"I'm
hopin' his reverence is up to his gills in drifts back yonder. "We
must leave him a sled trail for a souvenir."
"How can we, with the place guarded?"
"Hitch the dogs and run for it by night, He'll burn us out when he
comes. Fine targets we'd make on the snow by the light of a burning
shack. If ye can see to shoot we'll go tonight. Hello! What's
that?"
Outside came the howl of malamoots and the cry of men. Leaping to
the window, George rubbed it free and stared into the sunshine.
"Too late! Too late!" he said. "Here he comes! It's time I killed
him." He spoke gratingly, with the dull anger of years.
On the bright surface of the opposite hillside a sled bearing a
muffled figure appeared silhouetted against the glisten of the crust.
Its team, maddened by the village scent, poured down the incline
toward the river bank and the guide swung onto the runners behind,
while the voice of the people rose to their priest. In a whirl of
soft snow they drove down onto the treachery of the ice.
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