They rolled and tossed about furiously, tearing up snow and tundra, their
fierce struggle writing a tragedy of human passion on the white sheet
spread by nature. And ever and anon a hand or foot of Jan emerged from
the tangle, to be gripped by Lawson and lashed fast with rope-yarns.
Pawing, clawing, blaspheming, he was conquered and bound, inch by inch,
and drawn to where the inexorable shears lay like a pair of gigantic
dividers on the snow. Red Bill adjusted the noose, placing the hangman's
knot properly under the left ear. Mr. Taylor and Lawson tailed onto the
running-guy, ready at the word to elevate the gallows. Bill lingered,
contemplating his work with artistic appreciation.
"Herr Gott! Vood you look at it!"
The horror in Jan's voice caused the rest to desist. The fallen tent had
uprisen, and in the gathering twilight it flapped ghostly arms about and
titubated toward them drunkenly. But the next instant John Gordon found
the opening and crawled forth.
"What the flaming--!" For the moment his voice died away in his throat
as his eyes took in the tableau. "Hold on! I'm not dead!" he cried out,
coming up to the group with stormy countenance.
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