The Indian stooped close and examined the trail. "Two—t'ree mans, an' a team," he muttered, "An' wan man dat Godam Johnnie Claw!"
"How do you know?" cried Brent, "How old are they?" And leaping to the sled, he cut the pack thongs with one sweep of his knife and grabbed up his rifle.
"I know dem track—seen um on Mackenzie. B'en gon' 'bout two t'ree hour!"
"Bring on the outfit!" Brent called over his shoulder, and the Indian stared in surprise as he watched the man strike out on the trail in great leaping strides.
The distance to the cabin was a scant mile, and Brent covered it without slackening his pace. At the foot of the bank, he noted with relief that the trail swung upward to his own cabin. If they had stopped, there was yet time. His first glance had detected no light in the window, but as he looked again, he saw that a peculiar dull radiance filtered through the oiled parchment that served as a glass. Cautiously he maneuvered up the bank, and made his way to the cabin, mentally debating with himself whether to burst in upon the occupants and chance a surprise, or to lie in wait till they came out. He stood in the shelter of the meat cache weighing his chances, when suddenly from beyond the log walls came the sound of a woman's scream—loud—shrill—terrible, it sounded, cutting the black silence of the night. What woman? There could be only one—with a low cry that sounded in his own ears like the snarl of a beast, he dropped the rifle and sprang against the door. It flew inward
and for a second Brent could see nothing in the murky interior of the room. There was a sound from the bunk and, through the smoke haze he made out the face of the Captain of the Belva Lou. As the man sprang erect, their bodies met with an impact that carried them to the floor. Brent found himself on top, and the next instant his fingers were twisting, biting into a hairy throat with a grip that crushed and tore. In his blind fury he was only half-conscious that heavy fists were battering at his face. Beneath him the body of the Captain lashed and struggled. The man's tongue lolled from his open mouth, and from beneath the curled lips came hoarse wheezing gasps, and great gulping strangling gurgles. A wave of exultation seized Brent as he realized that the thing that writhed and twisted in his grasp was the naked throat of a man. Vaguely he became conscious that above him hovered a white shape, and that the shape was calling his name, in strange quavering tones. He tightened his grip. There was a wild spasmodic heaving of the form beneath him—and the form became suddenly still. But Brent did not release his grasp. Instead he twisted and ground his fingers deeper and deeper into the flesh that yielded now, and did not writhe. With his face held close, he glared like a beast into the face of the man beneath him—a horrible face with its wide-sprung jaws exposing the slobbered tongue, the yellow snag-like teeth, the eyes, back-rolled until only the whites showed between the
wide-staring lids, and the skin fast purpling between the upper beard and the mottled thatch of hair.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and glancing up he saw Snowdrift and realized that she was urging him to rise. As in a dream he caught the gleam of white shoulders, and saw that one bare arm clasped a fragment of torn shirt to her breast. He staggered to his feet, gave one glance into the girl's eyes, and with a wild, glad cry caught her to him and pressed her tight against his pounding heart.
A moment later she struggled from his embrace. She flushed deeply as his eyes raised from her shoulders to meet her own. He was speaking, and at the words her heart leaped wildly.
"It's a lie!" he cried, "You are not a breed! I knew it! I knew it! My darling—you are white—as white as I am! Old Wananebish is not your mother! Do you hear? You are white!"