Part 8 (2/2)

Now an arrow fell three feet short of its mark. And now, a stronger arm sent one three yards beyond the man, but a foot to one side. The whole scene, set as it was in the purple shadows and yellow lights of the north-land, was fascinating.

But the time had come to act.

”Well, then,” Johnny grunted, whipping out his automatic, ”for your sake I'll do it.”

Three times the automatic barked its vicious challenge. The mob paused and waited silently.

Out of this silence there came a voice. It was the voice of Iyok-ok by Johnny's side. Through cupped hands, he was speaking calmly to the natives. His words were a jumble of Eskimo, Chukche and pidgen-English, but Johnny knew they understood, for, as the speech went on, he saw them drop their weapons, then one by one pick them up again to go shuffling away.

Johnny looked about for the Russian. He had disappeared.

”Now what did you do that for?” he asked his companion.

”Can't tell now,” Iyok-ok answered slowly. ”Sometime, mebbe. Not now.

Azeezruk nucky, that's all.”

He paused and looked away at the hills; then turning, extended his hand.

”Anyway, I thank you very, very much I thank you.”

With that they made their way toward the village and the sea, which, packed and glistening with ice, reflected all the glories of the gorgeous Arctic sunset.

Three hours later Iyok-ok put his head in at Johnny's igloo and said:

”One hour go.”

”North?” asked Johnny.

”North.”

”You go?”

”Eh-eh.”

”j.a.p girl go?”

”Eh-eh.”

”East Cape? Behring Strait?”

”Mebbe.” With a smile, the boy was gone.

”Evidently the Russian is on the move again,” Johnny observed to himself. ”Wonder what he intends to do about his diamonds? Well, anyway, that proves that the gold mines are not his goal.”

As Johnny dug into his pack for a dry pair of deer skin stocks, he discovered that his belongings had been tampered with.

”The Russian,” he decided, ”evidently hasn't forgotten his diamonds.”

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