WHITE FANG by Jack London

Published: 1906
Categorie(s): Fiction, Action ; and Adventure

PART 1

Chapter 1:-- 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 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 withouth runners. It was made of stout birch-back, 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 adventures 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 admist the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.


....... And hour went by, and a second hour. The ple 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 saad fierceness and hungry eargerness. The front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, acrosss 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 are after us, Bill,'' said the man at the front....

''They are 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 staying remarkable close to camp 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 dont know.''
His comrade looked looked at him curiously. ''First time I ever heard you say anything about their not being 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-feeding em?''
''They did cut up more'n usual,'' Henry acknowledge.
''How many dogs 've we got, Henry?'', ''Six''.
''Well, Henru ... '' Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his words might gain greater significance. ''As I was saying ,' Henry, we've got six dogs. I tool six fish out of the bag. I gaave one fish to each dog, and' 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 and got 'm his fish.''
''Henry,'' Bill went on. '' I won't say they was aall 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 row,'' 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 getting on your nerves, and that you're beginnin' to see things.''
''I thought of that,'' Bill answered gravely.''And so , when I saw it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow and sas its tracks. Then I counted the dogs and 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 minched 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 hissentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry,''---one of the?''
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.


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as much as i dnt wanna pour sand in ur garri,i find it xtremely dificult to leave witout tellin u to stp plagiarizin.PLAGIRISM IS A SIN UNDER THE LAW...shalom

Ayjos10:
as much as i dnt wanna pour sand in ur garri,i find it xtremely dificult to leave witout tellin u to stp plagiarizin.PLAGIRISM IS A SIN UNDER THE LAW...shalom

you're a fool, if you were a pope you'd smoke in a mosque.. are you suffering from myopia?you didn't see " WHITE FANG - by jack london?

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.

007Bruce:
you're a fool, if you were a pope you'd smoke in a mosque.. are you suffering from myopia?you didn't see " WHITE FANG - by jack london?

ohh really!..my bad i didnt see dat..buh do u av to really be insultive

Chapter 2:
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.

007Bruce:
Chapter 3: [b]THE HUNGER CRY[/b[

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. 

Ishilove , obinnau please unban this poster, 007bruce, he was wrongly banned by antispam bot.

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 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 gays 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 he vain 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.

PART 2


CHAPTER 1: THE BATTLE OF THE FANGS


It was the she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men’s
voices and the whining of the sled-dogs; and it was the she-wolf
who was first to spring away from the cornered man in his circle of
dying flame. 
The pack had been loath to forego the kill it
had hunted down, and it lingered for several minutes, making sure
of the sounds, and then it, too, sprang away on the trail made by
the she-wolf.
Running at the forefront of the pack was a large grey wolf—one
of its several leaders.  It was he who directed the pack’s
course on the heels of the she-wolf. 
It was he who snarled
warningly at the younger members of the pack or slashed at them
with his fangs when they ambitiously tried to pass him. 
And
it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now
trotting slowly across the snow.
She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed
position, and took the pace of the pack.  He did not snarl at
her, nor show his teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her
in advance of him.  On the contrary, he seemed kindly disposed
toward her—too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to
her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her
teeth.  Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on
occasion.  At such times he betrayed no anger.  He merely
sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps,
in carriage and conduct resembling an abashed country swain.
This was his one trouble in the running of the pack; but she had
other troubles.  On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf,
grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles.  He ran
always on her right side.  The fact that he had but one eye,
and that the left eye, might account for this.  He, also, was
addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred
muzzle touched her body, or shoulder, or neck.

with the
running mate on the left, she repelled these attentions with her
teeth; but when both bestowed their attentions at the same time she
was roughly jostled, being compelled, with quick snaps to either
side, to drive both lovers away and at the same time to maintain
her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet before
her. 
At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and
growled threateningly across at each other. 
They might have
fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more
pressing hunger-need of the pack.
After each repulse, when the old wolf sheered abruptly away from
the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered against a
young three-year-old that ran on his blind right side. 
This
young wolf had attained his full size; and, considering the weak
and famished condition of the pack, he possessed more than the
average vigour and spirit.  Nevertheless, he ran with his head
even with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder. 
When he
ventured to run abreast of the older wolf (which was seldom), a
snarl and a snap sent him back even with the shoulder again. 
Sometimes, however, he dropped cautiously and slowly behind and
edged in between the old leader and the she-wolf. 
This was
doubly resented, even triply resented.  When she snarled her
displeasure, the old leader would whirl on the
three-year-old.  Sometimes she whirled with him. 
And
sometimes the young leader on the left whirled, too.

