A snort of fury seized upon Sandy. With a strangled, despairing cry, he sprang forward past Dick and seized Toma by the shoulder.
“Listen to me you, you—Indian. I’ve got a right to know how far we’ve gone. Come on, now—out with it!”
Toma turned as if to brush off the detaining hand, when Sandy struck out with all the force of his right arm. It was an unexpected blow which sent the young Indian guide staggering to his knees. Aghast, scarcely believing his senses, Dick stood in bewilderment for a moment unable to move. With incredible speed, his companion had sprung forward again, his fumbling, eager hands encircling Toma’s throat.
“Stop it!” shrieked Dick.
A shrill, unearthly shout, terrible in that utter desolation, seemed to freeze Dick’s blood. Toma and Sandy were at grips, struggling, rolling—a dark, almost indistinguishable ball against the gray background of billowing drifts.
“Stop it!” roared Dick again, and, jumping in, endeavored to separate them. He was still somewhat dazed over the sudden, unexpected turn events had taken. What had happened to Sandy? What was the meaning of that unwarranted attack upon the kindly young Indian guide? Had the hardship and severe nervous strain of the past few days, proved too much for his friend? Desperately he tugged and pulled at the two combatants, finally breathing a sigh of thankfulness as Toma rolled on top, successfully pinning the arms of his assailant.
“Fight all gone,” declared the victor between gasps of exhaustion, raising one hand to wipe away the blood trickling from a cut over his left eye. “Hm, poor fellow go sleep bye an bye. Trail too much. Worry too much. All make him mad like grizzly caught in trap, an’ fight like grizzly till strength all gone.”
Toma arose, brushing the snow from his clothing, then placed a still trembling hand on Dick’s arm.
“Him lay there all night—huh?” he inquired. “What you think we do next? What you think?”
Disconsolately, Dick gazed out into the black pall of darkness which had gathered around them.