And then Blake suddenly pointed ahead over an open plain and said: 

“There is the Coppermine.”

CHAPTER XXIII

A cry from Celie turned his gaze from the broad white trail of ice that was the Coppermine, and as he looked she pointed eagerly toward a huge pinnacle of rock that rose like an oddly placed cenotaph out of the unbroken surface of the plain.

Blake grunted out a laugh in his beard and his eyes lit up with an unpleasant fire as they rested on her flushed face.

“She’s tellin’ you that Bram Johnson brought her this way,” he chuckled.  “Bram was a fool—­like you!”

He seemed not to expect a reply from Philip, but urged the dogs down the slope into the plain.  Fifteen minutes later they were on the surface of the river.

Philip drew a deep breath of relief, and he found that same relief in Celie’s face when he dropped back to her side.  As far as they could see ahead of them there was no forest.  The Coppermine itself seemed to be swallowed up in the vast white emptiness of the Barren.  There could be no surprise attack here, even at night.  And yet there was something in Blake’s face which kept alive within him the strange premonition of a near and unseen danger.  Again and again he tried to shake off the feeling.  He argued with himself against the unreasonableness of the thing that had begun to oppress him.  Blake was in his power.  It was impossible for him to escape, and the outlaw’s life depended utterly upon his success in getting them safely to the cabin.  It was not conceivable to suppose that Blake would sacrifice his life merely that they might fall into the hands of the Eskimos.  And yet—­

He watched Blake—­watched him more and more closely as they buried themselves deeper in that unending chaos of the north.  And Blake, it seemed to him, was conscious of that increasing watchfulness.  He increased his speed.  Now and then Philip heard a curious chuckling sound smothered in his beard, and after an hour’s travel on the snow-covered ice of the river he could no longer dull his vision to the fact that the farther they progressed into the open country, the more confident Blake was becoming.  He did not question him.  He realized the futility of attempting to force his prisoner into conversation.  In that respect it was Blake who held the whip hand.  He could lie or tell the truth, according to the humor of his desire.  Blake must have guessed this thought in Philip’s mind.  They were traveling side by side when he suddenly laughed.  There was an unmistakable irony in his voice when he said: 

“It’s funny, Raine, that I should like you, ain’t it?  A man who’s mauled you, an’ threatened to kill you!  I guess it’s because I’m so cussed sorry for you.  You’re heading straight for the gates of hell, an’ they’re open—­wide open.”

“And you?”

This time Blake’s laugh was harsher.