi's tribe. We beat them out, but I'm figuring it
won't be long before they show up."
The grin was fixed in Olaf's face again.
"Lord bless us, but it's funny," he grunted. "They're coming on the
next train, so to speak, and right over in that neck of woods is the
other half of Upi's tribe chasing their short legs off to get me. And
the comical part of it is you're ALONE!" His eyes were fixed suddenly
on the revolver. "Ammunition?" he demanded eagerly. "And--grub?"
"Thirty or forty rounds of rifle, a dozen Colt, and plenty of meat--"
"Then into the cabin, and the dogs with us," almost shouted the Swede.
From the edge of the forest came the report of a rifle and over their
heads went the humming drone of a bullet.
They were back at the cabin in a dozen seconds, tugging at the dogs. It
cost an effort to get them through the door, with the sledge after
them. Half a dozen shots came from the forest. A bullet spattered
against the log wall, found a crevice, and something metallic jingled
inside. As Olaf swung the door shut and dropped the wooden bar in place
Philip turned for a moment toward Celie. She went to him, her eyes
shining in the semi-gloom of the cabin, and put her arms up about his
shoulders. The Swede, looking on, stood transfixed, and the
white-bearded Armin stared incredulously. On her tip-toes Celie kissed
Philip, and then turning with her arms still about him said something
to the older man that brought an audible gasp from Olaf. In another
moment she had slipped away from Philip and back to her father. The
Swede was flattening his face against a two inch crevice between the
logs when Philip went to his side.
"What did she say, Olaf?" he entreated.
"That she's going to marry you if we ever get out of this hell of a fix
we're in," grunted Olaf. "Pretty lucky dog, I say, if it's true.
Imagine Celie Armin marrying a dub like you! But it will never happen.
If you don't believe it fill your eyes with that out there!"
Philip glued his eyes to the long crevice between the logs and found
the forest and the little finger of plain between straight in his
vision. The edge of the timber was alive with men. There must have been
half a hundred of them, and they were making no effort to conceal
themselves. For the first time Olaf began to give him an understanding
of the situation.
"This is the fortieth day we've held them off," he said, in the
quick-cut, business-like voice he might have used in rendering a report
to a superior. "Eighty cartridges to begin with and a month's ration of
grub for two. All but the three last cartridges went day before
yesterday. Yesterday everything quiet. On the edge of starvation this
morning when I went out on scout duty and to take a chance at game.
Surprised a couple of them carrying meat and had a tall fight. Others
hove into action and I had to use two of my cartridges. One left--and
they're showing themselves because they know we don't dare to use
ammunition at long range. My caliber is thirty-five. What's yours?"
"The same," replied Philip quickly, his blood beginning to thrill with
the anticipation of battle. "I'll give you half. I'm on duty from Fort
Churchill, off on a tangent of my own." He did not take his eyes from
the slit in the wall as he told Anderson in a hundred words what had
happened since his meeting with Bram Johnson. "And with forty
cartridges we'll give 'em a taste of hell," he added.
He caught his breath, and the last word half choked itself from his
lips. He knew that Anderson was staring as hard as he. Up from the
river and over the level sweep of plain between it and the timber came
a sledge, followed by a second, a third, and a fourth. In the trail
behind the sledges trotted a score and a half of fur-clad figures.
"It's Blake!" exclaimed Philip.
Anderson drew himself away from the wall. In his eyes burned a curious
greenish flame, and his face was set with the hardness of iron. In that
iron was molded indistinctly the terrible smile with which he always
went into battle or fronted "his man." Slowly he turned, pointing a
long arm at each of the four walls of the cabin.
"That's the lay of the fight," he said, making his words short and to
the point. "They can come at us on all sides, and so I've made a
six-foot gun-crevice in each wall. We can't count on Armin for anything
but the use of a club if it comes to close quarters. The walls are
built of saplings and they've got guns out there that get through.
Outside of that we've got one big advantage. The little devils are
superstitious about fighting at night, and even Blake can't force them
into it. Blake is the man I was after when I ran across Armin and his
people. GAD!"
There was an unpleasant snap in his voice as he peered through the
gun-hole again. Philip looked across the room to Celie and her father
as he divided the cartridges. They were both listening, yet he knew
they did not understand what he and Olaf were saying. He dropped a half
of the cartridges into the right hand pocket of the Swede's service
coat, and advanced then toward Armin with both his hands held out in
greeting. Even in that tense moment he saw the sudden flash of pleasure
in Celie's eyes. Her lips trembled, and she spoke softly and swiftly to
her father, looking at Philip. Armin advanced a step, and their hands
met. At first Philip had taken him for an old man. Hair and beard were
white, his shoulders were bent, his hands were long and thin. But his
eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, had not aged with the rest of him.
