Within half an hour, perhaps even
less, he believed that other eyes would know of the fight at the
edge of the open. It was inevitable. If the Kogmollocks on either
side of them struck the trail before it reached the open they
would very soon run upon the dead, and if they came upon
footprints in the snow this side of the open they would back-trail
swiftly to learn the source and meaning of the cry of triumph that
had not repeated itself. Celie's little feet, clad in moccasins
twice too big for her, dragged in the snow in a way that would
leave no doubt in the Eskimo mind. As Philip saw the situation
there was one chance for them, and only one. They could not escape
by means of strategy. They could not hide from their pursuers.
Hope depended entirely upon the number of their enemies. If there
were only three or four of them left they would not attack in the
open. In that event he must watch for ambuscade, and dread the
night. He looked down at Celie, buried in her furry coat and hood
and plodding along courageously at his side with her hand in his.
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