Quickly Philip bundled Celie on the sledge and drove the dogs ahead, his eyes on a wide opening in the timber three or four hundred yards above the river.  Five minutes later the sledge drew up in front of the cabin.  In that time they heard no further outcry or sound of gunfire, and from the cabin itself there came no sign of life, unless the smoke meant life.  Scarcely had the sledge stopped before Celie was on her feet and running to the door.  It was locked, and she beat against it excitedly with her little fists, calling a strange name.  Standing close behind her, Philip heard a shuffling movement beyond the log walls, the scraping of a bar, and a man’s voice so deep that it had in it the booming note of a drum.  To it Celie replied with almost a shriek.  The door swung inward, and Philip saw a man’s arms open and Celie run into them.  He was an old man.  His hair and beard were white.  This much Philip observed before he turned with a sudden, thrill toward the open in the forest.  Only he had heard the cry that had come from that direction, and now, looking back, he saw a figure running swiftly over the plain toward the cabin.  Instantly he knew that it was a white man.  With his revolver in his hand he advanced to meet him and in a brief space they stood face to face.

The stranger was a giant of a man.  His long, reddish hair fell to his shoulders.  He was bare-headed, and panting as if hard run, and his face was streaming with blood.  His eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets as he stared at Philip.  And Philip, almost dropping his revolver in his amazement, gasped incredulously: 

“My God, is it you—­Olaf Anderson!”

CHAPTER XXV

Following that first wild stare of uncertainty and disbelief in the big Swede’s eyes came a look of sudden and joyous recognition.  He was clutching at Philip’s hand like a drowning man before he made an effort to speak, still with his eyes on the other’s face as if he was not quite sure they had not betrayed him.  Then he grinned.  There was only one man in the world who could grin like Olaf Anderson.  In spite of blood and swollen features it transformed him.  Men loved the red-headed Swede because of that grin.  Not a man in the service who knew him but swore that Olaf would die with the grin on his face, because the tighter the hole he was in the more surely would the grin be there.  It was the grin that answered Philip’s question.

“Just in time—­to the dot,” said Olaf, still pumping Philip’s hand, and grinning hard.  “All dead but me—­Calkins, Harris, and that little Dutchman, O’Flynn, Cold and stiff, Phil, every one of them.  I knew an investigating patrol would be coming up pretty soon.  Been looking for it every day.  How many men you got?”

He looked beyond Philip to the cabin and the sledge.  The grin slowly went out of his face, and Philip heard the sudden catch in his breath.  A swift glance revealed the amazing truth to Olaf.  He dropped Philip’s hand and stepped back, taking him in suddenly from head to foot.