---
title: Part I
class: part
---

##

### The Trail of the Meat

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway.
The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering
of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous,
in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land.
The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone
and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There
was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any
sadness—a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx,
a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility.
It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing
at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild,
the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

But there _was_ life, abroad in the land and defiant.
Down the frozen waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their
bristly fur was rimed with frost. Their breath froze in the air
as it left their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled
upon the hair of their bodies and formed into crystals of frost.
Leather harness was on the dogs, and leather traces attached them to
a sled which dragged along behind. The sled was without runners.
It was made of stout birch-bark, and its full surface rested on the
snow. The front end of the sled was turned up, like a scroll,
in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like
a wave before it. On the sled, securely lashed, was a long and
narrow oblong box. There were other things on the sled—blankets,
an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; but prominent, occupying most
of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box.

In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At
the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the
box, lay a third man whose toil was over,—a man whom the Wild
had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle
again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life
is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always
to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running
to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen
to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does
the Wild harry and crush into submission man—man who is the most
restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all movement
must in the end come to the cessation of movement.

But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men
who were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and
soft-tanned leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated
with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not
discernible. This gave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers
in a spectral world at the funeral of some ghost. But under it
all they were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and
silence, puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves
against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the
abysses of space.

They travelled on without speech, saving their breath for the work
of their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon
them with a tangible presence. It affected their minds as the
many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It
crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree.
It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing
out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltations
and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves
finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little
wisdom amidst the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and
forces.

An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short
sunless day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the
still air. It soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached
its topmost note, where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then
slowly died away. It might have been a lost soul wailing, had
it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness.
The front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man
behind. And then, across the narrow oblong box, each nodded to
the other.

A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness.
Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the
snow expanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry
arose, also to the rear and to the left of the second cry.

“They’re after us, Bill,” said the man at the front.

His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent
effort.

“Meat is scarce,” answered his comrade. “I
ain’t seen a rabbit sign for days.”

Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the
hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.

At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce
trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin,
at the side of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs,
clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves,
but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.

“Seems to me, Henry, they’re stayin’ remarkable
close to camp,” Bill commented.

Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with
a piece of ice, nodded. Nor did he speak till he had taken his
seat on the coffin and begun to eat.

“They know where their hides is safe,” he said.
“They’d sooner eat grub than be grub. They’re
pretty wise, them dogs.”

Bill shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know.”

His comrade looked at him curiously. “First time I ever
heard you say anything about their not bein’ wise.”

“Henry,” said the other, munching with deliberation the
beans he was eating, “did you happen to notice the way them dogs
kicked up when I was a-feedin’ ’em?”

“They did cut up more’n usual,” Henry acknowledged.

“How many dogs ’ve we got, Henry?”

“Six.”

“Well, Henry . . . ” Bill stopped for a moment, in order
that his words might gain greater significance. “As I was
sayin’, Henry, we’ve got six dogs. I took six fish
out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, an’, Henry,
I was one fish short.”

“You counted wrong.”

“We’ve got six dogs,” the other reiterated dispassionately.
“I took out six fish. One Ear didn’t get no fish.
I came back to the bag afterward an’ got ’m his fish.”

“We’ve only got six dogs,” Henry said.

“Henry,” Bill went on. “I won’t say
they was all dogs, but there was seven of ’m that got fish.”

Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs.

“There’s only six now,” he said.

“I saw the other one run off across the snow,” Bill announced
with cool positiveness. “I saw seven.”

Henry looked at him commiseratingly, and said, “I’ll
be almighty glad when this trip’s over.”

“What d’ye mean by that?” Bill demanded.

“I mean that this load of ourn is gettin’ on your nerves,
an’ that you’re beginnin’ to see things.”

“I thought of that,” Bill answered gravely. “An’
so, when I saw it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow an’
saw its tracks. Then I counted the dogs an’ there was still
six of ’em. The tracks is there in the snow now. D’ye
want to look at ’em? I’ll show ’em to you.”

Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the meal finished,
he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand and said:

“Then you’re thinkin’ as it was—”

A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness,
had interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished
his sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, “—one
of them?”

Bill nodded. “I’d a blame sight sooner think that
than anything else. You noticed yourself the row the dogs made.”

Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into
a bedlam. From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed
their fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their
hair was scorched by the heat. Bill threw on more wood, before
lighting his pipe.

“I’m thinking you’re down in the mouth some,”
Henry said.

“Henry . . . ” He sucked meditatively at his pipe
for some time before he went on. “Henry, I was a-thinkin’
what a blame sight luckier he is than you an’ me’ll ever
be.”

He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to
the box on which they sat.

“You an’ me, Henry, when we die, we’ll be lucky
if we get enough stones over our carcases to keep the dogs off of us.”

“But we ain’t got people an’ money an’ all
the rest, like him,” Henry rejoined. “Long-distance
funerals is somethin’ you an’ me can’t exactly afford.”

“What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that’s
a lord or something in his own country, and that’s never had to
bother about grub nor blankets; why he comes a-buttin’ round the
Godforsaken ends of the earth—that’s what I can’t
exactly see.”

“He might have lived to a ripe old age if he’d stayed
at home,” Henry agreed.

