For something
was coming to Wapi. Faint, elusive, and indefinable breath in the air, he
smelled it in one moment, and the next it was gone. For many minutes he
stood undecided, and then he returned to the sledge, his spine bristling
and a growl in his throat.
Wide-eyed and staring, Peter was looking back. "What is it, Wapi?"
His voice aroused Dolores. She sat up with a start. The growl had grown
into a snarl in Wapi's throat.
"I think they are coming," said Peter calmly. "You'd better rouse Uppy.
He hasn't moved in the last two hours."
Something that was like a sob came from Dolores' lips as she stood up.
"They're not coming," she whispered. "They've stopped--and they're
building a fire!"
Not more than a third of a mile away a point of yellow flame flared up in
the night.
"Give me the revolver, Peter."
Peter gave it to her without a word. She went to Uppy, and at the touch
of her foot he was out of his sleeping-bag, his moon-face staring at her.
She pointed back to the fire. Her face was dead white. The revolver was
pointed straight at Uppy's heart.
"If they come up with us, Uppy--you die!"
The Eskimo's narrow eyes widened. There was murder in this white woman's
face, in the steadiness of her hand, and in her voice. If they came up
with them--he would die! Swiftly he gathered up his sleeping-bag and
placed it on the sledge. Then he roused the dogs, tangled in their
traces.
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