At such times, confronted by three sets of savage teeth, the
young wolf stopped precipitately, throwing himself back on his
haunches, with fore-legs stiff, mouth menacing, and mane
bristling. 
This confusion in the front of the moving pack
always caused confusion in the rear. 
The wolves behind
collided with the young wolf and expressed their displeasure by
administering sharp nips on his hind-legs and flanks. 
He was
laying up trouble for himself, for lack of food and short tempers
went together; but with the boundless faith of youth he persisted
in repeating the manoeuvre every little while, though it never
succeeded in gaining anything for him but discomfiture.

Had there been food, love-making and fighting would have gone on
apace, and the pack-formation would have been broken up.  But
the situation of the pack was desperate.  It was lean with
long-standing hunger.  It ran below its ordinary speed. 
At the rear limped the weak members, the very young and the very
old.  At the front were the strongest.  Yet all were more
like skeletons than full-bodied wolves.  Nevertheless, with
the exception of the ones that limped, the movements of the animals
were effortless and tireless.  Their stringy muscles seemed
founts of inexhaustible energy.  Behind every steel-like
contraction of a muscle, lay another steel-like contraction, and
another, and another, apparently without end.
They ran many miles that day.  They ran through the
night.  And the next day found them still running.  They
were running over the surface of a world frozen and dead.  No
life stirred.  They alone moved through the vast
inertness.  They alone were alive, and they sought for other
things that were alive in order that they might devour them and
continue to live.
They crossed low divides and ranged a dozen small streams in a
lower-lying country before their quest was rewarded. 
Then
they came upon moose.  It was a big bull they first
found.  Here was meat and life, and it was guarded by no
mysterious fires nor flying missiles of flame. 
Splay hoofs
and palmated antlers they knew, and they flung their customary
patience and caution to the wind. 
It was a brief fight and
fierce.  The big bull was beset on every side. 
He ripped
them open or split their skulls with shrewdly driven blows of his
great hoofs. 
He crushed them and broke them on his large horns.  He stamped them into the snow under him in the wallowing struggle. 

But he was foredoomed, and he went down with the she-wolf tearing savagely at his throat, and with other
teeth fixed everywhere upon him, devouring him alive, before ever
his last struggles ceased or his last damage had been wrought.
There was food in plenty.  The bull weighed over eight
hundred pounds—fully twenty pounds of meat per mouth for the
forty-odd wolves of the pack.
But if they could fast prodigiously, they could feed prodigiously, and soon a few scattered bones were all that remained of the splendid live brute that had faced the pack a few hours before.

There was now much resting and sleeping.  With full
stomachs, bickering and quarrelling began among the younger males,
and this continued through the few days that followed before the
breaking-up of the pack.  The famine was over.