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead,
he pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from
every side. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness;
only could be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry
indicated with his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of
the gleaming eyes had drawn about their camp. Now and again a
pair of eyes moved, or disappeared to appear again a moment later.

The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in
a surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling
about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had
been overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain
and fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air.
The commotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment
and even to withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became
quiet.

“Henry, it’s a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition.”

Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread
the bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid
over the snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing
his moccasins.

“How many cartridges did you say you had left?” he asked.

“Three,” came the answer. “An’ I wisht
’twas three hundred. Then I’d show ’em what
for, damn ’em!”

He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely
to prop his moccasins before the fire.

“An’ I wisht this cold snap’d break,” he
went on. “It’s ben fifty below for two weeks now.
An’ I wisht I’d never started on this trip, Henry.
I don’t like the looks of it. I don’t feel right,
somehow. An’ while I’m wishin’, I wisht the
trip was over an’ done with, an’ you an’ me a-sittin’
by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an’ playing cribbage—that’s
what I wisht.”

Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was
aroused by his comrade’s voice.

“Say, Henry, that other one that come in an’ got a fish—why
didn’t the dogs pitch into it? That’s what’s
botherin’ me.”

“You’re botherin’ too much, Bill,” came the
sleepy response. “You was never like this before.
You jes’ shut up now, an’ go to sleep, an’ you’ll
be all hunkydory in the mornin’. Your stomach’s sour,
that’s what’s botherin’ you.”

The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering.
The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they
had flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear,
now and again snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close.
Once their uproar became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out
of bed carefully, so as not to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and
threw more wood on the fire. As it began to flame up, the circle
of eyes drew farther back. He glanced casually at the huddling
dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them more sharply.
Then he crawled back into the blankets.

“Henry,” he said. “Oh, Henry.”

Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, “What’s
wrong now?”

“Nothin’,” came the answer; “only there’s
seven of ’em again. I just counted.”

Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid
into a snore as he drifted back into sleep.

In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion
out of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already
six o’clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast,
while Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.

“Say, Henry,” he asked suddenly, “how many dogs
did you say we had?”

“Six.”

“Wrong,” Bill proclaimed triumphantly.

“Seven again?” Henry queried.

“No, five; one’s gone.”

“The hell!” Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking
to come and count the dogs.

“You’re right, Bill,” he concluded. “Fatty’s
gone.”

“An’ he went like greased lightnin’ once he got
started. Couldn’t ’ve seen ’m for smoke.”

“No chance at all,” Henry concluded. “They
jes’ swallowed ’m alive. I bet he was yelpin’
as he went down their throats, damn ’em!”

“He always was a fool dog,” said Bill.

“But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an’
commit suicide that way.” He looked over the remainder of
the team with a speculative eye that summed up instantly the salient
traits of each animal. “I bet none of the others would do
it.”

“Couldn’t drive ’em away from the fire with a club,”
Bill agreed. “I always did think there was somethin’
wrong with Fatty anyway.”

And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail—less
scant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.

### The She-Wolf

Breakfast eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the
men turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the
darkness. At once began to rise the cries that were fiercely sad—cries
that called through the darkness and cold to one another and answered
back. Conversation ceased. Daylight came at nine o’clock.
At midday the sky to the south warmed to rose-colour, and marked where
the bulge of the earth intervened between the meridian sun and the northern
world. But the rose-colour swiftly faded. The grey light
of day that remained lasted until three o’clock, when it, too,
faded, and the pall of the Arctic night descended upon the lone and
silent land.

As darkness came on, the hunting-cries to right and left and rear
drew closer—so close that more than once they sent surges of fear
through the toiling dogs, throwing them into short-lived panics.

At the conclusion of one such panic, when he and Henry had got the
dogs back in the traces, Bill said:

“I wisht they’d strike game somewheres, an’ go
away an’ leave us alone.”

“They do get on the nerves horrible,” Henry sympathised.

They spoke no more until camp was made.

Henry was bending over and adding ice to the babbling pot of beans
when he was startled by the sound of a blow, an exclamation from Bill,
and a sharp snarling cry of pain from among the dogs. He straightened
up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter
of the dark. Then he saw Bill, standing amid the dogs, half triumphant,
half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and
part of the body of a sun-cured salmon.

“It got half of it,” he announced; “but I got a
whack at it jes’ the same. D’ye hear it squeal?”

“What’d it look like?” Henry asked.

“Couldn’t see. But it had four legs an’ a
mouth an’ hair an’ looked like any dog.”

“Must be a tame wolf, I reckon.”

“It’s damned tame, whatever it is, comin’ in here
at feedin’ time an’ gettin’ its whack of fish.”

That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box
and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even
closer than before.

“I wisht they’d spring up a bunch of moose or something,
an’ go away an’ leave us alone,” Bill said.

Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy, and for
a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire,
and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond
the firelight.

“I wisht we was pullin’ into McGurry right now,”
he began again.

“Shut up your wishin’ and your croakin’,”
Henry burst out angrily. “Your stomach’s sour.
That’s what’s ailin’ you. Swallow a spoonful
of sody, an’ you’ll sweeten up wonderful an’ be more
pleasant company.”

