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White Fang by Jack London

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Transcribed from the 1915 edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

White Fang



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

"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?"


"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

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

"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


"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

"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.


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

"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

"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.


"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

"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

"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.


"Ain't thinkin' it'll hurt my digestion?"


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

"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

"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

"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-

"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

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

"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,

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

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

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

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

"They've got away with better men than you an' me," Bill answered.

"Oh, shet up your croakin'. You make me all-fired tired."

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


The 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

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

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-

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

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.



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-

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. As 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 eftortless 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-

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 attacked
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-

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

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 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

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.


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. He did not question it, nor puzzle
over it. It was there, in the fibre of his being; and it was the
most natural thing in the world that he should obey it by turning
his back on his new-born family and by trotting out and away on the
meat-trail whereby he lived.

Five or six miles from the lair, the stream divided, its forks
going off among the mountains at a right angle. Here, leading up
the left fork, he came upon a fresh track. He smelled it and found
it so recent that he crouched swiftly, and looked in the direction
in which it disappeared. Then he turned deliberately and took the
right fork. The footprint was much larger than the one his own
feet made, and he knew that in the wake of such a trail there was
little meat for him.

Half a mile up the right fork, his quick ears caught the sound of
gnawing teeth. He stalked the quarry and found it to be a
porcupine, standing upright against a tree and trying his teeth on
the bark. One Eye approached carefully but hopelessly. He knew
the breed, though he had never met it so far north before; and
never in his long life had porcupine served him for a meal. But he
had long since learned that there was such a thing as Chance, or
Opportunity, and he continued to draw near. There was never any
telling what might happen, for with live things events were somehow
always happening differently.

The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radiating long, sharp
needles in all directions that defied attack. In his youth One Eye
had once sniffed too near a similar, apparently inert ball of
quills, and had the tail flick out suddenly in his face. One quill
he had carried away in his muzzle, where it had remained for weeks,
a rankling flame, until it finally worked out. So he lay down, in
a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully a foot away, and
out of the line of the tail. Thus he waited, keeping perfectly
quiet. There was no telling. Something might happen. The
porcupine might unroll. There might be opportunity for a deft and
ripping thrust of paw into the tender, unguarded belly.

But at the end of half an hour he arose, growled wrathfully at the
motionless ball, and trotted on. He had waited too often and
futilely in the past for porcupines to unroll, to waste any more
time. He continued up the right fork. The day wore along, and
nothing rewarded his hunt.

The urge of his awakened instinct of fatherhood was strong upon
him. He must find meat. In the afternoon he blundered upon a
ptarmigan. He came out of a thicket and found himself face to face
with the slow-witted bird. It was sitting on a log, not a foot
beyond the end of his nose. Each saw the other. The bird made a
startled rise, but he struck it with his paw, and smashed it down
to earth, then pounced upon it, and caught it in his teeth as it
scuttled across the snow trying to rise in the air again. As his
teeth crunched through the tender flesh and fragile bones, he began
naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and, turning on the back-
track, started for home, carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth.

A mile above the forks, running velvet-footed as was his custom, a
gliding shadow that cautiously prospected each new vista of the
trail, he came upon later imprints of the large tracks he had
discovered in the early morning. As the track led his way, he
followed, prepared to meet the maker of it at every turn of the

He slid his head around a corner of rock, where began an unusually
large bend in the stream, and his quick eyes made out something
that sent him crouching swiftly down. It was the maker of the
track, a large female lynx. She was crouching as he had crouched
once that day, in front of her the tight-rolled ball of quills. If
he had been a gliding shadow before, he now became the ghost of
such a shadow, as he crept and circled around, and came up well to
leeward of the silent, motionless pair.

He lay down in the snow, depositing the ptarmigan beside him, and
with eyes peering through the needles of a low-growing spruce he
watched the play of life before him--the waiting lynx and the
waiting porcupine, each intent on life; and, such was the
curiousness of the game, the way of life for one lay in the eating
of the other, and the way of life for the other lay in being not
eaten. While old One Eye, the wolf crouching in the covert, played
his part, too, in the game, waiting for some strange freak of
Chance, that might help him on the meat-trail which was his way of

Half an hour passed, an hour; and nothing happened. The balls of
quills might have been a stone for all it moved; the lynx might
have been frozen to marble; and old One Eye might have been dead.
Yet all three animals were keyed to a tenseness of living that was
almost painful, and scarcely ever would it come to them to be more
alive than they were then in their seeming petrifaction.