The wolves were now in the country of game and though they still hunted in pack, they hunted more cautiously, cutting out heavy cows or crippled old bulls from the small moose-herds they ran across. There came a day, in this land of plenty, when the wolf-pack split in half and went in different directions.  The she-wolf, the young leader on her left, and the one-eyed elder on her right, led their half of the pack down to the Mackenzie River and across into the lake country to the east.  Each day this remnant of the pack dwindled.  Two by two, male and female, the wolves were deserting.  Occasionally a solitary male was driven out by the sharp teeth of his rivals.  In the end there remained only four: the she-wolf, the young leader, the one-eyed one, and the ambitious three-year-old. The she-wolf had by now developed a ferocious temper.  Her three suitors all bore the marks of her teeth.  Yet they never replied in kind, never defended themselves against her.  They turned their shoulders to her most savage slashes, and with wagging tails and mincing steps strove to placate her wrath.  But if they were all mildness toward her, they were all fierceness toward one another.  The three-year-old grew too ambitious in his fierceness.  He caught the one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons.  Though the grizzled old fellow could see only on one side, against the youth and vigour of the other he brought into play the wisdom of long years of experience.  His lost eye and his scarred muzzle bore evidence to the nature of his experience.  He had survived too many battles to be in doubt for a moment about what to do. The battle began fairly, but it did not end fairly.  There was no telling what the outcome would have been, for the third wolf joined the elder, and together, old leader and young leader, they attac ked the ambitious three-year-old and proceeded to destroy him.  He was beset on either side by the merciless fangs of his erstwhile comrades.  Forgotten were the days they had hunted together, the game they had pulled down, the famine they had suffered.  That business was a thing of the past.  The business of love was at hand—ever a sterner and crueller business than that of food-getting. And in the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched.  She was even pleased.  This was her day—and it came not often—when manes bristled, and fang smote fang or ripped and tore the yielding flesh, all for the possession of her. And in the business of love the three-year-old, who had made this his first adventure upon it, yielded up his life.  On either side of his body stood his two rivals.  They were gazing at the she-wolf, who sat smiling in the snow.  But the elder leader was wise, very wise, in love even as in battle. 
The younger leader turned his head to lick a wound on his shoulder.  The curve of his neck was turned toward his rival.  With his one eye the elder saw the opportunity.  He darted in low and closed with his fangs.  It was a long, ripping slash, and deep as well.  His teeth, in passing, burst the wall of the great vein of the throat.  Then he leaped clear. The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke midmost into a tickling cough.  Bleeding and coughing, already stricken, he sprang at the elder and fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him, the light of day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springs falling shorter and shorter.
And all the while the she-wolf sat on her haunches and smiled.  She was made glad in vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-making of the Wild, the sex-tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died.  To those that survived it was not tragedy, but realisation and achievement. When the young leader lay in the snow and moved no more, One Eye stalked over to the she-wolf.  His carriage was one of mingled triumph and caution.  He was plainly expectant of a rebuff, and he was just as plainly surprised when her teeth did not flash out at him in anger.  For the first time she met him with a kindly manner.  She sniffed noses with him, and even condescended to leap about and frisk and play with him in quite puppyish fashion.  And he, for all his grey years and sage experience, behaved quite as puppyishly and even a little more foolishly.
Forgotten already were the vanquished rivals and the love-tale red-written on the snow.  Forgotten, save once, when old One Eye stopped for a moment to lick his stiffening wounds.  Then it was that his lips half writhed into a snarl, and the hair of his neck and shoulders involuntarily bristled, while he half crouched for a spring, his claws spasmodically spasmodically clutching into the snow-surface for firmer footing.  But it was all forgotten the next moment, as he sprang after the she-wolf, who was coyly leading him a chase through the woods.
After that they ran side by side, like good friends who have come to an understanding.  The days passed by, and they kept together, hunting their meat and killing and eating it in common.  After a time the she-wolf began to grow restless.  She seemed to be searching for something that she could not find.  The hollows under fallen trees seemed to attract her, and she spent much time nosing about among the larger snow-piled crevices in the rocks and in the caves of overhanging banks.  Old One Eye was not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest, and when her investigations in particular places were unusually protracted, he would lie down and wait until she was ready to go on.
They did not remain in one place, but travelled across country until they regained the Mackenzie River, down which they slowly went, leaving it often to hunt game along the small streams that entered it, but always returning to it again.  Sometimes they chanced upon other wolves, usually in pairs; but there was no friendliness of intercourse displayed on either side, no gladness at meeting, no desire to return to the pack-formation. 
Several times they encountered solitary wolves.  These were always males, and they were pressingly insistent on joining with One Eye and his mate.  This he resented, and when she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, bristling and showing her teeth, the aspiring solitary ones would back off, turn-tail, and continue on their lonely way. One moonlight night, running through the quiet forest, One Eye suddenly halted.  His muzzle went up, his tail stiffened, and his nostrils dilated as he scented the air.  One foot also he held up, after the manner of a dog.  He was not satisfied, and he continued to smell the air, striving to understand the message borne upon it to him.  One careless sniff had satisfied his mate, and she trotted on to reassure him.  Though he followed her, he was still dubious, and he could not forbear an occasional halt in order more carefully to study the warning. She crept out cautiously on the edge of a large open space in the midst of the trees.  For some time she stood alone.

Then One Eye, creeping and crawling, every sense on the alert, every hair radiating infinite suspicion, joined her.  They stood side by side, watching and listening and smelling.
To their ears came the sounds of dogs wrangling and scuffling, the guttural cries of men, the sharper voices of scolding women, and once the shrill and plaintive cry of a child. 
With the exception of the huge bulks of the skin-lodges, little could be seen save the flames of the fire, broken by the movements of intervening bodies, and the smoke rising slowly on the quiet air.  But to their nostrils came the myriad smells of an Indian camp, carrying a story that was largely incomprehensible to One Eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew.
She was strangely stirred, and sniffed and sniffed with an increasing delight.  But old One Eye was doubtful.   He betrayed his apprehension, and started tentatively to go.  She turned and touched his neck with her muzzle in a reassuring way, then regarded the camp again.  A new wistfulness was in her face, but it was not the wistfulness of hunger. 
She was thrilling to a desire that urged her to go forward, to be in closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men.
One Eye moved impatiently beside her; her unrest came back upon her, and she knew again her pressing need to find the thing for which she searched.  She turned and trotted back into the forest, to the great relief of One Eye, who trotted a little to the fore until they were well within the shelter of the trees.
As they slid along, noiseless as shadows, in the moonlight, they came upon a run-way.  Both noses went down to the footprints in the snow.  These footprints were very fresh.   One Eye ran ahead cautiously, his mate at his heels.  The broad pads of their feet were spread wide and in contact with the snow were like velvet.  One Eye caught sight of a dim movement of white in the midst of the white.  His sliding gait had been deceptively swift, but it was as nothing to the speed at which he now ran.  Before him was bounding the faint patch of white he had discovered.
They were running along a narrow alley flanked on either side by a growth of young spruce.  Through the trees the mouth of the alley could be seen, opening out on a moonlit glade.  Old One Eye was rapidly overhauling the fleeing shape of white.

