Fresher and fresher became the trail, for the man on snowshoes was rapidly overtaking whoever he pursued, provided that was what he had been doing, and according to signs the man in boots had increased his pace to a floundering run as if he wanted to get away from someone.
The boys came to the brow of a long incline, slanting to a level tundra, and down the slope saw two men, surprisingly close.
“Sit down, Sandy,” Dick whispered. “Don’t let either of them see us.”
Dropping down in the snow, the boys watched an interesting chase. The man on snowshoes was rapidly overtaking another who plunged along hampered by sinking at every step.
Sandy clutched Dick by the arm and said hoarsely, fearfully: “That man in front is Moonshine Sam—sure enough.”
“And you can bet the fellow on snowshoes is Mistak,” came back Dick confidently.
“They’re going to fight!” exclaimed Sandy. “What if someone’s killed?”
“We can’t help it, Sandy. It’s their fight. We’re risking our lives if we try to stop it, without killing one of them ourselves, and you know we couldn’t kill in cold blood. Oh, if the policemen were only here!”
Tensely the boys watched the two draw nearer together. When a hundred yards separated them, Moonshine Sam turned, shook his fists over his head, and let out a loud yell. Then he started back. The man was going to fight now that he was in a corner.
Mistak carried only a spear as a long distance weapon. The boys divined that he and his band had long since run out of ammunition for the few firearms they possessed.