In the Brooding Wild

Again he raked, but without result. Again he dug, but now deeper and deeper. Still there was no chest, and as he widened the hole he found himself working upon the hard soil which had never before been disturbed. An awful fear gripped him. He sought out the spot where the soil was easy. He knew that this was where he had buried the chest. His actions became hurried and more and more energetic. He dug furiously, scattering the earth wildly in his alarm, and all the time conviction was forcing itself upon him, and he muttered as he worked.

But all his efforts were in vain, and, after an hour’s fruitless search, he flung down the shovel with a bitter cry. Then he stood gazing blankly before him with eyes that seemed to scorch in his head. His face twitched, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Then his lips parted and he gasped rather than spoke.

“It’s gone!”

The veins at his temples beat visibly. In his ears was a sound as of rushing waters. He saw nothing. He scarcely knew where he was, only he was conscious of something in his head which was strained to the verge of breaking. When, at last, movement came to him, every nerve in his body seemed to draw up with a jolt, and a cry, like the roar of a maddened bull, burst from his quivering lips. He rushed headlong from the hut.

Out into the glittering daylight he went, heedless of his course, heedless of his surroundings. He rushed down the hill and plunged into the woods. On he went, without pause, without hesitation, blindly, madly. On, on, running, stumbling, slipping upon the sodden earth, tripping over projecting roots and rotting stumps.

His mind was a blank. He saw, but comprehended not; he felt, but the sense had no meaning. He heard with clarion-like distinctness, but that which he heard sang upon his ear-drums and penetrated no further. His way was the way of the blindfold, his staring eyes beheld nothing real; he saw the name of Aim-sa blazing in letters of fire before him, and a hazy picture of her lovely face. All recollection of his loss had suddenly passed from him, utterly blotted out of his thought as though he had never known it. He knew not that he had ever had a brother whose death had been the work of his own hand. The hut behind him might never have existed, the forest about him might have been the open prairie, the sodden ground a carpet of fine texture, the snow-covered clearings dusty plains; he knew nothing, nothing. He moved, ran, walked; he was a living organism without a governing power of mind.

Noon came. The silent forest looked down upon his frenzied progress. The trees nodded gently in the breeze, whispering solemnly to each other in their pitying tones. Owls watched him with staring, unmeaning eyes; deer fled as he came rushing into the calm of their sylvan retreats. A grizzly stood erect as he passed, meditating a protest at the strange disturbance, but remained staring in amazement as the wild human figure went by, oblivious and unheeding.

The afternoon saw him still struggling, but now wearily, and in a state of collapse. His headlong course had taken the inevitable turn. He had swung round in a great circle, and was heading again for the hillside where the dugout stood. Now he often fell as he went, for his feet lagged and caught in every unevenness of the ground. Once he lay where he fell, and remained so long motionless that it seemed as if he would rise no more. But as the afternoon waned and the evening shadows gathered, there came the wild cries of the wolves from somewhere close behind. Though he felt no fear of them, he staggered to his feet and dragged wearily on towards the hut. It was the forest instinct obeyed mechanically.

He came to the hut; he passed the door. Again it was habit that guided him. He kept on, and went round to the door of the lean-to. It stood wide open and he plunged within, and fell headlong upon his blankets. Nor did he stir again; only there came the sound of his stertorous breathing to indicate that he slept.

Black night closed down. The forest cries awoke and their chorus rang out as the moon mounted in the heavens. The wolfish legions hovered at the edge of the woods and snuffed hungrily at the air. But the scent of blood had passed, and they came not too near.

Nick’s slumber of exhaustion was haunted by painful, incoherent dreams. With the curious freakishness of a disordered mind, he was beset by a vision of the dark, ferret face of Victor Gagnon. The trader seemed to be hovering threateningly over his rude couch, and, behind him, less distinct, but always recognizable, was the fair Aim-sa. The whole night the sleeper was depressed by some dreadful threat which centred about the vision of these two, and when at length he awoke it was with the effect of his dreams hard upon him.

The fair fresh daylight was streaming in through the open door. Nick roused himself. He turned uneasily, shivering with the cold, for he had slept where he had fallen. Suddenly he sat up. Then with a leap he was on his feet and wide-awake, and the name of Victor Gagnon fell from his lips. A frenzied, unreasoning desire to take the trader’s life possessed him.