Bound by bound he gained.  Now he was upon it.  One leap more
and his teeth would be sinking into it.  But that leap was
never made.  High in the air, and straight up, soared the
shape of white, now a struggling snowshoe rabbit that leaped and
bounded, executing a fantastic dance there above him in the air and
never once returning to earth.


One Eye sprang back with a snort of sudden fright, then shrank
down to the snow and crouched, snarling threats at this thing of
fear he did not understand.  But the she-wolf coolly thrust
past him.  She poised for a moment, then sprang for the
dancing rabbit.  She, too, soared high, but not so high as the
quarry, and her teeth clipped emptily together with a metallic
snap.  She made another leap, and another.

Her mate had slowly relaxed from his crouch and was watching
her.  He now evinced displeasure at her repeated failures, and
himself made a mighty spring upward.  His teeth closed upon
the rabbit, and he bore it back to earth with him. 
But at the
same time there was a suspicious crackling movement beside him, and
his astonished eye saw a young spruce sapling bending down above
him to strike him. 
His jaws let go their grip, and he leaped
backward to escape this strange danger, his lips drawn back from
his fangs, his throat snarling, every hair bristling with rage and
fright.  And in that moment the sapling reared its slender
length upright and the rabbit soared dancing in the air again.
The she-wolf was angry.  She sank her fangs into her mate’s
shoulder in reproof; and he, frightened, unaware of what
constituted this new onslaught, struck back ferociously and in
still greater fright, ripping down the side of the she-wolf’s
muzzle.  For him to resent such reproof was equally unexpected
to her, and she sprang upon him in snarling indignation.  Then
he discovered his mistake and tried to placate her. 


But she
proceeded to punish him roundly, until he gave over all attempts at
placation, and whirled in a circle, his head away from her, his
shoulders receiving the punishment of her teeth.
In the meantime the rabbit danced above them in the air. 
The she-wolf sat down in the snow, and old One Eye, now more in
fear of his mate than of the mysterious sapling, again sprang for
the rabbit.  As he sank back with it between his teeth, he
kept his eye on the sapling. 

As before, it followed him back
to earth.  He crouched down under the impending blow, his hair
bristling, but his teeth still keeping tight hold of the
rabbit.  But the blow did not fall.  The sapling remained
bent above him.  When he moved it moved, and he growled at it
through his clenched jaws; when he remained still, it remained
still, and he concluded it was safer to continue remaining
still.  Yet the warm blood of the rabbit tasted good in his
mouth.
It was his mate who relieved him from the quandary in which he
found himself. 
She took the rabbit from him, and while the
sapling swayed and teetered threateningly above her she calmly
gnawed off the rabbit’s head.  At once the sapling shot up,
and after that gave no more trouble, remaining in the decorous and
perpendicular position in which nature had intended it to
grow. 
Then, between them, the she-wolf and One Eye devoured
the game which the mysterious sapling had caught for them.

There were other run-ways and alleys where rabbits were hanging
in the air, and the wolf-pair prospected them all, the she-wolf
leading the way, old One Eye following and observant, learning the
method of robbing snares—a knowledge destined to stand him in good
stead in the days to come.

CHAPTER 2: THE LAIR



For two days the she-wolf and One Eye hung about the Indian
camp.  He was worried and apprehensive, yet the camp lured his
mate and she was loath to depart.  But when, one morning, the
air was rent with the report of a rifle close at hand, and a bullet
smashed against a tree trunk several inches from One Eye’s head,
they hesitated no more, but went off on a long, swinging lope that
put quick miles between them and the danger.


They did not go far—a couple of days’ journey.  The
she-wolf’s need to find the thing for which she searched had now
become imperative. 

She was getting very heavy, and could run
but slowly.  Once, in the pursuit of a rabbit, which she
ordinarily would have caught with ease, she gave over and lay down
and rested. 

