Framed in the doorway, his small eyes peering from a strained face out of the wolverine hood of his parkee, the fugitive Eskimo stood alone. Instead of handcuffs on his wrists, he held a rifle across his breast.
CHAPTER VIII
THE HERO FUGITIVE
As the sergeant moved forward intent upon seizing the rifle, the huge, raw-boned Kogmollyc came into the room with a bound that carried him well over the threshold. The move had every appearance of an attack of one demented; but before Seymour could grapple with him the lack of hostile intent was made manifest.
The rifle Avic carried was thrown regardlessly to the floor. With a snarl inhuman, the Eskimo threw himself down beside the platter of caribou roast. The odors of cooked food had proved too much for racial restraint. Hunger had brought on the precipitate action.
For several minutes, Seymour and his guests stood and watched the fugitive with amazement. He went at the deer shank after the fashion of a starving malamute. Sinking his teeth into the succulent meat, he tore out great mouthfuls which he swallowed without chewing. At first growls were interspersed between the bites, but gradually these were succeeded by grunts of satisfaction. Once he dropped the shank to fill his mouth with bannock, but he returned to the meat, sucking at it while yet his mouth was crowded.
Seymour stooped for the gun, recognized it as a service weapon and grew suddenly grave.
"La Marr's rifle," he muttered.
Crossing to the native, he gripped the back-thrown hood of the parkee and dragged him, sputtering protestingly, to his feet. Avic was considerable to lift, but Seymour was strong and deeply aroused. The caribou shank came with the savage, held in teeth that demanded a last bite.
"Here, you dog, drop that!" came gruff command. "Want to founder yourself?"