Hardly had Johnny and Pant disappeared over the hill that morning in their quest for the supposed old ivory of rare value, when things began to happen in the neighborhood of the camp. Dave Tower and Jarvis had been detailed to inspect Mine No. 3, with a view to opening it as soon as the mother-lode had been reached in No. 2. Armed with pick and shovel, they had crossed the first low ridge, which made a short cut across the bend of the river, when Jarvis suddenly whispered:

“Hist! Down! The cat!”

Dave dropped to his knees, eyes popping at the sight just before him. Not twenty yards from them was a huge tiger. With head up, tail lashing, he seemed contemplating a leap which might bring him over a third of the distance between them. Two more leaps, and then what? Dave’s hair prickled at the roots; a chill ran down his spine; cold perspiration stood out on his forehead.

“If only we had a gun,” he whispered.

“Keep yer eye on ’im,” the Englishman whispered. “Don’t flinch nor turn a ’air. ’E’s a bad un.”

For fully three minutes—it seemed hours to Dave—the great cat lay spread flat to the snow. Then a nervous twitch of his paws told that he was disturbed. Dave’s hands grasped the pick-handle until it seemed they would crush it to splinters.

But what was this? The creature turned his head and looked to the right.

In another second they saw what the tiger saw. A clumsy, ponderous polar bear, making her way inland to some rocky cavern for a sleep, had blundered upon them.

“Ship ahoy!” breathed Jarvis. “Twelve feet long, if she’s an inch, and a bob for a tail at that.”

“Look!” whispered Dave. “She has her cub with her.”

“And the cat sees ’er. ’Oly mackerel, wot a scrap.”

When Johnny Thompson dropped on hands and knees in the cavern after the Eskimo’s candle had flickered out, he felt his arm seized by the twitching fingers of Pant, and, half by his own effort, half by the insistent drag of his companion, who seemed to be quite at home in this dungeon-like darkness, he made his way rapidly toward the door.

Complete darkness appeared to have demoralized the forces of evil that had been arrayed against them. Soft-padded footsteps could be heard here and there, but these persons seemed to be hurrying like frightened bats to a place of hiding. Twice they were stumbled upon by some one fleeing.

Johnny’s mind worked rapidly.

“Pant,” he breathed, “if they strike a light and hold it, we’re lost!”

“Got your automatic?”

“Sure.”

“Take time to get hold of it.”

“Got it.”

“Shoot at the first flash of light. That’ll fix ’em. They’re cowards. All natives are.” Pant jerked out the sentences as he crawled rapidly.

They were none too soon. In another moment a match flared. Seemingly in the same instant, so quick was Johnny’s movement, a blinding flash leaped from the floor and a deafening roar tore the tomb-like silence.

Johnny had fired at the ceiling, but this was quite enough. The light flared out. There was no more lighting of matches.

Creeping stealthily forward, avoiding the overturning of the smallest stone or bit of shale which might betray their position, they soon neared the entrance.

“Gotta make a run for it,” breathed Pant. “Automatic ready?”

“Ready.”

“Give ’em three rounds, then beat it. Make a dash to the right the instant you’re outside. Ready?”

Johnny felt the hand on his arm tremble for an instant, then grip hard.

When the great, white bear and her cub came upon the scene on that snow-domed hill where Jarvis and Dave cowered before the tiger, the point of interest for the tiger was at once shifted to the fat and rollicking cub. Here was a juicy feast. And to the great cat, inexperienced as he must have been in the ways of the creatures of the very far north into which he had wandered, the cumbersome mother seemed a rather insignificant barrier to keep him from his feast. One spring, a set of those vicious yellow teeth, a dash away, with the ponderous mother following at a snail’s pace—that seemed easy. He carefully estimated the short distance between them.

But if these were the sensations that registered themselves on the brain cells of this tawny creature, he had reckoned wrong.

He had made just two springs when the mother bear right about faced and, nosing her cub to a position behind her, stood at bay.

Seeing this, the tiger paused. Lashing his tail and crouching for a spring, he uttered a low growl of defiance.

The bear’s answer to this was a strange sound like the hissing of a goose. She held her ground.

Then, seeing that the cat did not spring again, she wheeled about and began pushing the cub slowly before her.

“Will ’e get ’im?” whispered Jarvis.

“Don’t know,” answered Dave. “If I had a rifle, he wouldn’t. Whew! What a robe that yellow pelt would make! Just prime, too!”

Lashing his tail more furiously than before, the tiger sprang. Now he was within thirty feet of the bear, now twenty, now ten. It seemed that the next spring would bring him to his goal.

But here he paused. The mother was between him and his dinner. He circled. The bear circled clumsily. The cub was always behind her. The tiger stood still. The bear moved slowly backward, still pushing her cub. Again the tiger sprang. This time he was but eight feet distant. He growled. The bear hissed. The crisis had come.

With a sudden whirl to one side, the cat sprang with claws drawn and paws extended. It was clear that he had hoped to outflank the bear. In this he failed. A great forepaw of the bear swung over the tiger’s head, making the air sing.

She nipped at the yellow fur with her ivory teeth. Here, too, she was too late; the tiger had leaped away.

The tiger turned. There were flecks of white at the corners of his mouth. His tail whipped furiously. With a wild snarl, he threw himself at the mother bear’s throat. It was a desperate chance, but for a second it seemed that those terrible fangs would find their place; and, once they were set there, once the knife-like claws tore at the vitals of the bear, all would be over. Then he would have a feast of good young bear.