His body was refreshed and the blank of memory had passed from him. A gleam of reason shot athwart the racked brain. It was only for an instant, then it was gone again. But that instant sufficed. He remembered that Gagnon knew of the treasure, the only person except himself who knew of it. Victor had robbed him. A wild laughter shook him. Ay, that was it. Victor was the thief; he should die. After that–Aim-sa.

His untutored brain had broken under the strain of recent events. Horror had driven him to the verge of the abyss in the depths of which lurked insanity; his final loss had plunged him headlong down. He was mad!

CHAPTER XII.
WHERE THE LAWS OF MIGHT ALONE PREVAIL

Two men occupied the back room of Victor Gagnon’s store. The proprietor, small, alert, with eye and brain working swiftly, and an expression on his dark face indicating the angry nature of his thoughts. He was sitting with his feet on the stove rail and his hands spread out to the warmth. The other man was beside the parchment-covered window. He was immensely tall, and was clad in grey wolfskin from head to foot. His broad shoulders were broadened by the fur covering till he looked a giant. He had just thrown back a cavernous hood from his head, and it now hung down his back. His fur cap was removed, thus displaying a coarse mane of long black hair, and a face as sombre and strong as the world to which he belonged.

The room was untidy. The bed stood at one end, and the tumbled blankets upon it looked as though they had not been straightened for weeks. A small table supported the remains of a frugal meal and the floor about it was littered with food and crumbs. Everywhere were signs of half-breed slovenliness.

For some moments silence had reigned. The North, that Land of Silence, makes men sparing of words, and even women only talk when it is necessary. Just now, there was that between these two men which held every thought to the main issue.

Victor’s attention was for the moment upon a rough-hewn chest which was standing on the floor at the big man’s feet.

“An’ why didn’t she come right along with you?”

“Mebbe cos she’s smarter nor any o’ us; mebbe cos I jest didn’t want her to. There’s somethin’ ’tween you an’ me, Victor, that needs some parley.”

The big man spoke quite calmly, but his very calmness was portentous.

“Smarter?” said Victor contemptuously, ignoring the latter part of the other’s remark.

“That’s what I said,” went on the giant, in dispassionate tones. “Davia reckoned as it wa’n’t jest safe to light right out lest them fellers found they’d been robbed o’ their wad. She’s stayin’ around to put ’em off’n the trail. They’re dead sweet on her an’ ain’t likely to ’spect who’s got the stuff while she’s around.”

Victor nodded approvingly. His face was less angry. He knew Davia would serve him well. A silence fell again. The stove roared under the forced draught of the damper. Then the big man spoke as though he had not broken off.

“But that ain’t on’y the reason, I guess. I wanted her to stay. You an’ me are goin’ to talk, Victor Gagnon.”

The trader glanced angrily at the man with the hood.

“See here, Jean Leblaude, you allus had a crank in yer head, an’ I don’t cotton to cranks anyhow.”

“But you’ll cotton to this,” replied Jean drily.

“Eh?”

“It’s nigh on to three year since you an’ sister Davi’ took on together,” he went on, ignoring the interruption, and speaking with great feeling. “Guess you said as you’d marry her when you was independent o’ the company. It was allus the company. Didn’t want no married traders on their books. An’ you hadn’t no cash pappy. That’s how you sed. Mebbe it’s different now. Wal? When are you goin’ to make her a de–your wife?”

There was a look in Jean’s eyes that brooked no denial or evasion. He had driven straight to the point, nor was there any likelihood of his drawing back.

“You’re pretty rough,” said Victor, with an unpleasant laugh. He was inwardly raging, but, like all men of no great moral strength, feared the direct challenge of the other.

“We ain’t polished folk hereabouts,” retorted Jean. “We’ve played the dirty game o’ the White Squaw for you’ clear out. Davi’s most as dead sick of it as me, but wher’ she went into it fer a frolic an’ to please you, I had my notions, I guess. I come clear away down from Peace River nigh on two summers ago jest fer to see that you acted squar’ by that misguided girl. An’ that’s why I done all your dirty work in this White Squaw racket. Now we’ve got the boodle you’re goin’ to hitch up wi’ Davi’, or–”

“Or–what?” broke in Victor contemptuously.

“Or not one blazin’ cent o’ the stuff in this chest’ll you touch.”

Victor sprang from his seat and his eyes shone furiously.

“You–you–” But his fury was baffled by the solemn, determined stare of the other. A moment more and he dropped back in his seat.

