Of one thing,
however, he was confident. The maker of the tracks would not be
armed with javelins. He would have a rifle. Friend or foe, he was
after that rifle. The trick was to catch sight of him at the
earliest possible moment.
How much of a lead the stranger had was a matter at which he could
guess with considerable accuracy. The freshness of the trail was
only slightly dimmed by snow, which was ample proof that it had
been made at the very tail-end of the storm. He believed that it
was not more than an hour old.
For a good two hundred yards Philip set a dog-trot pace for
Celie, who ran courageously at his side. At the end of that
distance he stopped. Celie was panting for breath. Her hood had
slipped back and her face was flushed like a wildflower by her
exertion. Her eyes shone like stars, and her lips were parted a
little. She was temptingly lovely, but again Philip lost not a
second of unnecessary time. He picked her up in his arms again and
continued the race. By using every ounce of his own strength and
endurance in this way he figured that their progress would be at
least a third faster than the Eskimos would follow.
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