“If you darken that doorway until I am out of gunshot, I’ll shoot. And there’s no better shot in the north than myself.”
Slowly, he backed to the door, picked up his parka, backed across the threshold.
The door slammed to behind him.
He sprang in the sled, lay flat. As his “mush” cry arose, a bullet from English’s rifle, the barrel protruding from under the window roared through the storm.
The dogs sprang forward, instinctively headed for the trail, a stone’s throw from the cabin.
Morely smiled grimly. “Good thing I laid flat, or he’d have had me.”
Again bullets spat toward the fleeing man. The snow and sleet were so heavy, the wind so high that visibility was poor at even a few yards.
When that trail was reached the cabin was blotted from sight.
Morely sprang from the sled, drew the fur parka over his head, headed the dogs toward Nichikun.
He reentered the long light sled, the hiss of a moose-hide whip cut through the sleet. The dogs, well fed, in good condition, sprang forward with a will. Speed was wanted. Speed they would give.