Then the great Jean lowered his eyes to the hewn chest upon the floor. The lid had been forced open and the bags of gold dust, so carefully arranged by the Westleys, were displayed within. Presently he looked back at the angry figure bending towards the stove.

“Guess I’ll git blankets out o’ your store,” he said.

Victor remained rapt in moody silence.

“Ther’ ain’t room fer two to sleep comfort’ble in that bed o’ yourn,” he added significantly, as the other showed no inclination to speak.

At last Victor looked up and the dark half-breed blood slowly mounted and flushed his narrow face.

“You’re goin’ to stop here–wher’ the stuff is?”

“I guess.”

The trader looked long into the cavernous moose-eyes of the Hooded Man while he choked down the rage which consumed him. He knew that he was a prisoner in his own store. Resistance would be utterly useless against such a man as Jean Leblaude.

In his scheme for obtaining wealth Victor had omitted to take into consideration one of the great factors of a life of wrong-doing. A man may not engage in crime with those whom he has wronged.

Victor had sought to obtain good service, forgetting the manner in which he had treated the sister of Jean. The ways of the half-breed are loose in the matter of morals. Davia, he knew, loved him. She was a strong, passionate woman, therefore he had not bothered about Jean. That Jean could possibly have scruples or feelings, had never entered his head. Davia had given her love, then what business of her brother’s was the manner in which he, Victor, chose to accept it? This is how he argued when he fully realized the position in which he had thrust himself. But his argument went no further.

Jean was a man strong and purposeful. He had waited long for such an opportunity, and he was not the one to forego his advantage without enforcing his will. If Victor wanted his share of the proceeds of the robbery he must fulfil the promise, which, in a passionate moment, he had bestowed. Davia was as clay in his hands. Jean was different. He was possessed of all the cunning of the half-breed nature, but, looked at from a half-breed point of view, he was a good man, an honest man. A half-breed will shoot an enemy down in his tracks, while yet he is a good father and husband, or a dutiful son. He is a man of much badness and some good. Jean was a little above the average. Possibly it was because his affections were centred upon but one creature in the world, his sister Davia, that he felt strongly in her cause. He knew that, at last, he held Victor in a powerful grip, and he did not intend to relax it.

Jean was as good as his word and took up his abode in Victor’s store. Nor would he permit the removal of the treasure under any pretext. This brother of Davia’s understood the trader; he did not watch him; it was the chest that contained the money that occupied his vigilance.

Victor was resourceful and imaginative, but the stolid purpose of the other defied his best schemes. He meant to get away with the money, but the bulldog watchfulness of Jean gave him no opportunity. He was held prisoner by his greed, and it seemed as if, in the end, he would be forced to bend to the other’s will.

And no word came from Davia. No word that could cause alarm, or tell them of the dire tragedy being enacted in the mountains. And the two men, one for ever scheming and the other watching, passed their time in moody silence.

It was the third day after the foregoing events had taken place, and midday. Victor was in the store standing in the doorway gazing out across the mighty foothills which stretched far as the eyes could reach to the east. He was thinking, casting about in his mind for a means of getting away with the money. Jean was at his post in the inner room.

It was an unbeautiful time of the year. The passing of winter in snow regions is like the moulting season of fowls, or the season when the furred world sheds its coat. The dazzling whiteness of the earth is superseded by a dirty drab-grey. The snow lasts long, but its hue is utterly changed. And now Victor was looking out upon a scene that was wholly dispiriting to the mind used to the brilliancy of the northern winter.

The trader’s thoughts were moving along out over the stretch of country before him, for in that southeastern direction lay the town of Edmonton, which was his goal. It would be less than a fortnight before the melting snow would practically inundate the land, therefore what he had to do must be done at once. And still no feasible scheme presented itself.

He moved impatiently and a muttered curse escaped him. He asked himself the question again and again while his keen, restless eyes moved eagerly over the scene before him. He took a chew of tobacco and rolled it about in his mouth with the nervous movement of a man beset. He could hear Jean moving heavily about the room behind him, and he wondered what he was doing. But he did not turn to see.

Once let him get upon the trail with the “stuff,” and Jean and his sister could go hang. They would never get him, he told himself. He had not lived in these latitudes for five and twenty years for nothing. But he ever came back to the pitiful admission that he was not yet on the trail, nor had he got the treasure. And time was passing.

