It was small, but Jan counted on the cumulative results of good
generalship.
His eyes never for an instant left O'Grady's huge, naked back. Between
his knees lay his .303 rifle. He had figured on the fraction of time it
would take him to drop his paddle, pick up the gun, and fire. This was
his second point in generalship--getting the drop on O'Grady.
Once or twice in the first half hour O'Grady glanced back over his
shoulder, and it was Jan who now laughed tauntingly at the other. There
was something in that laugh that sent a chill through O'Grady. It was as
hard as steel, a sort of madman's laugh.
It was seven miles to the first portage, and there were nine in the
eighty-mile stretch. O'Grady and his Chippewayan were a hundred yards
ahead when the prow of their canoe touched shore. They were a hundred and
fifty ahead when both canoes were once more in the water on the other
side of the portage, and O'Grady sent back a hoarse shout of triumph. Jan
hunched himself a little lower. He spoke to Jackpine--and the race began.
Swifter and swifter the canoes cut through the water. From five miles an
hour to six, from six to six and a half--seven--seven and a quarter, and
then the strain told. A paddle snapped in O'Grady's hands with a sound
like a pistol shot. A dozen seconds were lost while he snatched up a new
paddle and caught the Chippewayan's stroke, and Jan swung close into
their wake again.
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