native, without a cry, fell backward beyond the curtain. His knife shot
outward too, and stuck hilt downward in the snow.

Johnny drew himself slowly from beneath the furs. Lifting the deer skin
curtain cautiously, he looked out. Then he chuckled a cold, dry chuckle.
His knuckles were bloody, for the only weapon he had used was that truly
American weapon, a clenched fist. Johnny, as I have suggested before,
was somewhat handy with his "dukes." His left was a bit out of repair
just now, but his right was quite all right, as the crumpled heap of a
man testified.

Johnny bent over the man and twisted his head about. No, his neck was
not broken. Johnny was thankful for that. He hated to see dead people
even when they richly deserved to die.

Then he turned to the knife. He started again, as he extricated the
hilt from the snow. But there was no time for examining it. His ear
caught a stifled cry, a woman's cry. It came, without a doubt, from the
igloo of his fellow traveler, the woman. Hastily thrusting his knife in
his belt, he threw back the tentflap and crossed the intervening
snowpatch in three strides.

He threw back the canvas just in time to seize a second native by the
hood of his deer skin parka. He whirled the man completely about, tossed
him high in the air, then struck him as he was coming down; struck him
in the same place he had hit the other, only harder, very much harder.
He did not examine him later for a broken neck, either.

Turning, Johnny saw the woman staring at him. Evidently she had slept in
her furs. As she stood there now, she seemed quite equal to the task of