Jerry had the last watch that night, his hour extending to nearly sunrise, which, as winter was more and more advancing, was not of much account in the arctic regions. As the boy noted with satisfaction a reddening in the east, indicating that it would soon be time for breakfast, when he would not be so cold, he heard a noise off to his left. It was different from the crackle of the ice, and the dull boom that told of falling masses of frozen crystal, and Jerry turned quickly around.
As he did so he saw a sight that startled him. From behind great masses of ice there suddenly sprang into view the ugly faces of a score or more of Alaskans. They peered at the little camp of adventurers, and some of them uttered a cry of satisfaction.
"The Indians! The Indians! They're all around us!" cried Jerry.
Mr. Baxter, Johnson and Fred hurriedly awoke, and it was instinct with them to grab the guns lying at their sides.
"What's the matter?" cried Jerry's father, running to the flap of the tent, near which his son stood.
"The Indians! They're here!"
There was no doubt of it. Seeing that there was no need of concealment, the Alaskans boldly advanced. It was seen that nearly every one had a gun.
But stranger than all was the figure that walked at the head of the hostile Indian procession. It was the figure of a white man. A man with a glass eye—the same man who had accosted Fred on the ship.
"Well, what do you want?" asked Mr. Baxter as he saw Callack advancing. "What right have you to follow us?"
"There's no 'right' up in this land," was the sneering answer. "There's no law, neither. We do as we please here."