At the very instant when all this seemed accomplished, when Jarvis breathed hoarsely, “Ah!” and Dave panted, “Oh!”, there came a sound as of a five-hundred-pound pile-driver descending upon a bale of hay.

Like a giant plaything seized by a cyclone, the tiger whirled to the right twelve feet away, then rolled limply over and over.

“Ee! She packs a wallop!” breathed Jarvis.

“Is he dead?” said Dave.

The bear moved close to the limp form of her enemy and sniffed the air.

“Looks like she got ’im,” grinned Jarvis, straightening his cramped limbs.

For the first time the mother bear seemed to realize their presence, and, apparently scenting more danger, she began again pushing her cub before her, disappearing at last over the next low hill.

“Bully for ’er!” exclaimed Jarvis.

For some time they sat there on the crusted snow unable to believe that the tiger was dead, and unwilling to trust themselves too close to his keen claws and murderous fangs. Finally, Dave rose stiffly.

“Let’s have a look,” he muttered.

“Sure ’e’s done for?”

As they bent over the stiffening form of the great yellow cat, Jarvis gave the head a turn.

“Broke!” he muttered; “’is neck is broke short off! I say she packed a wallop!”

“And the skin’s ours!” exclaimed Dave joyously. “What a beauty! We’ll skin him before he freezes.”

Suiting his action to his words, he began the task. He had worked in silence for some time when he suddenly stood up with a start.

“What’s that?” he exclaimed.

“What’s what?”

“My knife struck metal—a chain about his neck!”

“Somebody’s pet!” exclaimed Jarvis, “and a bloomin’ fine one!” He bent over to examine the chain.

“But whose?” asked Dave.

“’Ere’s the tag. Take a look.”

“Looks oriental. Some numbers and letters. I can’t read them.”

“Sure,” grinned Jarvis. “Ain’t I been tellin’ y’? It’s the bloody bloomin’ ’eathen from the islands down the sea-coast. They’re ‘angin’ about ’ere. They’ll be lettin’ out a ’ole menagerie against us some fine day—elephants, lions, mebby a hyena or two, and who knows what?”

He stood and stared at Dave; Dave stared back at him.

As Johnny Thompson prepared for the dash out of the cave, where he and Pant were to have been trapped, he realized that it was a desperate move. Pant had seen only lances and harpoons. There were doubtless rifles in the natives’ hands as well. He knew very well their intentions: they feared him as a leader and, hoping to trap him here, had planned to end his life. One by one, they would pick off his men. At last there would be a rush and the remaining few would be killed. Then the supplies would be theirs. In this land without law, they had nothing to fear but the failure of their plans. If he could escape this one time, he would be on his guard; he would protect himself and his men.

“C’mon,” Pant cried. “Three shots; then for it.”

Three times the automatic shook the walls of the cavern. Then they were away, out in the open breaking for cover among the boulders that lined the cliff.

Now they were dodging from rock to rock; now, for a second, Johnny saw the natives swarming from the cave like bees; now, they were hidden from sight; and now, he paused for an instant to send a bullet over the head of a runner who ran too well.

Soon they had lost themselves among the hills. Only once, in the five-mile run home, did a native appear on a hilltop. He beckoned, then disappeared.

After a time, when near camp, they slowed down to a walk.

“Pretty close,” smiled Johnny, slipping his gun into his pocket.

“I say,” murmured Pant, “do you think they were the same ones that attacked you back here on the hill a few nights ago?”

“No. Their work’s too crude. These others were real chaps.”

That night, after darkness had fallen over the hills, Johnny went into Mine No. 1 with a flashlight alone. Having reached a point where Langlois had been found dead, he sat down on a frozen ledge and stared at the rust-reddened pick-handle, which seemed to point an accusing finger at him for bringing that fine fellow here to meet his death. What had killed him? This was as much a mystery as ever.

There were many mysteries about this place; there was that earth-tremble that, to-night, was more noticeable than ever; there were those strange brown people who had attacked him on this very hill; there was the tiger slain that very day and skinned by Dave and Jarvis; there was the oriental chain and tag about the beast’s neck. Johnny seemed surrounded by many mysteries and great dangers. Was it his duty to call the deal off and desert the mines? Sometimes he thought it was. Ice conditions were such that it might yet be possible to get their gasoline schooner into open water and go pop-popping south to Vladivostok. But there would be those there who waited and hoped for gold to aid them in the battle against hunger, disease and death. Could they go empty-handed?

Rumors of a new peril had drifted in that day. A Reindeer Chukche, coming from a five days’ journey into the interior, had told of great numbers of Russians pushing toward the coast. These could be none other than Bolsheviki who hoped to gather wealth of one kind or another by a raid on the coast. If the Chukche was telling the truth, the stay of the white men could be prolonged by only a few days at the most.

At the same time, the mining crew had reported indications that they would reach the mother-lode in No. 2 within three days.

“We’ll chance it that long,” Johnny said, with an air of determination, as he rose and left the mine.

He was crossing a ridge of snow, when, as once before, his eye was caught by a spinning black object.

“Another phonograph record! Another warning!” he exclaimed. “Wonder what it will be this time?”

Johnny whistled thoughtfully to himself, as he strode forward to pick up the little black messenger.