the night. It was
now eight o'clock. By nine or ten the next morning he would be facing
Rossland, and at about that same hour Tatpan's swift messengers would be
closing in about Tautuk and Amuk Toolik. He knew the speed with which
his herdsmen would sweep out of the mountains and over the tundras. Two
years ago Amuk Toolik and a dozen of his Eskimo people had traveled
fifty-two hours without rest or food, covering a hundred and nineteen
miles in that time. His blood flushed hot with pride. He couldn't do
that. But his people could--and _would_. He could see them sweeping in
from the telescoping segments of the herds as the word went among them;
he could see them streaking out of the foothills; and then, like wolves
scattering for freer air and leg-room, he saw them dotting the tundra in
their race for home--and war, if it was war that lay ahead of them.

Twilight began to creep in upon him, like veils of cool, dry mist out of
the horizons. And hour after hour he went on, eating a strip of pemmican
when he grew hungry, and drinking in the spring coulees when he came to
them, where the water was cold and clear. Not until a telltale cramp
began to bite warningly in his leg did he stop for the rest which he
knew he must take. It was one o'clock. Counting his journey to Tatpan's
camp, he had been traveling almost steadily for seventeen hours.

Not until he stretched himself out on his back in a grassy hollow where
a little stream a foot wide rippled close to his ears did he realize how
tired he had become. At first he tried not to sleep. Rest was all he
wanted; he dared not close his eyes. But exhaustion overcame him at
last, and he slept. When he awoke, bird-song and the sun were taunting
him. He sat up with a jerk, then leaped to his feet in alarm. His watch
told the story. He had slept soundly for six hours, instead of resting
three or four with his eyes open.

After a little, as he hurried on his way, he did not altogether regret
what had happened. He felt like a fighting man. He breathed deeply, ate
a breakfast of pemmican as he walked, and proceeded to make up lost
time. The interval between fifteen minutes of twelve and twelve he
almost ran. That quarter of an hour brought him to the crest of the
ridge from which he could look upon the buildings of the range. Nothing
had happened that he could see. He gave a great gasp of relief, and in
his joy he laughed. The strangeness of the laugh told him more than
anything els