“Gone,” he repeated like a parrot. “Mebby you forget. That one rifle b’long herder boys.”
“And your rifle?” questioned Marian, “where is your rifle?”
“Broke-tuk. Hammer not want come down hard. Not want shoot, that one rifle, mine.”
Marian was stunned with surprise and chagrin. She and Patsy returned silently to their igloo.
“Oh, that treacherous Bill Scarberry!” she exploded. “He has known this was coming. He knew our herders were energetic and capable. He thought if they remained with us, we might beat him to the prize; so he sent some spy over here to buy them away from us with promises of more pay.”
“And now?” asked Patsy.
“Now he will drive his herd to Fort Jarvis and sell it, and our grand chance is gone forever.”
“No!” exclaimed Patsy, “He won’t! He shall not! We will beat him yet. We are strong. Terogloona and Attatak are faithful. We have our three collies. We can do it. We will beat him yet. Our herd is better than his. It will travel faster. Oh, Marian! Somehow, somehow we must do it. It’s your chance! Your one big, wonderful opportunity.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Marian, suddenly fired by her cousin’s hot blooded southern enthusiasm, “we will do it or perish in the attempt. It’s to be a race,” she exclaimed, “a race for a wonderful prize, a race between two large herds of reindeer over five hundred miles of hills, tundra and forest. There may be wolves in the forests. In Alaska dangers lurk at every turn; rivers too rapid to freeze over and blizzards and wild beasts. We will be terribly handicapped from the very start. But for father’s sake we must try it.”
“For your father’s and for your own sake,” murmured Patsy. “And, Marian, I have always believed that our great Creator was on the side of those who are kind and just. Bill Scarberry played us a mean trick. Perhaps God will somehow even the score.”