Kazan | Page 7

day that followed, when he broke the trail for his team-mates into the
North. One of his eyes was closed and filled with stinging fire, and his
body was sore from the blows of the caribou lash. But it was not
physical pain that gave the sullen droop to his head and robbed his
body of that keen quick alertness of the lead-dog--the commander of
his mates. It was his spirit. For the first time in his life, it was broken.
McCready had beaten him--long ago; his master had beaten him; and
during all this day their voices were fierce and vengeful in his ears. But
it was his mistress who hurt him most. She held aloof from him, always
beyond they reach of his leash; and when they stopped to rest, and
again in camp, she looked at him with strange and wondering eyes, and
did not speak. She, too, was ready to beat him. He believed that, and so
slunk away from her and crouched on his belly in the snow. With him,
a broken spirit meant a broken heart, and that night he lurked in one of

the deepest shadows about the camp-fire and grieved alone. None knew
that it was grief--unless it was the girl. She did not move toward him.
She did not speak to him. But she watched him closely--and studied
him hardest when he was looking at McCready.
Later, after Thorpe and his wife had gone into their tent, it began to
snow, and the effect of the snow upon McCready puzzled Kazan. The
man was restless, and he drank frequently from the flask that he had
used the night before. In the firelight his face grew redder and redder,
and Kazan could see the strange gleam of his teeth as he gazed at the
tent in which his mistress was sleeping. Again and again he went close
to that tent, and listened. Twice he heard movement. The last time, it
was the sound of Thorpe's deep breathing. McCready hurried back to
the fire and turned his face straight up to the sky. The snow was falling
so thickly that when he lowered his face he blinked and wiped his eyes.
Then he went out into the gloom and bent low over the trail they had
made a few hours before. It was almost obliterated by the falling snow.
Another hour and there would be no trail--nothing the next day to tell
whoever might pass that they had come this way. By morning it would
cover everything, even the fire, if he allowed it to die down. McCready
drank again, out in the darkness. Low words of an insane joy burst
from his lips. His head was hot with a drunken fire. His heart beat
madly, but scarcely more furiously than did Kazan's when the dog saw
that McCready was returning with a club! The club he placed on end
against a tree. Then he took a lantern from the sledge and lighted it. He
approached Thorpe's tent-flap, the lantern in his hand.
"Ho, Thorpe--Thorpe!" he called.
There was no answer. He could hear Thorpe breathing. He drew the
flap aside a little, and raised his voice.
"Thorpe!"
Still there was no movement inside, and he untied the flap strings and
thrust in his lantern. The light flashed on Isobel's golden head, and
McCready stared at it, his eyes burning like red coals, until he saw that
Thorpe was awakening. Quickly he dropped the flap and rustled it from

the outside.
"Ho, Thorpe!--Thorpe!" he called again.
This time Thorpe replied.
"Hello, McCready--is that you?"
McCready drew the flap back a little, and spoke in a low voice.
"Yes. Can you come out a minute? Something's happening out in the
woods. Don't wake up your wife!"
He drew back and waited. A minute later Thorpe came quietly out of
the tent. McCready pointed into the thick spruce.
"I'll swear there's some one nosing around the camp," he said. "I'm
certain that I saw a man out there a few minutes ago, when I went for a
log. It's a good night for stealing dogs. Here--you take the lantern! If I
wasn't clean fooled, we'll find a trail in the snow."
He gave Thorpe the lantern and picked up the heavy club. A growl rose
in Kazan's throat, but he choked it back. He wanted to snarl forth his
warning, to leap at the end of his leash, but he knew that if he did that,
they would return and beat him. So he lay still, trembling and shivering,
and whining softly. He watched them until they disappeared--and then
waited--listened. At last he heard the crunch of snow. He was not
surprised to see McCready come back alone. He had expected him to
return alone. For he