They had heard no sound outside the cabin during the last few minutes.  Yet under their eyes, stretched out in the soiled and trampled snow, lay the wolf that a short time before had been gnawing a bone.  The animal was stark dead.  Not a muscle of its body moved.  Its lips were drawn back, its jaws agape, and under the head was a growing smear of blood.  It was not these things—­ not the fact but the instrument of death that held Philip’s eyes.  The huge wolf had been completely transfixed by a spear.

Instantly Philip recognized it—­the long, slender, javelin-like narwhal harpoon used by only one people in the world, the murderous little black-visaged Kogmollocks of Coronation Gulf and Wollaston Land.

He sprang suddenly back from the window, dragging Celie with him.

CHAPTER XIII

“Kogmollocks—­the blackest-hearted little devils alive when it comes to trading wives and fighting,” said Philip, a little ashamed of the suddenness with which he had jumped back from the window.  “Excuse my abruptness, dear.  But I’d recognize that death-thing on the other side of the earth.  I’ve seen them throw it like an arrow for a hundred yards—­and I have a notion they’re watching that window!”

At sight of the dead wolf and the protruding javelin Celie’s face had gone as white as ash.  Snatching up one of the pictures from the table, she thrust it into Philip’s hand.  It was one of the fighting pictures.

“So it’s you?” he said, smiling at her and trying to keep the tremble of excitement out of his voice.  “It’s you they want, eh?  And they must want you bad.  I’ve never heard of those little devils coming within a hundred miles of this far south.  They must want you bad.  Now—­I wonder why?” His voice was calm again.  It thrilled him to see how utterly she was judging the situation by the movement of his lips and the sound of his voice.  With him unafraid she would be unafraid.  He judged that quickly.  Her eyes bared her faith in him, and suddenly he reached out and took her face between his two hands, and laughed softly, while each instant he feared the smash of a javelin through the window.  “I like to see that look in your eyes,” he went on.  “And I’m almost glad you can’t understand me, for I couldn’t lie to you worth a cent.  I understand those pictures now—­and I think we’re in a hell of a fix.  The Eskimos have followed you and Bram down from the north, and I’m laying a wager with myself that Bram won’t return from the caribou hunt.  If they were Nunatalmutes or any other tribe I wouldn’t be so sure.  But they’re Kogmollocks.  They’re worse than the little brown head-hunters of the Philippines when it comes to ambush, and if Bram hasn’t got a spear through him this minute I’ll never guess again!” He withdrew his hands from her face, still smiling at her as he talked.  The color was returning into her face.  Suddenly she