In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded
from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and
looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished
fire, his arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion.

“Hello!” Henry called. “What’s up now?”

“Frog’s gone,” came the answer.

“No.”

“I tell you yes.”

Henry leaped out of the blankets and to the dogs. He counted
them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the power of
the Wild that had robbed them of another dog.

“Frog was the strongest dog of the bunch,” Bill pronounced
finally.

“An’ he was no fool dog neither,” Henry added.

And so was recorded the second epitaph in two days.

A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four remaining dogs were harnessed
to the sled. The day was a repetition of the days that had gone
before. The men toiled without speech across the face of the frozen
world. The silence was unbroken save by the cries of their pursuers,
that, unseen, hung upon their rear. With the coming of night in
the mid-afternoon, the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in
according to their custom; and the dogs grew excited and frightened,
and were guilty of panics that tangled the traces and further depressed
the two men.

“There, that’ll fix you fool critters,” Bill said
with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion of his task.

Henry left the cooking to come and see. Not only had his partner
tied the dogs up, but he had tied them, after the Indian fashion, with
sticks. About the neck of each dog he had fastened a leather thong.
To this, and so close to the neck that the dog could not get his teeth
to it, he had tied a stout stick four or five feet in length.
The other end of the stick, in turn, was made fast to a stake in the
ground by means of a leather thong. The dog was unable to gnaw
through the leather at his own end of the stick. The stick prevented
him from getting at the leather that fastened the other end.

Henry nodded his head approvingly.

“It’s the only contraption that’ll ever hold One
Ear,” he said. “He can gnaw through leather as clean
as a knife an’ jes’ about half as quick. They all’ll
be here in the mornin’ hunkydory.”

“You jes’ bet they will,” Bill affirmed.
“If one of em’ turns up missin’, I’ll go without
my coffee.”

“They jes’ know we ain’t loaded to kill,”
Henry remarked at bed-time, indicating the gleaming circle that hemmed
them in. “If we could put a couple of shots into ’em,
they’d be more respectful. They come closer every night.
Get the firelight out of your eyes an’ look hard—there!
Did you see that one?”

For some time the two men amused themselves with watching the movement
of vague forms on the edge of the firelight. By looking closely
and steadily at where a pair of eyes burned in the darkness, the form
of the animal would slowly take shape. They could even see these
forms move at times.

A sound among the dogs attracted the men’s attention.
One Ear was uttering quick, eager whines, lunging at the length of his
stick toward the darkness, and desisting now and again in order to make
frantic attacks on the stick with his teeth.

“Look at that, Bill,” Henry whispered.

Full into the firelight, with a stealthy, sidelong movement, glided
a doglike animal. It moved with commingled mistrust and daring,
cautiously observing the men, its attention fixed on the dogs.
One Ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder and
whined with eagerness.

“That fool One Ear don’t seem scairt much,” Bill
said in a low tone.

“It’s a she-wolf,” Henry whispered back, “an’
that accounts for Fatty an’ Frog. She’s the decoy
for the pack. She draws out the dog an’ then all the rest
pitches in an’ eats ’m up.”

The fire crackled. A log fell apart with a loud spluttering
noise. At the sound of it the strange animal leaped back into
the darkness.

“Henry, I’m a-thinkin’,” Bill announced.

“Thinkin’ what?”

“I’m a-thinkin’ that was the one I lambasted with
the club.”

“Ain’t the slightest doubt in the world,” was Henry’s
response.

“An’ right here I want to remark,” Bill went on,
“that that animal’s familyarity with campfires is suspicious
an’ immoral.”

“It knows for certain more’n a self-respectin’
wolf ought to know,” Henry agreed. “A wolf that knows
enough to come in with the dogs at feedin’ time has had experiences.”

“Ol’ Villan had a dog once that run away with the wolves,”
Bill cogitates aloud. “I ought to know. I shot it
out of the pack in a moose pasture over ‘on Little Stick.
An’ Ol’ Villan cried like a baby. Hadn’t seen
it for three years, he said. Ben with the wolves all that time.”

“I reckon you’ve called the turn, Bill. That wolf’s
a dog, an’ it’s eaten fish many’s the time from the
hand of man.”

“An if I get a chance at it, that wolf that’s a dog’ll
be jes’ meat,” Bill declared. “We can’t
afford to lose no more animals.”

“But you’ve only got three cartridges,” Henry objected.

“I’ll wait for a dead sure shot,” was the reply.

In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cooked breakfast to the
accompaniment of his partner’s snoring.

“You was sleepin’ jes’ too comfortable for anything,”
Henry told him, as he routed him out for breakfast. “I hadn’t
the heart to rouse you.”

Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty
and started to reach for the pot. But the pot was beyond arm’s
length and beside Henry.

“Say, Henry,” he chided gently, “ain’t you
forgot somethin’?”

Henry looked about with great carefulness and shook his head.
Bill held up the empty cup.

“You don’t get no coffee,” Henry announced.

“Ain’t run out?” Bill asked anxiously.

“Nope.”

“Ain’t thinkin’ it’ll hurt my digestion?”

“Nope.”

A flush of angry blood pervaded Bill’s face.

“Then it’s jes’ warm an’ anxious I am to
be hearin’ you explain yourself,” he said.

