And that short moment of Sark’s unwariness was his undoing and Blera’s opportunity. Right before his unseeing eyes her swift hands grasped the rifle, and like another Delilah, turned Philistine against her Samson, she crashed the butt across his temple.
Sark’s face turned blank. He quivered a little, poised on one knee, and collapsed in the bunk.
“Jose, quick!”
But she did not need to cry. Cantine had seen from the chink in the back-room door and run as she struck.
“Blera, you didn’t—”
“No, no! Only stunned! And he’s stirring already. Be sharp! Get the dog-harness. Down, you brutes!”
The awakened dogs had sprung up snarling, but Blera had a formidable weapon in the rifle, and she bludgeoned them on the heads with the butt. Jose, too, sprang for the long-lashed dog-whip, coiled on pegs on the wall, and flayed them into subjection. “Now the harness, quick, Jose!”
Still using the butt of his whip to keep the victory already gained, Cantine threw the harness on the ugly beasts and haled them out into the piercing cold. Blera tossed down the sled up-ended by the door. Rapidly they traced in the huskies, whining resentfully at being lashed and dragged from the warmth of the cabin out into a temperature of fifty-five below, and cast themselves on the sled.
“Mush!” roared Cantine, bringing down the whip.