Ocpic grumblingly crawled from beneath his blankets, rose sullenly to his feet, and stood staring inquiringly at his companion. Shifting his gaze, he caught sight of the fresh tracks in the snow, noted that they led to and from their camp, and discovered the revolver. For a moment he stood stupidly looking, his eyes protruding as if he could scarcely believe his senses, then slowly he went and picked it up.
With a yell and a spring Broom was upon him, wresting the weapon away. Ocpic scowled, but retired before Broom’s look of fury.
“Get to —— out of this!” cried Broom, with a flourish of the revolver.
A slight smattering of English and Broom’s gestures sufficiently enlightened Ocpic. They were to turn back. He stood thunderstruck. To stop the pursuit meant starvation, for they had no food nor any ammunition with which to provide food. In their impetuous pursuit they had travelled night and day, throwing themselves down to snatch a few hours’ sleep only when they could go no farther. Once they had been awakened by an explosion. They had neglected to push the burning embers back from the camp before retiring and the fire had caught the brush; spreading to the place where their food and ammunition had been carelessly thrown, it had burned up the food and set off the gunpowder. From that time they had lived on a few handfuls of pemmican which had been accidentally left in a bag outside, and thus escaped the fire. But the last of this had been consumed for their scanty supper and they were now without a crumb to make breakfast.
With pantomimic gestures and broken English Ocpic tried to make his companion understand that to turn back would be madness, that only their catching up to Roy’s party would save them. They had food, perhaps more than they needed; at any rate he and Broom could take what they had, and he glanced significantly at the revolver.
But Broom would have none of it. In his changed mood he would protect Roy, and with his life if need be. He stood, for the moment, a man transformed.
There was an uneasy pause, while Ocpic cudgeled his crafty brain: What to do? To him Broom’s sudden reversion of tactics was a bewildering puzzle. What had happened while he slept? Ocpic would have given worlds to know. That someone had visited the camp the freshly made tracks and the presence of the strange revolver gave convincing proof. But who? And why had they gone away? There could be no one in those parts but the trader and his party, or perhaps a wandering gang of Eskimos. But a man of Ocpic’s malignant nature could not conceive of Roy as visiting the camp and leaving it without so much as laying a disturbing finger upon the men who had brought such disaster upon himself and his companions. Yet it could not have been Eskimos, for they did not carry revolvers.
Ocpic’s cogitations were brought sharply to an end by Broom, who presented the revolver at his head. “Get out of this, I tell you,” he shouted. Surely he was going mad, for to turn back was an act of madness.
Still there was the vague chance of meeting with wandering Eskimos who would assist them with food, and small though the chance at that time of the year, it was infinitely better to take it than refuse and meet certain death. So argued Ocpic. He had once witnessed Broom’s exploits with the revolver and had great respect for his markmanship. He possessed a vivid remembrance of the incident which had caused Roy to drop like a log.
Sullenly Ocpic faced about and with head down started to retrace his steps of the day before. Broom followed closely, driving the Eskimo before him.