One Eye moved slightly and peered forth with increased eagerness.
Something was happening. The porcupine had at last decided that
its enemy had gone away. Slowly, cautiously, it was unrolling its
ball of impregnable armour. It was agitated by no tremor of
anticipation. Slowly, slowly, the bristling ball straightened out
and lengthened. One Eye watching, felt a sudden moistness in his
mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, excited by the living
meat that was spreading itself like a repast before him.

Not quite entirely had the porcupine unrolled when it discovered
its enemy. In that instant the lynx struck. The blow was like a
flash of light. The paw, with rigid claws curving like talons,
shot under the tender belly and came back with a swift ripping
movement. Had the porcupine been entirely unrolled, or had it not
discovered its enemy a fraction of a second before the blow was
struck, the paw would have escaped unscathed; but a side-flick of
the tail sank sharp quills into it as it was withdrawn.

Everything had happened at once--the blow, the counter-blow, the
squeal of agony from the porcupine, the big cat's squall of sudden
hurt and astonishment. One Eye half arose in his excitement, his
ears up, his tail straight out and quivering behind him. The
lynx's bad temper got the best of her. She sprang savagely at the
thing that had hurt her. But the porcupine, squealing and
grunting, with disrupted anatomy trying feebly to roll up into its
ball-protection, flicked out its tail again, and again the big cat
squalled with hurt and astonishment. Then she fell to backing away
and sneezing, her nose bristling with quills like a monstrous pin-
cushion. She brushed her nose with her paws, trying to dislodge
the fiery darts, thrust it into the snow, and rubbed it against
twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead,
sidewise, up and down, in a frenzy of pain and fright.

She sneezed continually, and her stub of a tail was doing its best
toward lashing about by giving quick, violent jerks. She quit her
antics, and quieted down for a long minute. One Eye watched. And
even he could not repress a start and an involuntary bristling of
hair along his back when she suddenly leaped, without warning,
straight up in the air, at the same time emitting a long and most
terrible squall. Then she sprang away, up the trail, squalling
with every leap she made.

It was not until her racket had faded away in the distance and died
out that One Eye ventured forth. He walked as delicately as though
all the snow were carpeted with porcupine quills, erect and ready
to pierce the soft pads of his feet. The porcupine met his
approach with a furious squealing and a clashing of its long teeth.
It had managed to roll up in a ball again, but it was not quite the
old compact ball; its muscles were too much torn for that. It had
been ripped almost in half, and was still bleeding profusely.

One Eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soaked snow, and chewed
and tasted and swallowed. This served as a relish, and his hunger
increased mightily; but he was too old in the world to forget his
caution. He waited. He lay down and waited, while the porcupine
grated its teeth and uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp
little squeals. In a little while, One Eye noticed that the quills
were drooping and that a great quivering had set up. The quivering
came to an end suddenly. There was a final defiant clash of the
long teeth. Then all the quills drooped quite down, and the body
relaxed and moved no more.

With a nervous, shrinking paw, One Eye stretched out the porcupine
to its full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had
happened. It was surely dead. He studied it intently for a
moment, then took a careful grip with his teeth and started off
down the stream, partly carrying, partly dragging the porcupine,
with head turned to the side so as to avoid stepping on the prickly
mass. He recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted
back to where he had left the ptarmigan. He did not hesitate a
moment. He knew clearly what was to be done, and this he did by
promptly eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his

When he dragged the result of his day's hunt into the cave, the
she-wolf inspected it, turned her muzzle to him, and lightly licked
him on the neck. But the next instant she was warning him away
from the cubs with a snarl that was less harsh than usual and that
was more apologetic than menacing. Her instinctive fear of the
father of her progeny was toning down. He was behaving as a wolf-
father should, and manifesting no unholy desire to devour the young
lives she had brought into the world.


He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already
betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf;
while he alone, in this particular, took after his father. He was
the one little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the
straight wolf-stock--in fact, he had bred true to old One Eye
himself, physically, with but a single exception, and that was he
had two eyes to his father's one.

