We were left unprotected in the falling snow.
The primal instincts come uppermost at such times, and like the wild
creatures of the woods facing a foe, instantaneously we wheeled back to
back, alert for the enemy that had frightened the caribou.
"Hist!" whispers Radisson. "Look!"
Ben Gillam leaped into the air as if he had been shot, shrieking out:
"It's him! It's him! Shoot him! The thief! The traitor! It's him!"
He dashed forward, followed by the rest of us, hardly sure whether Ben
were sane.
Three figures loomed through the snowy darkness, white and silent as
the snow itself--vague as phantoms in mist--pointing at us like wraiths
of death--spirit hunters incarnate of that vast wilderness riding the
riotous storm over land and sea. One swung a weapon aloft. There was
the scream as of a woman's cry--and the shrieking wind had swept the
snow-clouds about us in a blind fury that blotted all sight. And when
the combing billows of drift passed, the apparition had faded. We four
stood alone staring in space with strange questionings.
"Egad!" gasped Radisson, "I don't mind when the wind howls like a wolf,
but when it takes to the death-scream, with snow like the skirts of a
shroud----"
"May the Lord have mercy on us!" muttered La Chesnaye, crossing
himself.
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