Ocpic uttered a wild yell, staggered on for a few more steps, and then pitched forward. Simultaneously with the pistol’s report Broom collapsed and fell. The last spark of his vitality had flickered out. Two huddled forms lay prone upon the snow, and for a little time all about was still and silent.
At length Ocpic straightened himself out and tried to rise, but fell back, groaning. Again and again he tried, and with each attempt a dark blot widened upon the snow. Not to be outdone, he began to crawl toward Broom. Slowly, painfully, a few feet at the time, he crept along, and a thin dark line following in his wake discolored the snow.
Broom sighed and opened his eyes. The red glare was gone. He lay quite still; the long trail was at an end and he needed rest and food—yes, possibly food. But for the time being he was almost comfortable. He was conscious of stabbing pains in his ears, and that his face and hands were rapidly becoming stiff, but what was that? The time was past when small things mattered. He was very comfortable—and—Ocpic was creeping nearer.
Never in his life had Broom felt so happy. A heavy burden seemed to have dropped from his shoulders. He felt as light as a feather. In sheer ecstasy and with a long sigh of contentment he closed his eyes—Ocpic was quite close!
Broom’s mind now began to wander. He murmured to himself, living over again events in his chequered career. Then a restful look came on his face and he babbled of boyhood days; of days—long, long ago—before he had grown into a hardened reprobate.
And now Ocpic was at his side! And drawing a knife!
Broom! Broom! Awake! Open your eyes, for an assassin lurks near!
Broom smiled and spoke softly a woman’s name.
Raising himself on one elbow Ocpic bent over him! Something glittered in his hand.
Opening his eyes, Broom smiled up into the little rat-like orbs above him, which darted back malignant hate.