“Will be— shortly,” replied Blake. “She was so weak she couldn’t walk when I left. But them Eskimo animals die hard, ’specially the women.”
“Of course you’re going back for her?”
The other stared for a moment into Pelliter’s flushed face, and then laughed as though he had just heard a good joke.
“Not on your life, my boy. I wouldn’t hike that thirty miles again— an’ thirty back— for all the Eskimo women up at Wagner.”
The red in Pelliter’s eyes grew redder as he leaned over the table.
“See here,” he said, “you’re going back— now! Do you understand? You’re going back!”
Suddenly he stopped. He stared at Blake’s coat, and with a swiftness that took the other by surprise he reached across and picked something from it. A startled cry broke from his lips. Between his fingers he held a single filament of hair. It was nearly a foot long, and it was not an Eskimo woman’s hair. It shone a dull gold in the gray light that came through the window. He raised his eyes, terrible in their accusation of the man opposite him.
“You lie!” he said. “She’s not an Eskimo!”
Blake had half risen, his great hands clutching the ends of the table, his brutal face thrust forward, his whole body in an attitude that sent Pelliter back out of his reach. He was not an instant too soon. With an oath Blake sent the table crashing aside and sprang upon the sick man.
“I’ll kill you!” he cried. “I’ll kill you, an’ put you where I’ve put her, ’n’ when your pard comes back I’ll—”