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Updated: June 21, 2025
A man was bending over him, whose face he could not see, for the hood was fastened before it, leaving only his eyes visible. By his dress he knew that he was his pursuer and Spurling's slayer. Again he was impressed with the fancy, not so much by his proportions which were smaller, but by his clothing, that he was very like himself.
He had stanched the flow of blood from his nose, but it still pained him, and he was otherwise bruised and badly shaken by the buffets from Jabe's knobby fists. Judged by Percy's feelings, Jabe must have been all knuckles. Percy had to acknowledge that only Spurling's opportune appearance had saved him from being pounded unmercifully. But his pride had been injured far more than his physical body.
Therefore he broke in on Granger roughly, inquiring, "Where are those huskies which you are going to lend me?" "They are Spurling's huskies which he left behind when I lent him mine." "How long ago was that? If they're Spurling's, they must be pretty well played out." "They are. They've rested for thirty hours more or less; but I don't think you'll manage to catch him up with them."
Granger knew what he meant that he was referring to Keewatin and to his sacrifice. He shook his head at him; he was not thinking of that. He was thinking of Spurling's shadow, made prisoner by its own hatred, chained behind the woman weeping in the shack, and of how he had cheated it of its pitiful revenge.
The vibrations ceased. The can had reached its lowest point. It was rising again. Out came his head. "Can you hold on a minute, Perce?" roared Spurling's voice. "Yes," strangled Percy. "Then let go that painter! I've got it." Hanging head down, his legs twined round a bail, Spurling worked rapidly with both hands. Soon he had fastened the rope securely to the lug, mooring the dory to the buoy.
Jim took two steps toward the sound, then stopped. "Not yet! I know a better way. Stay here and keep watch." He scrambled down to the beach. There was a slight grating of gravel, and presently the boat was afloat. Noiselessly, under Spurling's skilful sculling, it slipped out of the cove and vanished behind the ledges to the east. Before long Jim was back with his companions.
And now, instead of brief and chance-snatched moments, they were allowed to pass whole days together; yet, because of what had happened, they could find no pleasure in one another. Pleasure! The only sensation which he derived from Spurling's company was one of intense annoyance.
In the person of another he had seen the vileness which he had been seeking for himself, and was horrified. He knew that, had he had his chance, he might have taken Spurling's life in just some such way as that he had imagined how he would do it many times. And now that it was accomplished, he was sick with pity for the murdered man.
If he couldn't scent danger for himself, his huskies would choose their own path and save him, unless unless, feeling the smoothness of the old trail beneath the snow, they should lazily choose that, or unless that leader of Spurling's should wilfully lead them astray; but surely the four hind-dogs would have sense not to follow him, and would hang back.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure broke through the circle. "What's the trouble here?" It was Spurling's voice. His glance took in the situation. "That'll be about all," he said. "Come away, Whittington!" A bullet-headed, shirt-sleeved man bristled up defiantly. It was Jabe's father. "Guess we'll let 'em fight it out," he observed. His boy was winning. "No," said Jim. "It's gone far enough."
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