As Johnny watched them, he remembered having been told by an old native that during and after the great war these people had been unable to procure a sufficient supply of ammunition and had been obliged to resort to ancient methods of hunting.  These were the bow and arrow, the lance and the harpoon.  Powerful bows, of some native wood, shot arrows tipped with cunningly tempered bits of steel.  The drawn and tempered barrel of a discarded rifle formed a point for the long-shafted lance.  The harpoon, most terrible of all weapons, both for man and beast, was a long wooden shaft with a loose point attached to a long skin rope.  Once five or six of these had been thrown into the body of a great white bear or some offending human he was doomed to die a death of agonizing torture; his body being literally torn to pieces by the drag upon the strong skin ropes, fastened to the steel points imbedded in his flesh.

Now it seemed evident that for some misdeed one member of the tribe had been condemned to die.  As Johnny stood there staring, the whole affair seemed so much like things he had seen done on the screen, that he found it difficult to realize that this was an actual tragedy, being enacted before his very eyes.

“They do it in the movies,” he said.

“Yes,” his companion agreed, “but here they will kill him.  We must hurry to help him.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t you see?  The Russian.”

“Oh!” sighed Johnny.  “Let ’em have him.  He deserves as much from me, probably deserves more from them.”

“No!  No!  No!” Iyok-ok protested, now very much excited.  “That will never do.  We must save him.  They think he’s from the Russian Government.  Think he will demand their furs and carry them away.  They mistake.  They will kill him.  Your automatic!  We must hurry.  Come.”

Johnny found himself being dragged down the hill.  As he looked below, he realized that his companion was right.  The man was doomed unless they interfered.  Already skillful archers were pausing to shoot and their arrows fell dangerously near the fugitive.

“Now, from here,” panted Iyok-ok.  “Your automatic.  Shoot over their heads.  They will stop.  I will tell them.  They will not kill him.”

Johnny’s hand went to his automatic, but there it rested.  These natives?  What did he have against them that he should interrupt them in the chase?  And this Russian, what claim did he have on him that he should save his life?  None, the answer was plain.  And yet, here was this boy, to whom he had grown strangely attached, begging him to help save the Russian.  A strange state of affairs, for sure.

Toward them, as he ran, the Russian turned a white, appealing face.  To them came ever louder and more appalling the cry of the excited natives.  Now an arrow fell three feet short of its mark.  And now, a stronger arm sent one three yards beyond the man, but a foot to one side.  The whole scene, set as it was in the purple shadows and yellow lights of the north-land, was fascinating.