Never had Alan traveled as on the last of this sixth day of his absence
from the range. He was comparatively fresh, as his trail to Tatpan's
camp had not been an exhausting one, and his more intimate knowledge of
the country gave him a decided advantage over Stampede. He believed he
could make the distance in ten hours, but to this he would be compelled
to add a rest of at least three or four hours during the night. It was
now eight o'clock. By nine or ten the next morning he would be facing
Rossland, and at about that same hour Tatpan's swift messengers would be
closing in about Tautuk and Amuk Toolik. He knew the speed with which
his herdsmen would sweep out of the mountains and over the tundras. Two
years ago Amuk Toolik and a dozen of his Eskimo people had traveled
fifty-two hours without rest or food, covering a hundred and nineteen
miles in that time. His blood flushed hot with pride. He couldn't do
that. But his people could--and _would_. He could see them sweeping in
from the telescoping segments of the herds as the word went among them;
he could see them streaking out of the foothills; and then, like wolves
scattering for freer air and leg-room, he saw them dotting the tundra in
their race for home--and war, if it was war that lay ahead of them.
Twilight began to creep in upon him, like veils of cool, dry mist out of
the horizons.
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