Just as the Eskimo was creeping into Johnny’s tent, he felt himself seized from behind and dragged violently backward. The next instant a heavy body came crashing down upon him. The knife flew from his hand. His breath was knocked from him. He uttered one low grunt and that was all.
Thirty seconds later, powerful hands gripped his shoulders while in a hoarse whisper a voice spoke.
“What was he doing?” It was the old Scot.
“Try—trying—” The girl struggled hard to retain her composure. “He had a long knife. He was trying to kill Johnny.”
For a moment the old Scot sat in silent meditation.
“They are ungrateful beasts!” The girl’s low whisper was tense with indignation.
“No, no, girl, you must not think that! They are but children, frightened children. Afraid, that’s what they are. Afraid of the trees in the forest, of spirits that do not exist at all, afraid, afraid. You must not blame them.”
Lifting the young Eskimo to his feet, he pointed away toward the little village of native tents, then gave him a gentle shove.
“Johnny!” he called in a low tone.
There came no answer.