"The red-coat killed her firing at me, you can see that and swear to it, can't you?" Karmack demanded.
"But no, Meestair Karmack," came from the native. "She is hit from the back. It was your bullet that lay her low. Koplock swear to nothing but the truth."
An imprecation sprang from the factor's lips, but scarcely registered with the listening sergeant. He was too filled with rejoicing that no involuntary shot of his had struck her down.
"It don't matter," he heard Karmack grumble. "Go have a look at the policeman. If only she killed him——"
Seymour heard the crunch of snow-shoes; knew that the native was coming toward him. What should he do? He was convinced that his wound was only a "crease"; hoped that the muscular numbness would pass. To feign death under the native's inspection was his first impulse.
But to that plan, several objections immediately presented themselves. The mission-schooled Eskimo would be hard to deceive with no more convincing evidence than a bullet graze. Again, there was no telling how long the paralysis that gripped him would continue. No one could lay out in to-day's temperature for any length of time without freezing.
He recalled that Koplock had always shown a dog-like devotion to him; undoubtedly was grateful for the fees which Seymour had paid for his services as interpreter for the government. Certainly the native was greatly disturbed by what had just happened. To throw himself on the Eskimo's mercy held some risk but more chance of ultimate safety than attempting to play 'possum.
In the moment of the bronze man's crossing, the sergeant had argued this out and come to a decision.
His eyes were closed when Koplock stood over him and touched his body with the toe of his muckluck. The native stooped for a close examination of the head wound. Seymour's eyes opened, his lips moved in a whisper.
"Stand by your king," he said. "Tell Karmack I'm dead, but don't go on with him."