Slowly, distinctly, in a tense whisper Curlie told of his predicament.
“I know ’em,” came in a roar through the air. “They stole those deer. Don’t let ’em know you know. When they come in let ’em listen to me. Tell ’em who I am. They know me. That’ll settle ’em. Tell ’em I’ll follow ’em to the Pole if they don’t let you go. No—don’t tell ’em. Let me. They don’t know about radiophones. Just got mine last week. They’re superstitious. It’ll knock ’em dead. Let me tell ’em.”
“All right,” whispered Curlie, “keep your batteries connected and stand by. I’ll see what I can find out.
“Nothing like the little old radio,” he told himself; “nothing at all like it when you’re in a peck of trouble.”
Hanging his receiver on a nail he turned toward the door. Placing his ear against a crack, he listened.
To his surprise, he found that the men were speaking English. “One of them is a half-breed, maybe of another tribe, and doesn’t understand the native language of the others,” was his mental comment.
As he now and then caught a snatch of the conversation, his blood ran cold. There could be no mistaking the subject of their debate. They were discussing the question of whether or not, he, Curlie, should be killed. The half-breed was standing out against it, while the others insisted that it was the only safe thing to do. So determined were they about it and so earnest in their debate that at times their voices rose almost to a shout.
“If you were to consult me in the matter,” Curlie whispered to himself, “I would most certainly agree with my old friend, the half-breed.”
Even as he joked with himself, the true significance of his situation was borne more closely in upon him. Here he was many miles from human habitation in the heart of a wilderness. Three men calmly debated his destruction. Two against one; there could be no question of the verdict.
Escape was impossible. The windows were too small. The men were powerfully built; there was no chance to fight his way to freedom.