The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet already he could
see with steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed,
he had felt, tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his
two sisters very well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble,
awkward way, and even to squabble, his little throat vibrating with
a queer rasping noise (the forerunner of the growl), as he worked
himself into a passion. And long before his eyes had opened he had
learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother--a fount of
warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She possessed a gentle,
caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over his soft
little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her and
to doze off to sleep.

Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in
sleeping; but now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for
longer periods of time, and he was coming to learn his world quite
well. His world was gloomy; but he did not know that, for he knew
no other world. It was dim-lighted; but his eyes had never had to
adjust themselves to any other light. His world was very small.
Its limits were the walls of the lair; but as he had no knowledge
of the wide world outside, he was never oppressed by the narrow
confines of his existence.

But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was
different from the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the
source of light. He had discovered that it was different from the
other walls long before he had any thoughts of his own, any
conscious volitions. It had been an irresistible attraction before
ever his eyes opened and looked upon it. The light from it had
beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the optic nerves had
pulsated to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and strangely
pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fibre of his body,
the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart
from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged
his body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a
plant urges it toward the sun.

Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had
crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and
sisters were one with him. Never, in that period, did any of them
crawl toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew
them as if they were plants; the chemistry of the life that
composed them demanded the light as a necessity of being; and their
little puppet-bodies crawled blindly and chemically, like the
tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each developed individuality
and became personally conscious of impulsions and desires, the
attraction of the light increased. They were always crawling and
sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their mother.

It was in this way that the grey cub learned other attributes of
his mother than the soft, soothing, tongue. In his insistent
crawling toward the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a
sharp nudge administered rebuke, and later, a paw, that crushed him
down and rolled him over and over with swift, calculating stroke.
Thus he learned hurt; and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt,
first, by not incurring the risk of it; and second, when he had
incurred the risk, by dodging and by retreating. These were
conscious actions, and were the results of his first
generalisations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled
automatically from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the
light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he KNEW that it
was hurt.

He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It
was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a
breed of meat-killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived
wholly upon meat. The milk he had sucked with his first flickering
life, was milk transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month
old, when his eyes had been open for but a week, he was beginning
himself to eat meat--meat half-digested by the she-wolf and
disgorged for the five growing cubs that already made too great
demand upon her breast.

But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a
louder rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much
more terrible than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick
of rolling a fellow-cub over with a cunning paw-stroke. And it was
he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged
and growled through jaws tight-clenched. And certainly it was he
that caused the mother the most trouble in keeping her litter from
the mouth of the cave.

The fascination of the light for the grey cub increased from day to
day. He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward
the cave's entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he
did not know it for an entrance. He did not know anything about
entrances--passages whereby one goes from one place to another
place. He did not know any other place, much less of a way to get
there. So to him the entrance of the cave was a wall--a wall of
light. As the sun was to the outside dweller, this wall was to him
the sun of his world. It attracted him as a candle attracts a
moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so
swiftly expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall
of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one
way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did
not know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside
at all.

There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father
(he had already come to recognise his father as the one other
dweller in the world, a creature like his mother, who slept near
the light and was a bringer of meat)--his father had a way of
walking right into the white far wall and disappearing. The grey
cub could not understand this. Though never permitted by his
mother to approach that wall, he had approached the other walls,
and encountered hard obstruction on the end of his tender nose.
This hurt. And after several such adventures, he left the walls
alone. Without thinking about it, he accepted this disappearing
into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and half-
digested meat were peculiarities of his mother.

In fact, the grey cub was not given to thinking--at least, to the
kind of thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways.
Yet his conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by
men. He had a method of accepting things, without questioning the
why and wherefore. In reality, this was the act of classification.
He was never disturbed over why a thing happened. How it happened
was sufficient for him. Thus, when he had bumped his nose on the
back-wall a few times, he accepted that he would not disappear into
walls. In the same way he accepted that his father could disappear
into walls. But he was not in the least disturbed by desire to
find out the reason for the difference between his father and
himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make-up.

Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced famine.
There came a time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the
milk no longer came from his mother's breast. At first, the cubs
whimpered and cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not
long before they were reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no

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