“Spanker’s gone,” Henry answered.

Without haste, with the air of one resigned to misfortune Bill turned
his head, and from where he sat counted the dogs.

“How’d it happen?” he asked apathetically.

Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know.
Unless One Ear gnawed ’m loose. He couldn’t a-done
it himself, that’s sure.”

“The darned cuss.” Bill spoke gravely and slowly,
with no hint of the anger that was raging within. “Jes’
because he couldn’t chew himself loose, he chews Spanker loose.”

“Well, Spanker’s troubles is over anyway; I guess he’s
digested by this time an’ cavortin’ over the landscape in
the bellies of twenty different wolves,” was Henry’s epitaph
on this, the latest lost dog. “Have some coffee, Bill.”

But Bill shook his head.

“Go on,” Henry pleaded, elevating the pot.

Bill shoved his cup aside. “I’ll be ding-dong-danged
if I do. I said I wouldn’t if ary dog turned up missin’,
an’ I won’t.”

“It’s darn good coffee,” Henry said enticingly.

But Bill was stubborn, and he ate a dry breakfast washed down with
mumbled curses at One Ear for the trick he had played.

“I’ll tie ’em up out of reach of each other to-night,”
Bill said, as they took the trail.

They had travelled little more than a hundred yards, when Henry,
who was in front, bent down and picked up something with which his snowshoe
had collided. It was dark, and he could not see it, but he recognised
it by the touch. He flung it back, so that it struck the sled
and bounced along until it fetched up on Bill’s snowshoes.

“Mebbe you’ll need that in your business,” Henry
said.

Bill uttered an exclamation. It was all that was left of Spanker—the
stick with which he had been tied.

“They ate ’m hide an’ all,” Bill announced.
“The stick’s as clean as a whistle. They’ve
ate the leather offen both ends. They’re damn hungry, Henry,
an’ they’ll have you an’ me guessin’ before
this trip’s over.”

Henry laughed defiantly. “I ain’t been trailed
this way by wolves before, but I’ve gone through a whole lot worse
an’ kept my health. Takes more’n a handful of them
pesky critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Bill muttered
ominously.

“Well, you’ll know all right when we pull into McGurry.”

“I ain’t feelin’ special enthusiastic,” Bill
persisted.

“You’re off colour, that’s what’s the matter
with you,” Henry dogmatised. “What you need is quinine,
an’ I’m goin’ to dose you up stiff as soon as we make
McGurry.”

Bill grunted his disagreement with the diagnosis, and lapsed into
silence. The day was like all the days. Light came at nine
o’clock. At twelve o’clock the southern horizon was
warmed by the unseen sun; and then began the cold grey of afternoon
that would merge, three hours later, into night.

It was just after the sun’s futile effort to appear, that Bill
slipped the rifle from under the sled-lashings and said:

“You keep right on, Henry, I’m goin’ to see what
I can see.”

“You’d better stick by the sled,” his partner protested.
“You’ve only got three cartridges, an’ there’s
no tellin’ what might happen.”

“Who’s croaking now?” Bill demanded triumphantly.

Henry made no reply, and plodded on alone, though often he cast anxious
glances back into the grey solitude where his partner had disappeared.
An hour later, taking advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled
had to go, Bill arrived.

“They’re scattered an’ rangin’ along wide,”
he said: “keeping up with us an’ lookin’ for game
at the same time. You see, they’re sure of us, only they
know they’ve got to wait to get us. In the meantime they’re
willin’ to pick up anything eatable that comes handy.”

“You mean they _think_ they’re sure of us,”
Henry objected pointedly.

But Bill ignored him. “I seen some of them. They’re
pretty thin. They ain’t had a bite in weeks I reckon, outside
of Fatty an’ Frog an’ Spanker; an’ there’s so
many of ’em that that didn’t go far. They’re
remarkable thin. Their ribs is like wash-boards, an’ their
stomachs is right up against their backbones. They’re pretty
desperate, I can tell you. They’ll be goin’ mad, yet,
an’ then watch out.”

A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travelling behind the sled,
emitted a low, warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quietly
stopped the dogs. To the rear, from around the last bend and plainly
into view, on the very trail they had just covered, trotted a furry,
slinking form. Its nose was to the trail, and it trotted with
a peculiar, sliding, effortless gait. When they halted, it halted,
throwing up its head and regarding them steadily with nostrils that
twitched as it caught and studied the scent of them.

“It’s the she-wolf,” Bill answered.

The dogs had lain down in the snow, and he walked past them to join
his partner in the sled. Together they watched the strange animal
that had pursued them for days and that had already accomplished the
destruction of half their dog-team.

After a searching scrutiny, the animal trotted forward a few steps.
This it repeated several times, till it was a short hundred yards away.
It paused, head up, close by a clump of spruce trees, and with sight
and scent studied the outfit of the watching men. It looked at
them in a strangely wistful way, after the manner of a dog; but in its
wistfulness there was none of the dog affection. It was a wistfulness
bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the frost
itself.

It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of
an animal that was among the largest of its kind.

“Stands pretty close to two feet an’ a half at the shoulders,”
Henry commented. “An’ I’ll bet it ain’t
far from five feet long.”