They were filled with the piercing scrutiny of a hawk's as they looked
into his own, measuring him in that moment so far as man can measure
man. Then he spoke, and it was the light in Celie's eyes, her parted
lips, and the flush that came swiftly into her face that gave him an
understanding of what Armin was saying.
From the end of the cabin Olaf's voice broke in. With it came the
metallic working of his rifle as he filled the chamber with cartridges.
He spoke first to Celie and Armin in their own language, then to Philip.
"It's a pretty safe gamble we'd better get ready for them," he said.
"They'll soon begin. Did you split even on the cartridges?"
"Seventeen apiece."
Philip examined his rifle, and looked through the gun-crevice toward
the forest. He heard Olaf tugging at the dogs as he tied them to the
bunk posts; he heard Armin say something in a strained voice, and the
Swede's unintelligible reply, followed by a quick, low-voiced
interrogation from Celie. In the same moment his heart gave a sudden
jump. In the fringe of the forest he saw a long, thin line of moving
figures--ADVANCING. He did not call out a warning instantly. For a
space in which he might have taken a long breath or two his eyes and
brain were centered on the moving figures and the significance of their
drawn-out formation. Like a camera-flash his eyes ran over the
battleground. Half way between the cabin and that fringe of forest four
hundred yards away was a "hogback" in the snow, running a curving
parallel with the plain. It formed scarcely more than a three or four
foot rise in the surface, and he had given it no special significance
until now. His lips formed words as the thrill of understanding leapt
upon him.
"They're moving!" he called to Olaf. "They're going to make a rush for
the little ridge between us and the timber. Good God, Anderson, there's
an army of them!"
"Not more'n a hundred," replied the Swede calmly, taking his place at
the gun-crevice. "Take it easy, Phil. This will be good target
practice. We've got to make an eighty percent kill as they come across
the open. This is mighty comfortable compared with the trick they
turned on us when they got Calkins, Harris and O'Flynn. I got away in
the night."
The moving line had paused just within the last straggling growth of
trees, as if inviting the fire of the defenders.
Olaf grunted as he looked along the barrel of his rifle.
"Strategy," he mumbled. "They know we're shy of ammunition."
In the moments of tense waiting Philip found his first opportunity to
question the man at his side. First, he said:
"I guess mebby you understand, Olaf. We've gone through a hell
together, and I love her. If we get out of this she's going to be my
wife. She's promised me that, and yet I swear to Heaven I don't know
more than a dozen words of her language. What has happened? Who is she?
Why was she with Bram Johnson? You know their language, and have been
with them--"
"They're taking final orders," interrupted Olaf, as if he had not
heard. "There's something more on foot than a rush to the ridge. It's
Blake's scheming. See those little groups forming? They're going to
bring battering-rams, and make a second rush from the ridge." He drew
in a deep breath, and without a change in the even tone of his voice,
went on: "Calkins, Harris and O'Flynn went down in a good fight. Tell
you about that later. Hit seven days' west, and run on the camp of
Armin, his girl, and two white men--Russians--guided by two Kogmollocks
from Coronation Gulf. You can guess some of the rest. The little devils
had Blake and his gang about us two days after I struck them. Bram
Johnson and his wolves came along then--from nowhere--going nowhere.
The Kogmollocks think Bram is a great Devil, and that each of his
wolves is a Devil. If it hadn't been for that they would have murdered
us in a hurry, and Blake would have taken the girl. They were queered
by the way Bram would squat on his haunches, and stare at her. The
second day I saw him mumbling over something, and looked sharp. He had
one of Celie's long hairs, and when he saw me he snarled like an
animal, as though he feared I would take it from him. I knew what was
coming. I knew Blake was only waiting for Bram to get away from his
Kogmollocks--so I told Celie to give Bram a strand of her hair. She
did--with her own hands, and from that minute the madman watched her
like a dog. I tried to talk with him, but couldn't. I didn't seem to be
able to make him understand. And then--"
The Swede cut himself short.
"They're moving, Phil! Take the men with the battering rams--and let
them get half way before you fire! ... You see, Bram and his wolves had
to have meat. Blake attacked while he was gone. Russians killed--Armin
and I cornered, fighting for the girl behind us, when Bram came back
like a burst of thunder. He didn't fight. He grabbed the girl, and was
off with her like the wind with his wolf-team. Armin and I got into
this cabin, and here--forty days and nights--"
His voice stopped ominously. A fraction of a second later it was
followed by the roar of his rifle, and at the first shot one of Blake's
Kogmollocks crumpled up with a grunt half way between the snow-ridge
and the forest.