One Eye came to her; but when he touched her neck
gently with his muzzle she snapped at him with such quick
fierceness that he tumbled over backward and cut a ridiculous
figure in his effort to escape her teeth.  Her temper was now
shorter than ever; but he had become more patient than ever and
more solicitous.


And then she found the thing for which she sought.  It was
a few miles up a small stream that in the summer time flowed into
the Mackenzie, but that then was frozen over and frozen down to its
rocky bottom—a dead stream of solid white from source to
mouth.  The she-wolf was trotting wearily along, her mate well
in advance, when she came upon the overhanging, high
clay-bank.  She turned aside and trotted over to it.  The
wear and tear of spring storms and melting snows had underwashed
the bank and in one place had made a small cave out of a narrow
fissure.


She paused at the mouth of the cave and looked the wall over
carefully.  Then, on one side and the other, she ran along the base of the wall to where its abrupt bulk merged from the
softer-lined landscape.

Returning to the cave, she entered its narrow mouth.  For a short three feet she was compelled to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in a little round chamber nearly six feet in diameter.  The roof barely cleared her head.  It was dry and cosey.  She inspected it with painstaking care, while One Eye, who had returned, stood in the entrance and patiently watched her.  She dropped her head, with her nose to the ground and directed toward a point near to her closely bunched feet, and around this point she circled several times; then, with a tired sigh that was almost a grunt, she curled her body in, relaxed her legs, and dropped down, her head toward the entrance.  One Eye, with pointed, interested ears, laughed at her, and beyond, outlined against the white light, she could see the brush of his tail waving good-naturedly. 
Her own ears, with a snuggling movement, laid their sharp points backward and down against the head for a moment, while her mouth opened and her tongue lolled peaceably out, and in this way she expressed that she was pleased and satisfied.
One Eye was hungry.  Though he lay down in the entrance and slept, his sleep was fitful.  He kept awaking and cocking his ears at the bright world without, where the April sun was blazing across the snow.  When he dozed, upon his ears would steal the faint whispers of hidden trickles of running water, and he would rouse and listen intently.  The sun had come back, and all the awakening Northland world was calling to him.  Life was stirring.  The feel of spring was in the air, the feel of growing life under the snow, of sap ascending in the trees, of buds bursting the shackles of the frost.
He cast anxious glances at his mate, but she showed no desire to get up.  He looked outside, and half a dozen snow-birds fluttered across his field of vision.  He started to get up, then looked back to his mate again, and settled down and dozed.  A shrill and minute singing stole upon his heating. 
Once, and twice, he sleepily brushed his nose with his paw.  Then he woke up.  There, buzzing in the air at the tip of his nose, was a lone mosquito. 
It was a full-grown mosquito, one that had lain frozen in a dry log all winter and that had now been thawed out by the sun.  He could resist the call of the world no longer Besides, he was hungry.

He crawled over to his mate and tried to persuade her to get up.  But she only snarled at him, and he walked out alone into the bright sunshine to find the snow-surface soft under foot and the travelling difficult. 
He went up the frozen bed of the stream, where the snow, shaded by the trees, was yet hard and crystalline.  He was gone eight hours, and he came back through the darkness hungrier than when he had started.  He had found game, but he had not caught it.  He had broken through the melting snow crust, and wallowed, while the snowshoe rabbits had skimmed along on top lightly as ever.

He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudden shock of suspicion.  Faint, strange sounds came from within.  They were sounds not made by his mate, and yet they were remotely familiar.  He bellied cautiously inside and was met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf.  This he received without perturbation, though he obeyed it by keeping his distance; but he remained interested in the other sounds—faint, muffled sobbings and slubberings.

His mate warned him irritably away, and he curled up and slept in the entrance.  When morning came and a dim light pervaded the lair, he again sought after the source of the remotely familiar sounds.  There was a new note in his mate’s warning snarl.  It was a jealous note, and he was very careful in keeping a respectful distance. 
Nevertheless, he made out, sheltering between her legs against the length of her body, five strange little bundles of life, very feeble, very helpless, making tiny whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the light.  He was surprised.  It was not the first time in his long and successful life that this thing had happened.  It had happened many times, yet each time it was as fresh a surprise as ever to him.
His mate looked at him anxiously.  Every little while she emitted a low growl, and at times, when it seemed to her he approached too near, the growl shot up in her throat to a sharp snarl.  Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny. 
It manifested itself as a fear strong within her, that made her prevent One Eye from more closely inspecting the cubs he had fathered. But there was no danger.  Old One Eye was feeling the urge of an impulse, that was, in turn, an instinct that had come down to him from all the fathers of wolves.

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