Cowards always at heart, the Ankuts turned and fled across the tundra toward the hills, pursued by shots from Joe’s and Harry’s rifles and those of the two village Eskimos. All but the white-faced half-breed. He stood his ground and reserved his fire as Harluk approached. His lip curled in that evil smile, and he leveled his rifle coolly. Harluk was face to face with doom. Yet he never hesitated, but leaped on, shouting his defiance and swinging the big knife, yet red with the blood of the wolf dog. At ten feet the half-breed pressed the trigger. Surely Harluk’s amulet was potent that day, for the cartridge failed to explode. The half-breed cursed, snatched at the lever, then cursed again, for that, too, failed to work. The cartridge was jammed. Then he clubbed the rifle and swung it full at Harluk’s head. The Eskimo yelled derisively, ducked, and sent the big knife home to the heart of the chief of the Ankuts. His blood mingled with that of the wolf dog that had been less fierce and vindictive than he. A moment Harluk stood over him with the dripping knife in hand, then turned with Joe and Harry to the pursuit of the other Ankuts; but fear added to their toadstool frenzy lent them speed, and they disappeared over the hills, plunging through the soft tundra moss. The battle was over. Harry sat down on the battlefield, feeling faint and sick. The horror of carnage was on him. True, they had fought in self-defense, and the Ankuts richly deserved death, yet the sight of men slain with his own hand filled him with remorse, and he felt for a time that his own safety was dearly bought. The sting in his arm, unnoticed during the excitement of the battle, came back and turned his thoughts away from this after a moment. He examined it. The Ankut bullet had cut a slit in the fleshy part and passed on, doing little damage. He bandaged it as best he could, and, though Joe was solicitous, declared it was nothing. The Eskimos came flocking about, and their gratitude at their deliverance was so great that he felt better. After all, great good had surely come to these poor people, and he felt that the traditions of his nation justified a war of emancipation. That was the way Joe put it, and he was no doubt right. They buried the dead wizards in the unfrozen earth, not far from the hot spring, and then ate a hearty meal, prepared for them by the grateful Eskimo women.