Suddenly his eyes settled themselves upon a distant spot beyond the creek. Something had caught his attention, and that something was moving. The sounds of Jean’s lumbering movements continued. Victor no longer heeded them. His attention was fixed upon that movement on the distant slope.

And gradually his brow lightened and something akin to a smile spread over his features. Then he moved back to his counter, and, procuring a small calendar, glanced hastily at the date. His look of satisfaction deepened, and his smile became one of triumph. Surely the devil was with him. Here, in the blackest moment of his despair, was the means he had sought. Yonder moving object was the laden dog-train coming up from Edmonton, with his half-yearly supplies. Now he would see whose wits were the sharpest, his or those of the pig-headed Jean, the man who had dared to dictate to Victor Gagnon. The trader laughed silently.

Gagnon’s plan had come to him in a flash. The moment he had recognized that the company’s dog-train was approaching he had realized the timeliness of its coming. It would be at his door within an hour and a half.

Jean’s voice calling him broke in upon his meditations. He was about to pass the summons by unheeded. Then he altered his mind. Better not force his gaoler to seek him. His eyes might see what he had seen, and his suspicions might be aroused if he thought that he, Victor, had seen the dog-train coming and had said nothing. So he turned and obeyed the call with every appearance of reluctance.

Jean eyed his prisoner coldly as he drew up beside him.

“Wal, I’ve waited fer you to say as ye’ll marry Davi’, an’ ye ain’t had the savvee to wag yer tongue right, I’m goin’ to quit. The snow’s goin’ fast. They dogs o’ mine is gettin saft fer want o’ work. I’m goin’ to light right out o’ here, Victor, an’ the boodle’s goin’ wi’ me.”

Jean was the picture of strong, unimaginative purpose. But Victor had that in his mind which made him bold.

“Ye’ve held me prisoner, Jean. Ye’ve played the skunk. Guess you ain’t goin’ now. Neither is my share o’ the contents o’ that chest. Savvee? If ye think o’ moving that wad we’re goin’ to scrap. I ain’t no coyote.”

Jean thought for awhile. His lean face displayed no emotion. His giant figure dwarfed the trader almost to nothing, but he seemed to weigh the situation well before he committed himself.

At last he grunted, which was his way of announcing that his decision was taken.

“I’ll have they dogs hitched this afternoon,” he said slowly, and with meaning.

“An’ I’ll set right here by the door,” said Gagnon. “Guess the door’ll let you pass, but it ain’t big enough fer the chest to git through.”

Victor sat himself down as he said and deliberately pulled out a large revolver. This he laid across his lap. And then the two men eyed each other. Jean was in no way taken aback. In fact nothing seemed to put him out of his deliberate manner. He allowed the challenge to pass and went out. But he returned almost immediately and thrust his head in through the doorway.

“Ther’ won’t be no need fer scrappin’ yet awhile,” he said. “I ’lows I’ve changed my way o’ thinkin’. The company’s dog-train is comin’ up the valley, I guess. When they’ve gone, we’ll see.”

And Victor smiled to himself when the giant had once more departed. Then he put his pistol away.

“Wal, that’s settled,” he said to himself. “The boodle stops right here. Now we’ll see, Jean Leblaude, who’s runnin’ this layout. Ther’s whiskey aboard that train. Mebbe you ain’t like to fergit that. You’ll taste sure. As ye jest sed, ‘we’ll see.’”

The trader knew his man. The great Jean had all the half-breed’s weaknesses as well as a more than usual supply of their better qualities. Sober he was more than dangerous, now that he had shown his real intentions, for he was a man not likely to be turned from his purpose. But Victor knew his fondness for drink, and herein lay the kernel of his plan. With him it was a case of now or never. He must throw everything to the winds for that money, or be burdened with a wife he did not want, and a brother-in-law he wanted less, with only a third of that which his greedy heart thirsted for. No, he would measure swords with Jean, and though his blade was less stout than that of the stolid giant he relied upon its superior keenness and lightness. He meant to win.

The company’s dog-train came up. Two sleds, each hauled by ten great huskies. They were laden down with merchandise: groceries, blankets, implements, medicines and a supply of spirits, for medicinal purposes only. Just the usual freight which comes to every trader in the wild. Such stuff as trappers and Indians need and are willing to take in part payment for their furs. But Victor only cared for the supply of spirits just then. He paid unusual attention, however, to the condition of the dogs.