“Kind of strange colour for a wolf,” was Bill’s
criticism. “I never seen a red wolf before. Looks
almost cinnamon to me.”

The animal was certainly not cinnamon-coloured. Its coat was
the true wolf-coat. The dominant colour was grey, and yet there
was to it a faint reddish hue—a hue that was baffling, that appeared
and disappeared, that was more like an illusion of the vision, now grey,
distinctly grey, and again giving hints and glints of a vague redness
of colour not classifiable in terms of ordinary experience.

“Looks for all the world like a big husky sled-dog,”
Bill said. “I wouldn’t be s’prised to see it
wag its tail.”

“Hello, you husky!” he called. “Come here,
you whatever-your-name-is.”

“Ain’t a bit scairt of you,” Henry laughed.

Bill waved his hand at it threateningly and shouted loudly; but the
animal betrayed no fear. The only change in it that they could
notice was an accession of alertness. It still regarded them with
the merciless wistfulness of hunger. They were meat, and it was
hungry; and it would like to go in and eat them if it dared.

“Look here, Henry,” Bill said, unconsciously lowering
his voice to a whisper because of what he imitated. “We’ve
got three cartridges. But it’s a dead shot. Couldn’t
miss it. It’s got away with three of our dogs, an’
we oughter put a stop to it. What d’ye say?”

Henry nodded his consent. Bill cautiously slipped the gun from
under the sled-lashing. The gun was on the way to his shoulder,
but it never got there. For in that instant the she-wolf leaped
sidewise from the trail into the clump of spruce trees and disappeared.

The two men looked at each other. Henry whistled long and comprehendingly.

“I might have knowed it,” Bill chided himself aloud as
he replaced the gun. “Of course a wolf that knows enough
to come in with the dogs at feedin’ time, ’d know all about
shooting-irons. I tell you right now, Henry, that critter’s
the cause of all our trouble. We’d have six dogs at the
present time, ’stead of three, if it wasn’t for her.
An’ I tell you right now, Henry, I’m goin’ to get
her. She’s too smart to be shot in the open. But I’m
goin’ to lay for her. I’ll bushwhack her as sure as
my name is Bill.”

“You needn’t stray off too far in doin’ it,”
his partner admonished. “If that pack ever starts to jump
you, them three cartridges’d be wuth no more’n three whoops
in hell. Them animals is damn hungry, an’ once they start
in, they’ll sure get you, Bill.”

They camped early that night. Three dogs could not drag the
sled so fast nor for so long hours as could six, and they were showing
unmistakable signs of playing out. And the men went early to bed,
Bill first seeing to it that the dogs were tied out of gnawing-reach
of one another.

But the wolves were growing bolder, and the men were aroused more
than once from their sleep. So near did the wolves approach, that
the dogs became frantic with terror, and it was necessary to replenish
the fire from time to time in order to keep the adventurous marauders
at safer distance.

“I’ve hearn sailors talk of sharks followin’ a
ship,” Bill remarked, as he crawled back into the blankets after
one such replenishing of the fire. “Well, them wolves is
land sharks. They know their business better’n we do, an’
they ain’t a-holdin’ our trail this way for their health.
They’re goin’ to get us. They’re sure goin’
to get us, Henry.”

“They’ve half got you a’ready, a-talkin’
like that,” Henry retorted sharply. “A man’s
half licked when he says he is. An’ you’re half eaten
from the way you’re goin’ on about it.”

“They’ve got away with better men than you an’
me,” Bill answered.

“Oh, shet up your croakin’. You make me all-fired
tired.”

Henry rolled over angrily on his side, but was surprised that Bill
made no similar display of temper. This was not Bill’s way,
for he was easily angered by sharp words. Henry thought long over
it before he went to sleep, and as his eyelids fluttered down and he
dozed off, the thought in his mind was: “There’s no mistakin’
it, Bill’s almighty blue. I’ll have to cheer him up
to-morrow.”

### The Hunger Cry

The day began auspiciously. They had lost no dogs during the
night, and they swung out upon the trail and into the silence, the darkness,
and the cold with spirits that were fairly light. Bill seemed
to have forgotten his forebodings of the previous night, and even waxed
facetious with the dogs when, at midday, they overturned the sled on
a bad piece of trail.

It was an awkward mix-up. The sled was upside down and jammed
between a tree-trunk and a huge rock, and they were forced to unharness
the dogs in order to straighten out the tangle. The two men were
bent over the sled and trying to right it, when Henry observed One Ear
sidling away.

“Here, you, One Ear!” he cried, straightening up and
turning around on the dog.

But One Ear broke into a run across the snow, his traces trailing
behind him. And there, out in the snow of their back track, was
the she-wolf waiting for him. As he neared her, he became suddenly
cautious. He slowed down to an alert and mincing walk and then
stopped. He regarded her carefully and dubiously, yet desirefully.
She seemed to smile at him, showing her teeth in an ingratiating rather
than a menacing way. She moved toward him a few steps, playfully,
and then halted. One Ear drew near to her, still alert and cautious,
his tail and ears in the air, his head held high.

