The ivory head drove deep to a vital spot; blood gushed down the heavy white coat; the bear roared in pain. The spear was jerked from the Eskimo’s hands as the brute turned, snarling, to attack. The native leaped backward and slipped swiftly down an icy slope to vanish on hands and knees. The bear pursued, leaving a red trail. Driven by hunger of the raw man to do what he could to bring down the raw food, Walton followed cautiously. Presently the native emerged, crawling, each movement a slow and painful effort. He had put his all into the single thrust; the effort had left him helpless, and he would have been an easy mark for the white man.
The spear was in the dying bear, Walton recalled. “Thank God, I wont be driven to forget I’m civilized and prey on a miserable Eskimo—we’ve got bear-meat now!” He cried out aloud in utter relief. He had slipped fast during the past day—he was ready to eat raw meat from the kill, and hunger-pangs drove him to risk attack from the wounded bear. He made his way along the bloodstained trail to the spot where the beast had disappeared. Water lapped at the ice below him, water stained crimson. The bear was gone! Fate had denied him even raw meat, but—there yet remained a skin filled with seal-oil.
A struggle of the codes went on within him, and the code of raw men had an ally in hunger. He was slipping back with each passing hour; he knew it and fought it. From time to time he glanced toward the withered native. The spear no longer lay on the ice in front of him, but he hugged the skin of oil even tighter to his breast. Walton caught himself plotting a route that would take him behind and above the Eskimo. Devils of his imagination whispered it would be easy; the native was unarmed save for a knife—a futile thing against a block of ice dropped from above. “He’s run his race; the end is near,” the voice of self-preservation whispered. “Your life is before you. You can do much for the world, for you are civilized and educated. Take his clothing for warmth, and his food for life. He is but a burden.” It was as if a voice had spoken aloud, and Walton’s protest came from set teeth. “Damn it—I’m civilized and I can’t.”
Several times during the day the Eskimo explored the ice in quest of a seal or bear. Each time he returned as silently as he had departed. He continued to ignore Walton. The white man had once referred to him as a “greasy, filthy Eskimo.”
Toward night the tip of the great floe broke from the main body of ice. The Eskimo watched this without emotion, though it reduced their chances of finding game. Walton lighted his pipe, lest he go mad. In it, particularly in the fire in the bowl, he found solace. The Eskimo took his first sip from the seal-oil.
Self-preservation came to him in his dreams the third night, awakened him and remained. He was bitterly cold, needed additional clothing, while his whole being cried out for food. As before, self-preservation pointed the way. Walton muttered aloud: “I can’t. I’m civilized. Mine’s a different code. We care for our aged to the last. We don’t strangle and rob them.” Self-preservation jeered:
“Of what avail is your civilization now? Will the few dollars in your pocket buy food? Can your education kill a bear or seal and provide you with meat? The books you studied might furnish you warmth now, if you could burn them. You are no longer civilized; you are a raw man seeking food. The miserable wretch who holds the food is done for anyway; he sleeps, so why not— Ah! I knew it! At last you heed me.”
As animals stalk their prey, so Walton crawled over the ice, nearer and nearer the figure huddled in the gloom. His code was behind him; he was about to kill, that he might survive a few days and perhaps be saved. Schooners were coming out of the ice. It was while hurdling the last barrier, that their own craft had been crushed.
Now that he meant to kill, he found himself debating on the method. Would it be knife or hands? His pocketknife might do the work; still— The native’s knife lay on the ice a few inches from the sleeping figure. Walton’s heart pounded as he possessed himself of the weapon. Its blade was long and keen, and that settled the debate. “The knife,” he whispered. “It’s quicker. It’ll be over with in an instant.”