Kazan | Page 3

back now. He went nearer, still nearer, until at last his
outreaching muzzle touched her dress where it lay piled on the floor.
And then--he lay trembling, for she had begun to sing. He had heard a
Cree woman crooning in front of her tepee; he had heard the wild chant
of the caribou song--but he had never heard anything like this
wonderful sweetness that fell from the lips of the girl. He forgot his
master's presence now. Quietly, cringingly, so that she would not know,
he lifted his head. He saw her looking at him; there was something in
her wonderful eyes that gave him confidence, and he laid his head in
her lap. For the second time he felt the touch of a woman's hand, and he
closed his eyes with a long sighing breath. The music stopped. There
came a little fluttering sound above him, like a laugh and a sob in one.
He heard his master cough.
"I've always loved the old rascal--but I never thought he'd do that," he
said; and his voice sounded queer to Kazan.
CHAPTER II
INTO THE NORTH
Wonderful days followed for Kazan. He missed the forests and deep
snows. He missed the daily strife of keeping his team-mates in trace,
the yapping at his heels, the straight long pull over the open spaces and
the barrens. He missed the "Koosh--koosh--Hoo-yah!" of the driver, the
spiteful snap of his twenty-foot caribou-gut whip, and that yelping and
straining behind him that told him he had his followers in line. But
something had come to take the place of that which he missed. It was in
the room, in the air all about him, even when the girl or his master was
not near. Wherever she had been, he found the presence of that strange
thing that took away his loneliness. It was the woman scent, and
sometimes it made him whine softly when the girl herself was actually
with him. He was not lonely, nights, when he should have been out
howling at the stars. He was not lonely, because one night he prowled
about until he found a certain door, and when the girl opened that door
in the morning she found him curled up tight against it. She had

reached down and hugged him, the thick smother of her long hair
falling all over him in a delightful perfume; thereafter she placed a rug
before the door for him to sleep on. All through the long nights he
knew that she was just beyond the door, and he was content. Each day
he thought less and less of the wild places, and more of her.
Then there came the beginning of the change. There was a strange
hurry and excitement around him, and the girl paid less attention to him.
He grew uneasy. He sniffed the change in the air, and he began to study
his master's face. Then there came the morning, very early, when the
babiche collar and the iron chain were fastened to him again. Not until
he had followed his master out through the door and into the street did
he begin to understand. They were sending him away! He sat suddenly
back on his haunches and refused to budge.
"Come, Kazan," coaxed the man. "Come on, boy."
He hung back and showed his white fangs. He expected the lash of a
whip or the blow of a club, but neither came. His master laughed and
took him back to the house. When they left it again, the girl was with
them and walked with her hand touching his head. It was she who
persuaded him to leap up through a big dark hole into the still darker
interior of a car, and it was she who lured him to the darkest corner of
all, where his master fastened his chain. Then they went out, laughing
like two children. For hours after that, Kazan lay still and tense,
listening to the queer rumble of wheels under him. Several times those
wheels stopped, and he heard voices outside. At last he was sure that he
heard a familiar voice, and he strained at his chain and whined. The
closed door slid back. A man with a lantern climbed in, followed by his
master. He paid no attention to them, but glared out through the
opening into the gloom of night. He almost broke loose when he leaped
down upon the white snow, but when he saw no one there, he stood
rigid, sniffing the air. Over him were the stars he had howled at all his
life, and about him were the forests, black and silent, shutting them in
like a wall. Vainly he sought for that one scent that was missing, and
Thorpe heard the low note