White Fang by Jack London

PART I

CHAPTER I - 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 a 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
mocassins.

"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.
<--split-->
CHAPTER II - 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 laid 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."
<--split-->
CHAPTER III - 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 an 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
udulating 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.