The train was escorted by two half-breeds, one driving each sled. These were experienced hands, servants who had grown old in the service of the company. Men whose responsibility began when they hit the trail, and ceased when they arrived at their destination.

Pierre was a grizzled veteran, and his was the charge of the journey. Ambrose was his assistant. Victor understood these men, and made no delay in displaying his hospitality when the work of unloading was completed. A ten-gallon keg of Hudson’s Bay Rum was part of the consignment, and this was tapped at once by the wily trader.

The four men were gathered in the back room of the store when Victor turned on the tap and the thick brown stream gurgled forth from the cask. He poured out a tot for each of the train drivers. Then he stood uncertainly and looked over at Jean. The latter had seated himself over against the stove and appeared to take little interest in what was going on. Victor stood with one foot tapping the floor impatiently. He had been quick to notice that Jean’s great eyes had stolen in the direction of the little oaken keg. At last he threw the tin beaker aside as if in disgust. He played his part consummately.

“’Tain’t no go, boys. I’m not drinkin’. Thet’s what. Look at him,” he cried, pointing at Jean. “We’ve had words, I guess. Him an’ me, an’ he’s that riled as he don’t notion suppin’ good thick rum wi’ us. Wal, I guess it’ll keep, what you boys can’t do in. Ther’s the pannikin, ther’s the keg. Jest help yourselves, lads, when you fancy. I ain’t tastin’ with bad blood runnin’ in this shack.”

“What, no drink?” cried old Pierre, his face beaming with oily geniality. “Dis no lak ole time, Victor. What’s de fuss? Mebbe I tink right. Squaw, Vic, squaw.”

The old boy chuckled heartily at his pleasantry. He was a French-Canadian half-breed and spoke with a strong foreign accent. Ambrose joined in the laugh.

“Ho, Jean, man,” cried the latter. “No bad blood, I’m guessin’. Ther’s good thick rum, lad, an’ I mind you’re a’mighty partial most gener’ly.”

Victor had started the ball rolling, and he knew that neither Pierre nor Ambrose were likely to let it rest until they had had all the rum they wanted. Everything had been made snug for the night so they only had their own pleasure to consider. As Ambrose’s challenge fell upon his ears Jean looked up. His eyes were very bright and they rested longingly upon the keg on their way to the driver’s face. He shook his head, but there was not much decision in the movement.

Pierre seeing the action stepped up to him and shook a warning finger in his face.

“Hey, you, Jean-le-gros, pig-head. We come lak Hell, four hundred mile to see you. We bring you drink, everyting. You not say ‘How.’ We not welcome. Bah, I spit! In my Quebec we lak our frien’s to come. We treat. All is theirs. Bah, I spit again.”

Jean looked slightly abashed. Then Ambrose chimed in.

“Out of the durned way, froggy,” he said, swinging Pierre aside by the shoulder, “you don’t understand our ways, I guess. Ther’ ain’t no slobberin’ wi’ white folk. Here you, Vic, hold out yer hand, man, and shake wi’ Jean. We’re goin’ to hev a time to-night, or I’ll quit the road for ever.”

Victor shrugged. Then he picked up a pannikin and filled it with rum. He held it out in his left hand towards Jean while he offered his right in token of friendship. Jean eyed the outstretched hand. Then he looked at the rum, and the insidious odour filled his nostrils. The temptation was too great, as Victor knew it would be, for him. He thrust one great hand into the trader’s and the two men shook; then he took the drink and gulped it down.

The armistice was declared, and Victor, in imagination, already saw the treasure his.

Now the pannikin passed round merrily. The room reeked with the pungent odour of the spirit and all was apparently harmonious. Victor resigned his post as dispenser of liquor to Ambrose, and began his series of stock entertainments. He drank as little as possible himself, though he could not openly shirk his drink, and he always kept one eye upon Jean to see that he was well supplied; and so the time slipped by.

After the first taste Jean became a different man; he laughed and jested in his slow, coarse fashion, and, with him, all seemed good-fellowship. Pierre and Ambrose soon began to get drunk and Victor’s voice, as he sang, was mostly drowned by the rolling tones of these hoary-headed old sinners as they droned out the choruses of his songs.

Now, as the merriment waxed, Victor was able to shirk his drink deliberately. Jean seemed insatiable, and soon his great body swayed in a most drunken fashion, and he clung to his seat as if fearing to trust his legs. He joined in every chorus and never lost an opportunity of addressing Victor in terms of deepest friendliness. And in every pause in the noise he seized upon the chance to burst out into some wild ditty of his own. Victor watched with cat-like vigilance, and what he saw pleased him mightily. Jean was drunk. And he would see to it that before he had done the giant would be hopelessly so.

