companion for that lovely Diana dancing on the ice.
“Even now,” said Johnson. “I can’t believe but that she is a flesh and blood woman. Cressey, I’d like to clasp her hand and know for myself.”
Cressey did not reply. The huntress was coming nearer, the baying of the hounds grew louder. He looked to see that the crosses were in place and did not observe that Johnson had stepped past them until he heard the cry of Baptiste. Then he saw the dark figure of the man, the radiant white fire of the huntress’ beauty, and they melted into each other’s arms. With a yell, Cressey leaped the barrier of crosses and raced to where the two stood swaying in close embrace.
As if the hounds sensed the symbol on Cressey’s breast, they fell back as he approached. He had a swift wonder at their timidity until his hands seized Johnson, who screamed and writhed at his touch and fought being rescued as the huntress’ head lifted from his shoulder and she slowly retreated, step by step, her moistened red lips parted, showing her strong white teeth in almost a snarl of hatred.
Cressey fought to draw Johnson to safety, and as he came nearer the cabin, the huntress advanced, hands reaching, weaving, tearing at the space separating her from her victim, unable to brush aside or combat the force for good protecting him.. Slowly the hounds advanced with her, and the cries of the sled dogs made the night hideous, when suddenly the huntress threw back her head and shrilled her wild call.
Once inside the barrier of crosses, Cressey dropped the half-crazed Johnson into Baptiste’s arms, then he stared into the brightening light of dawn on the mountains. There were sounds from far off, of crashing brush and thunderingly ominous tread, and into their view loomed the giant of the ancient world, lumbering forward with incredible speed until it reached the woman’s side, a dreadful menace which only for the frail barrier could have crushed the cabin and scattered the last vestige of men and dogs.
The howling of sled dogs and cries of men were terror-muted for a few moments. Then they were alert. Guns cracked in sharp fusillade, but the ghost-beasts neither quivered nor showed signs of a wound. The huntress was screaming at her beasts and waving white arms to urge them on, but they slunk aside until she howled at the mammoth, who caught her in his trunk and swung her to his broad head. There she stood, ethereally lovely and evil, her lips stained by the interrupted draft of human life, while the night waned and the blessed sun shot from the curving breasts of snow on Mount Logan. A cry as of frenzied despair came from her. The mammoth turned, the hounds leaped ahead, and the whole cavalcade vanished in the direction of the ice-fields.
Cressey turned to find Johnson as mad as he himself had been.
“You cur,” he howled, “to come between me and my woman! You’ve had your day and now you begrudge me my hour of happiness.”
“Johnson, she killed Stamwell, drained his body of life. She almost killed me. Left me like a maniac, as she will leave you. Here, this trinket of Baptiste’s protected me; you shall wear it.”
He dropped the thong of the crucifix over Johnson’s head and heard his cry of pain. Cressey knew the white-hot searing of that symbol on flesh accursed and felt only pity for the man. All that day Johnson moaned, watched over by Cressey, while Baptiste directed the men in their task of making the raft.
“No ghost can pass running
(Continued on page 428)
