The die was cast and now there could be no turning back. Sooner or later, the man-pack would be after him. “To be caught is to be killed and to be killed is to be eaten,” he thought and so he made ready to escape with all speed. Which way? There was the broad highway eastward across the windswept snow-plain. It was the shortest route back to home and friends. He gazed longingly in that direction then shook his head. An endless journey in the dead of winter; the attempt would be madness. He could do it after the first spring thaw but not now. There was no help for it; the path pointing to the east meant cold, sickness and death. He turned to the south. There lay the mountains full of hiding places and caves no doubt where he might live protected from the elements. Food? His sling had killed for many; now it could surely kill for one. Yes, he would flee southward and take refuge among the mountains until such time as the return of mild weather would permit the long journey home.
He was making off along the line of the Pas when he thought of the Muskman. Something prompted him to look once more upon the body of his enemy and for the last time. He retraced his steps and entered the bushes. Gonch lay there upon his back. As Kutnar gazed down at him, he said in a melancholy voice: “The rogue has met his just deserts; and yet—it is hard to forget that I once looked upon him as a friend.”
He kneeled over the body and laid one ear against the chest. “Can it be that he is still alive?” he asked himself. “The heart still beats; the flesh is warm.” The thought disturbed him. He raised his ax. One blow and all doubts would be removed; then for some reason he hesitated. “He will die anyway,” the boy reasoned. “It would be but striking a corpse.”
“That may strike back if you do not,” something within warned him and he raised his ax once more, only to lose heart when it came to actually dealing the finishing stroke. “He will surely perish of cold if nothing else,” he said finally. “The night will soon come and none can find him before morning.”
That settled it. By morning, Kutnar would be well on his way and among the mountains; then he need worry no more about the Muskman, be he dead or alive.
He left his fallen enemy lying among the bushes, took one more longing look at the broad eastern path and then fled rapidly in the southern direction along the line of the River Pas.
XXI
Gonch was not dead although a few moments more of Kutnar’s throttling grip would have made him so beyond question. Some men are hard to kill. Gonch was of that kind. Even as he lay, to all appearances, stiff and stark, the life-blaze flickered feebly, gathered fresh strength and flared up. His chest heaved, he uttered a deep sigh, then groaned and opened his eyes.