He tried to sniff noses with her, but she retreated playfully and
coyly. Every advance on his part was accompanied by a corresponding
retreat on her part. Step by step she was luring him away from
the security of his human companionship. Once, as though a warning
had in vague ways flitted through his intelligence, he turned his head
and looked back at the overturned sled, at his team-mates, and at the
two men who were calling to him.

But whatever idea was forming in his mind, was dissipated by the
she-wolf, who advanced upon him, sniffed noses with him for a fleeting
instant, and then resumed her coy retreat before his renewed advances.

In the meantime, Bill had bethought himself of the rifle. But
it was jammed beneath the overturned sled, and by the time Henry had
helped him to right the load, One Ear and the she-wolf were too close
together and the distance too great to risk a shot.

Too late One Ear learned his mistake. Before they saw the cause,
the two men saw him turn and start to run back toward them. Then,
approaching at right angles to the trail and cutting off his retreat
they saw a dozen wolves, lean and grey, bounding across the snow.
On the instant, the she-wolf’s coyness and playfulness disappeared.
With a snarl she sprang upon One Ear. He thrust her off with his
shoulder, and, his retreat cut off and still intent on regaining the
sled, he altered his course in an attempt to circle around to it.
More wolves were appearing every moment and joining in the chase.
The she-wolf was one leap behind One Ear and holding her own.

“Where are you goin’?” Henry suddenly demanded,
laying his hand on his partner’s arm.

Bill shook it off. “I won’t stand it,” he
said. “They ain’t a-goin’ to get any more of
our dogs if I can help it.”

Gun in hand, he plunged into the underbrush that lined the side of
the trail. His intention was apparent enough. Taking the
sled as the centre of the circle that One Ear was making, Bill planned
to tap that circle at a point in advance of the pursuit. With
his rifle, in the broad daylight, it might be possible for him to awe
the wolves and save the dog.

“Say, Bill!” Henry called after him. “Be
careful! Don’t take no chances!”

Henry sat down on the sled and watched. There was nothing else
for him to do. Bill had already gone from sight; but now and again,
appearing and disappearing amongst the underbrush and the scattered
clumps of spruce, could be seen One Ear. Henry judged his case
to be hopeless. The dog was thoroughly alive to its danger, but
it was running on the outer circle while the wolf-pack was running on
the inner and shorter circle. It was vain to think of One Ear
so outdistancing his pursuers as to be able to cut across their circle
in advance of them and to regain the sled.

The different lines were rapidly approaching a point. Somewhere
out there in the snow, screened from his sight by trees and thickets,
Henry knew that the wolf-pack, One Ear, and Bill were coming together.
All too quickly, far more quickly than he had expected, it happened.
He heard a shot, then two shots, in rapid succession, and he knew that
Bill’s ammunition was gone. Then he heard a great outcry
of snarls and yelps. He recognised One Ear’s yell of pain
and terror, and he heard a wolf-cry that bespoke a stricken animal.
And that was all. The snarls ceased. The yelping died away.
Silence settled down again over the lonely land.

He sat for a long while upon the sled. There was no need for
him to go and see what had happened. He knew it as though it had
taken place before his eyes. Once, he roused with a start and
hastily got the axe out from underneath the lashings. But for
some time longer he sat and brooded, the two remaining dogs crouching
and trembling at his feet.

At last he arose in a weary manner, as though all the resilience
had gone out of his body, and proceeded to fasten the dogs to the sled.
He passed a rope over his shoulder, a man-trace, and pulled with the
dogs. He did not go far. At the first hint of darkness he
hastened to make a camp, and he saw to it that he had a generous supply
of firewood. He fed the dogs, cooked and ate his supper, and made
his bed close to the fire.

But he was not destined to enjoy that bed. Before his eyes
closed the wolves had drawn too near for safety. It no longer
required an effort of the vision to see them. They were all about
him and the fire, in a narrow circle, and he could see them plainly
in the firelight lying down, sitting up, crawling forward on their bellies,
or slinking back and forth. They even slept. Here and there
he could see one curled up in the snow like a dog, taking the sleep
that was now denied himself.

He kept the fire brightly blazing, for he knew that it alone intervened
between the flesh of his body and their hungry fangs. His two
dogs stayed close by him, one on either side, leaning against him for
protection, crying and whimpering, and at times snarling desperately
when a wolf approached a little closer than usual. At such moments,
when his dogs snarled, the whole circle would be agitated, the wolves
coming to their feet and pressing tentatively forward, a chorus of snarls
and eager yelps rising about him. Then the circle would lie down
again, and here and there a wolf would resume its broken nap.

But this circle had a continuous tendency to draw in upon him.
Bit by bit, an inch at a time, with here a wolf bellying forward, and
there a wolf bellying forward, the circle would narrow until the brutes
were almost within springing distance. Then he would seize brands
from the fire and hurl them into the pack. A hasty drawing back
always resulted, accompanied by angry yelps and frightened snarls when
a well-aimed brand struck and scorched a too daring animal.

Morning found the man haggard and worn, wide-eyed from want of sleep.
He cooked breakfast in the darkness, and at nine o’clock, when,
with the coming of daylight, the wolf-pack drew back, he set about the
task he had planned through the long hours of the night. Chopping
down young saplings, he made them cross-bars of a scaffold by lashing
them high up to the trunks of standing trees. Using the sled-lashing
for a heaving rope, and with the aid of the dogs, he hoisted the coffin
to the top of the scaffold.

