Joe broke the spell with sturdy common sense. “I’ll tell you what we are going to do,” he said. “Here’s deer meat in plenty, and I’ve got matches in my pocket. We’re going to cook some venison and have a square meal. Then we’ll hunt for tracks. I don’t believe anybody could get away with that outfit without leaving a trail behind. You and Harluk cut some steaks off that rump while I get wood.” The two turned to the carcass of the deer, while Joe started down the bank and round a jutting corner of cliff, toward some willow shrubs. As he passed down along the side of the cliff, he had a strange feeling that some one was looking sharply at him, and turned just in time to see a face at his elbow,—the same evil, half-white face that he had seen in the night at Icy Cape, when he was struck on the head with the piece of ice. He gave a cry of astonishment and alarm, but was seized and tripped from behind, and any further outcry stopped by a blanket being bound tightly over his head. In spite of his struggles, he was effectually gagged, bound, and carried behind a projection of the cliff. Harry heard this cry of Joe’s, and answered it, thinking it was a call. Then, getting no reply, he went on with his very simple preparations for the meal. These done, he went in search of Joe. He could not see him among the willows. He called and got no answer. The ghostly loneliness of the Arctic came over him with telling force. Was Joe, too, to disappear and leave no trace behind? “Joe!” he shouted; “Joe!” and the cliffs across the Kukpowrak answered with mocking echoes; that was all. Then he turned, and he, too, was seized by three men, who had stealthily approached him from behind. He was bound and silenced as Joe had been, but not before he had shouted twice for Harluk at the top of his lungs. One of the men who had captured him swore at this in good round English; then, leaving one to guard Harry, two of them hastened to the camp with rifles, but Harluk the wise had followed Harry empty handed, seen his capture, fled back to the camp, and with both Joe’s and Harry’s rifles was scurrying across the tundra in the direction of the sea, as fast as his Eskimo legs could carry him. Fired upon, he dropped behind a boulder, and pumped such a fusillade of shots back at his two would-be captors that one of them dropped his rifle with a cry of pain, put his hand to his leg, and went hopping off toward shelter in a hurry. The other followed; but just before he reached safety he threw up his hands, and plunged heavily forward on his face. Harluk’s last shot had caught him under the left shoulder blade and passed through his heart.