He moved around toward the door. There was in him an intense
desire to have it over with quickly. His pulse quickened as the
thought grew in him that the maker of the strange snowshoe trail
might be a friend after all. But how was he to discover that fact?
He had decided to take no chances in the matter. Ten seconds of
misplaced faith in the stranger might prove fatal. Once he held a
gun in his hands he would be in a position to wait for
introductions and explanations. But until then, with their Eskimo
enemies close at their heels--

His mind did not finish that final argument. The end of it smashed
upon him in another way. The door came within his vision. As it
swung inward he could not at first see whether it was open or
closed. Leaning against the logs close to the door was a pair of
long snowshoes and a bundle of javelins. A sickening
disappointment swept over him as he stared at the javelins. A
giant Eskimo and not a white man had made the trail they had
followed. Their race against time had brought them straight to the
rendezvous of their foes--and there would be no guns. In that
moment when all the hopes he had built up seemed slipping away
from under him he could see no other possible significance in the
presence of the javelins. Then, for an instant, he held his breath
and sniffed the air like a dog getting the wind. The cabin door
was open. And out through that door came the mingling aroma of
coffee and tobacco! An Eskimo might have tobacco, or even tea. But
coffee--never!

Every drop of blood in his body pounded like tiny beating fists as
he crossed silently and swiftly the short space between the corner