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 that rifle. The trick was to catch sight of him at the
earliest possible moment.

How much of a lead the stranger had was a matter at which he could
guess with considerable accuracy. The freshness of the trail was
only slightly dimmed by snow, which was ample proof that it had
been made at the very tail-end of the storm. He believed that it
was not more than an hour old.