Jean de Gravois sprang to his feet, his little black eyes flashing
with a dangerous fire. In a single leap he was at the side of the
sledge, throwing off the furs and bundles and all other objects except
his rifle.

"He is dead, Iowaka. Look at the purple and black in his face. It is
Jean de Gravois who will catch the murderer, and you will stay here
and make yourself a camp. Hi-o-o-o-o!" he shouted to the Malemutes.

The team twisted sinuously and swiftly in the trail as he sped over
the edge of the mountain. Upon the plain below he knelt upon the
toboggan, with his rifle in front of him; and at his low, hissing
commands, which reached no farther than the dogs' ears, the team
stretched their long bodies in pursuit of the missioner and his
huskies.

Jean knew that whoever was ahead of him was not far away, and he
laughed and hunched his shoulders when he saw that his magnificent
Malemutes were making three times the speed of the huskies. It was a
short chase. It led across the narrow plain and into a dense tangle of
swamp, where the huskies had picked their way in aimless wandering
until they came out in thick balsam and Banksian pine. Half a mile
farther on, and the trail broke into an open which led down to the
smooth surface of a lake, and two-thirds across the lake was the
fleeing missioner.

The Malemute leader flung open his jaws in a deep baying triumph, and
with a savage yell Jean cracked his caribou whip over his back. He saw
the man ahead of him lean over the end of his sledge as he urged his