that fringe of forest four
hundred yards away was a "hogback" in the snow, running a curving
parallel with the plain. It formed scarcely more than a three or four
foot rise in the surface, and he had given it no special significance
until now. His lips formed words as the thrill of understanding leapt
upon him.

"They're moving!" he called to Olaf. "They're going to make a rush for
the little ridge between us and the timber. Good God, Anderson, there's
an army of them!"

"Not more'n a hundred," replied the Swede calmly, taking his place at
the gun-crevice. "Take it easy, Phil. This will be good target
practice. We've got to make an eighty percent kill as they come across
the open. This is mighty comfortable compared with the trick they
turned on us when they got Calkins, Harris and O'Flynn. I got away in
the night."

The moving line had paused just within the last straggling growth of
trees, as if inviting the fire of the defenders.

Olaf grunted as he looked along the barrel of his rifle.

"Strategy," he mumbled. "They know we're shy of ammunition."

In the moments of tense waiting Philip found his first opportunity to
question the man at his side. First, he said:

"I guess mebby you understand, Olaf. We've gone through a hell
together, and I love her. If we get out of this she's going to be my
wife. She's promised me that, and yet I swear to Heaven I don't know
more than a dozen words of her language. What has happened? Who is she?
Why was she with Bram Johnson? You know their language, and have been
with them--"

"They're taking final orders," interrupted Olaf, as if he had not
heard. "There's something more on foot than a rush to the ridge. It's
Blake's scheming. See those little groups forming? They're going to
bring battering-rams, and make a second rush from the ridge." He drew
in a deep breath, and without a change in the even tone of his voice,
went on: "Calkins, Harris and O'Flynn went down in a good fight. Tell
you about that later. Hit seven days' west, and run on the camp of
Armin, his girl, and two white men--Russians--guided by two Kogmollocks
from Coronation Gulf. You can guess some of the rest. The little devils
had Blake and his gang about us two days after I struck them. Bram
Johnson and his wolves came along then--from nowhere--going nowhere.
The Kogmollocks think Bram is a great Devil, and that each of his
wolves is a Devil. If it hadn't been for that they would have murdered
us in a hurr