Olaf Anderson had
told him the whole story. There had been no white man there--only
the Eskimos, and with the Eskimos he believed that he could deal
now if he succeeded in killing Blake. Back at the cabin he could
easily have settled the matter, and he felt like cursing himself
for his shortsightedness.
In spite of the fact that he had missed his main chance he began
now to see more than hope in a situation that five minutes before
had been one of appalling gloom. If he could keep ahead of his
enemies until daybreak he had a ninety percent chance of getting
Blake. At some spot where he could keep the Kogmollocks at bay and
scatter death among them if they attacked he would barricade
himself and Celie behind the sledge and call out his acceptance of
Blake's proposition to give up Celie as the price of his own
safety. He would demand an interview with Blake, and it was then
that his opportunity would come.
But ahead of him were the leaden hours of the gray night! Out of
that ghostly mist of pale moonlight through which the dogs were
traveling like sinuous shadows Upi and his tribe could close in on
him silently and swiftly, unseen until they were within striking
distance.
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