“They got Bill, an’ they may get me, but they’ll
sure never get you, young man,” he said, addressing the dead body
in its tree-sepulchre.

Then he took the trail, the lightened sled bounding along behind
the willing dogs; for they, too, knew that safety lay open in the gaining
of Fort McGurry. The wolves were now more open in their pursuit,
trotting sedately behind and ranging along on either side, their red
tongues lolling out, their lean sides showing the undulating ribs with
every movement. They were very lean, mere skin-bags stretched
over bony frames, with strings for muscles—so lean that Henry
found it in his mind to marvel that they still kept their feet and did
not collapse forthright in the snow.

He did not dare travel until dark. At midday, not only did
the sun warm the southern horizon, but it even thrust its upper rim,
pale and golden, above the sky-line. He received it as a sign.
The days were growing longer. The sun was returning. But
scarcely had the cheer of its light departed, than he went into camp.
There were still several hours of grey daylight and sombre twilight,
and he utilised them in chopping an enormous supply of fire-wood.

With night came horror. Not only were the starving wolves growing
bolder, but lack of sleep was telling upon Henry. He dozed despite
himself, crouching by the fire, the blankets about his shoulders, the
axe between his knees, and on either side a dog pressing close against
him. He awoke once and saw in front of him, not a dozen feet away,
a big grey wolf, one of the largest of the pack. And even as he
looked, the brute deliberately stretched himself after the manner of
a lazy dog, yawning full in his face and looking upon him with a possessive
eye, as if, in truth, he were merely a delayed meal that was soon to
be eaten.

This certitude was shown by the whole pack. Fully a score he
could count, staring hungrily at him or calmly sleeping in the snow.
They reminded him of children gathered about a spread table and awaiting
permission to begin to eat. And he was the food they were to eat!
He wondered how and when the meal would begin.

As he piled wood on the fire he discovered an appreciation of his
own body which he had never felt before. He watched his moving
muscles and was interested in the cunning mechanism of his fingers.
By the light of the fire he crooked his fingers slowly and repeatedly
now one at a time, now all together, spreading them wide or making quick
gripping movements. He studied the nail-formation, and prodded
the finger-tips, now sharply, and again softly, gauging the while the
nerve-sensations produced. It fascinated him, and he grew suddenly
fond of this subtle flesh of his that worked so beautifully and smoothly
and delicately. Then he would cast a glance of fear at the wolf-circle
drawn expectantly about him, and like a blow the realisation would strike
him that this wonderful body of his, this living flesh, was no more
than so much meat, a quest of ravenous animals, to be torn and slashed
by their hungry fangs, to be sustenance to them as the moose and the
rabbit had often been sustenance to him.

He came out of a doze that was half nightmare, to see the red-hued
she-wolf before him. She was not more than half a dozen feet away
sitting in the snow and wistfully regarding him. The two dogs
were whimpering and snarling at his feet, but she took no notice of
them. She was looking at the man, and for some time he returned
her look. There was nothing threatening about her. She looked
at him merely with a great wistfulness, but he knew it to be the wistfulness
of an equally great hunger. He was the food, and the sight of
him excited in her the gustatory sensations. Her mouth opened,
the saliva drooled forth, and she licked her chops with the pleasure
of anticipation.

A spasm of fear went through him. He reached hastily for a
brand to throw at her. But even as he reached, and before his
fingers had closed on the missile, she sprang back into safety; and
he knew that she was used to having things thrown at her. She
had snarled as she sprang away, baring her white fangs to their roots,
all her wistfulness vanishing, being replaced by a carnivorous malignity
that made him shudder. He glanced at the hand that held the brand,
noticing the cunning delicacy of the fingers that gripped it, how they
adjusted themselves to all the inequalities of the surface, curling
over and under and about the rough wood, and one little finger, too
close to the burning portion of the brand, sensitively and automatically
writhing back from the hurtful heat to a cooler gripping-place; and
in the same instant he seemed to see a vision of those same sensitive
and delicate fingers being crushed and torn by the white teeth of the
she-wolf. Never had he been so fond of this body of his as now
when his tenure of it was so precarious.

All night, with burning brands, he fought off the hungry pack.
When he dozed despite himself, the whimpering and snarling of the dogs
aroused him. Morning came, but for the first time the light of
day failed to scatter the wolves. The man waited in vain for them
to go. They remained in a circle about him and his fire, displaying
an arrogance of possession that shook his courage born of the morning
light.

He made one desperate attempt to pull out on the trail. But
the moment he left the protection of the fire, the boldest wolf leaped
for him, but leaped short. He saved himself by springing back,
the jaws snapping together a scant six inches from his thigh.
The rest of the pack was now up and surging upon him, and a throwing
of firebrands right and left was necessary to drive them back to a respectful
distance.

Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the fire to chop fresh
wood. Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce. He spent
half the day extending his campfire to the tree, at any moment a half
dozen burning faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies. Once
at the tree, he studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the
tree in the direction of the most firewood.

