Thus hours passed. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, the creak of their snowshoes was as regular as the ticking of a clock, cutting off the yards of endless track as a clock ticks off the moments of the hour. Hunger gnawed at Ocpic’s vitals. He was ravenously hungry and fit to drop with fatigue, but the stern, relentless hand clutching the revolver waved him on, ever on.
About the noon-hour Broom called a halt and the Eskimo dropped in his tracks and sat on his haunches, taking the greatest degree of rest out of the short respite. Broom leaned against a fallen tree; he was breathing hard and appeared much distressed. The Eskimo’s glittering eyes took in the situation. The white man was tiring. Good!
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch—soon they were off again. Nothing but dogged grit upheld Broom. Crunch, crunch, Ocpic trudged steadily on, craftily saving himself against the time when his companion would become spent.
So the day passed and the gloom of an approaching night gathered around them. In a subconscious way Broom was aware that he was starving, that he was suffering from extreme fatigue, but an indomitable will and a mortal fear drove him on despite his physical sufferings. In his frenzied brain there was but one idea. The Eskimo had evil designs on Roy Thursby, therefore he must drive him away. His own vile part in what had gone before was completely forgotten—all knowledge of the past was swallowed up in the vital present. In his changed mood Roy was a hero, a martyr, a man to be worshipped, protected, saved at all costs.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch; the night fell and the moon rose gloriously, shedding a pale blue light over the silent white world in which these two plodding figures seemed to be the only things possessed of animation.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. Perceptibly Broom’s strength was waning. He began to stumble over nothing, to draw his breath in broken gasps. The incessant crunch, crunch of his snowshoes beat on his brain like a hammer. The earth heaved and rocked, his legs dragged heavily, he staggered in his gait. At last he fell, but soon by sheer effort of will struggled to his feet. Ocpic, plodding in front, noted the circumstance with a triumphant smile. He did not turn his head, continuing his mechanical walking as if nothing had happened. But imperceptibly he quickened his stride. With ears strained to the utmost he took cognizance of his companion’s rapidly failing strength, and slowly widened the distance between them.
Crunch, crunch, Ocpic was rapidly drawing away. Confident in his ability to escape, he chuckled silently. But he was not quite easy in his mind, the revolver still causing him a little apprehension. However he was almost out of range; a few more steps and, presuming on his companion’s preoccupation, he lengthened the gap.
Slowly it dawned upon Broom that Ocpic was getting farther and farther distant. Suddenly he divined the cause—Ocpic was running away.
With a cry of mad rage he started in pursuit, calling loudly to him to stop. Ocpic stopped, hesitated, then started off again. Broom followed, rocking from side to side as he ran. He fell—got up—ran a few yards, then stumbled and fell again.
With a loud curse he struggled to his feet for the last time; he was beaten in the race but not yet foiled in his purpose. Concentrating his remaining strength he drew himself erect, took deliberate aim and fired.