Evening came on. Ambrose was the first to collapse. The others laughed and left him to his deep dreamless slumber upon the floor. Victor was wearied of it all, but he knew he must see the game out. Jean’s eyelids were drooping heavily, and he, too, seemed on the verge of collapse. Only old Pierre, hardened to the ways of his life, flagged not. Suddenly the Frenchman saw Jean’s head droop forward. In a moment he was on his unsteady legs and filling a pannikin to the brim. He laughed as he drew Victor’s attention, and the latter nodded approval. Then he put it to the giant’s lips. The big man supped a little of it, then, his head falling further forward, he upset the pannikin, and the contents poured upon the earthen floor. At the same time, as though utterly helpless, he rolled off his seat and fell to the ground, snoring heavily. Pierre shouted his delight. Only Victor and he were left. They knew how to take their liquor, the old hands. His pride of achievement was great. He would see Victor under the table, too, he told himself. He stood over the trader while the latter drank a bumper. Then he, himself, drank to the dregs. It was the last straw. He swayed and lurched to the outer door. There he stood for a moment, then the cold night air did for him what the rum had been powerless to do. Without warning he fell in a heap upon the doorstep as unconscious as though he had been struck dead.

Victor alone kept his head.

The trader rose from his seat and stretched himself. Then, stealthily, he went the round of the prostrate men. He shook Ambrose, but could not wake him. Jean he stood over for awhile and silently watched the stern face. There was not a shade of consciousness in its expression. He bent down and touched him. Still no movement. He shook him gently, then more roughly. He was like a log. Victor grinned with a fiendish leer.

“Guess he’s fixed,” he muttered.

Then he went out into the store and came to the door where old Pierre had fallen. The Frenchman was no better than the others.

“Good! By Gar, Jean, my friend, I’ve done you,” he said to himself, as, reassured, he went back to the inner room. He was none too steady himself, but he had all his wits about him. The chest was near the bed. He picked it up and opened it. The treasure was there safe enough. He closed the lid and took it up in his arms, and passed out of the store. Nor did he look back. He was anxious to be gone.

It was the chance of his lifetime, he told himself, as he hastened to deposit the chest in the sled. Now he set about obtaining his blankets and provisions. His journey would be an arduous one, and nobody knew better than he the barrenness of that Northwestern land while the icy grip of winter still clings. A large quantity of the food stuffs which had only arrived that day was returned to the sled, and some of the new blankets. Then he shipped a rifle and ammunition.

Now was the trader to be seen in his true light. Here was emergency, when all veneer fell from him as the green coat of summer falls from the trees at the first breath of winter. His haste was not the swift movements of a man whose nerve is steady. He knew that he had at least twelve hours before any one of the three men were likely to awaken from their drunken stupor. And yet he feared. Nor did he know what he feared. And his nerves made him savage as he handled the dogs. They were living creatures and could feel, so he wantonly belted them with a club lest they should hesitate to obey their new master. The great wolfish creatures had more courage than he had; they took the unjust treatment without open complaint, as is the way of the husky, tacitly resenting it and eying with fierce, contemptuous eyes the cowardly wretch who so treated them. They slunk slowly and with down-drooped tails and bristling manes into their places in the traces, and stood ready for the word to pull. Victor surveyed them with little satisfaction, for now that all was ready to march he was beset with moral apprehensions.

He could not throw off his dread. It may have been that he feared that bleak four hundred mile journey. It may have been the loneliness which he contemplated. It may have been that he recollected the time when those whom he had robbed had saved him from the storm, away back there in the heart of the mountains. He shivered, and started at every night-sound that broke the stillness.

The lead dog lay down in the sloppy snow. Victor flew into a passion, and, running forward, dealt the poor brute a kick that would have been sufficient to break an ordinary dog’s ribs. With a wicked snarl the beast rose solemnly to its feet. Suddenly its wolf-ears pricked and it stared out keenly ahead. The man looked too. It seemed to him that he had heard the sound of some one walking. He gazed long and earnestly out into the darkness, but all seemed quite still. He looked at the dog again. Its ears were still pricked, but they were twitching uncertainly, as though not sure of the direction whence the sound had come.