strangeness. And then, from farther west, it
came--

"Hoom--Hoom--Ho-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m--"

In the next half minute it seemed to Philip that the cry was answered
from half a dozen different quarters. Then again it came from directly
behind them.

Celie uttered a little gasp as she clung to his hand again. She
understood as well as he. One of the Eskimos had discovered the dead
and their foes were gathering in behind them.

CHAPTER XIX

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