The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need
for sleep was becoming overpowering. The snarling of his dogs
was losing its efficacy. Besides, they were snarling all the time,
and his benumbed and drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pitch
and intensity. He awoke with a start. The she-wolf was less
than a yard from him. Mechanically, at short range, without letting
go of it, he thrust a brand full into her open and snarling mouth.
She sprang away, yelling with pain, and while he took delight in the
smell of burning flesh and hair, he watched her shaking her head and
growling wrathfully a score of feet away.

But this time, before he dozed again, he tied a burning pine-knot
to his right hand. His eyes were closed but few minutes when the
burn of the flame on his flesh awakened him. For several hours
he adhered to this programme. Every time he was thus awakened
he drove back the wolves with flying brands, replenished the fire, and
rearranged the pine-knot on his hand. All worked well, but there
came a time when he fastened the pine-knot insecurely. As his
eyes closed it fell away from his hand.

He dreamed. It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurry.
It was warm and comfortable, and he was playing cribbage with the Factor.
Also, it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves. They
were howling at the very gates, and sometimes he and the Factor paused
from the game to listen and laugh at the futile efforts of the wolves
to get in. And then, so strange was the dream, there was a crash.
The door was burst open. He could see the wolves flooding into
the big living-room of the fort. They were leaping straight for
him and the Factor. With the bursting open of the door, the noise
of their howling had increased tremendously. This howling now
bothered him. His dream was merging into something else—he
knew not what; but through it all, following him, persisted the howling.

And then he awoke to find the howling real. There was a great
snarling and yelping. The wolves were rushing him. They
were all about him and upon him. The teeth of one had closed upon
his arm. Instinctively he leaped into the fire, and as he leaped,
he felt the sharp slash of teeth that tore through the flesh of his
leg. Then began a fire fight. His stout mittens temporarily
protected his hands, and he scooped live coals into the air in all directions,
until the campfire took on the semblance of a volcano.

But it could not last long. His face was blistering in the
heat, his eyebrows and lashes were singed off, and the heat was becoming
unbearable to his feet. With a flaming brand in each hand, he
sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back.
On every side, wherever the live coals had fallen, the snow was sizzling,
and every little while a retiring wolf, with wild leap and snort and
snarl, announced that one such live coal had been stepped upon.

Flinging his brands at the nearest of his enemies, the man thrust
his smouldering mittens into the snow and stamped about to cool his
feet. His two dogs were missing, and he well knew that they had
served as a course in the protracted meal which had begun days before
with Fatty, the last course of which would likely be himself in the
days to follow.

“You ain’t got me yet!” he cried, savagely shaking
his fist at the hungry beasts; and at the sound of his voice the whole
circle was agitated, there was a general snarl, and the she-wolf slid
up close to him across the snow and watched him with hungry wistfulness.

He set to work to carry out a new idea that had come to him.
He extended the fire into a large circle. Inside this circle he
crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against the
melting snow. When he had thus disappeared within his shelter
of flame, the whole pack came curiously to the rim of the fire to see
what had become of him. Hitherto they had been denied access to
the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle, like so
many dogs, blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in
the unaccustomed warmth. Then the she-wolf sat down, pointed her
nose at a star, and began to howl. One by one the wolves joined
her, till the whole pack, on haunches, with noses pointed skyward, was
howling its hunger cry.

Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The
fuel had run out, and there was need to get more. The man attempted
to step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him.
Burning brands made them spring aside, but they no longer sprang back.
In vain he strove to drive them back. As he gave up and stumbled
inside his circle, a wolf leaped for him, missed, and landed with all
four feet in the coals. It cried out with terror, at the same
time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow.

The man sat down on his blankets in a crouching position. His
body leaned forward from the hips. His shoulders, relaxed and
drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had given up
the struggle. Now and again he raised his head to note the dying
down of the fire. The circle of flame and coals was breaking into
segments with openings in between. These openings grew in size,
the segments diminished.

“I guess you can come an’ get me any time,” he
mumbled. “Anyway, I’m goin’ to sleep.”

Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, directly in front
of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him.

Again he awakened, a little later, though it seemed hours to him.
A mysterious change had taken place—so mysterious a change that
he was shocked wider awake. Something had happened. He could
not understand at first. Then he discovered it. The wolves
were gone. Remained only the trampled snow to show how closely
they had pressed him. Sleep was welling up and gripping him again,
his head was sinking down upon his knees, when he roused with a sudden
start.

There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses,
and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled
in from the river bed to the camp among the trees. Half a dozen
men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire.
They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness. He looked
at them like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech.

“Red she-wolf. . . . Come in with the dogs at feedin’
time. . . . First she ate the dog-food. . . . Then she ate the dogs.
. . . An’ after that she ate Bill. . . . ”

“Where’s Lord Alfred?” one of the men bellowed
in his ear, shaking him roughly.

He shook his head slowly. “No, she didn’t eat him.
. . . He’s roostin’ in a tree at the last camp.”

“Dead?” the man shouted.

“An’ in a box,” Henry answered. He jerked
his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner.
“Say, you lemme alone. . . . I’m jes’ plump tuckered
out. . . . Goo’ night, everybody.”

His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on
his chest. And even as they eased him down upon the blankets his
snores were rising on the frosty air.

But there was another sound. Far and faint it was, in the remote
distance, the cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other
meat than the man it had just missed.