Kazan | Page 9

the air. And he knew that there was death all about
him, and that he was the cause of it. He lay on his belly in the deep

snow and shivered, and the three-quarters of him that was dog whined
in a grief-stricken way, while the quarter that was wolf still revealed
itself menacingly in his fangs, and in the vengeful glare of his eyes.
Three times the man--his master--came out of the tent, and shouted
loudly, "Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!"
Three times the woman came with him. In the firelight Kazan could see
her shining hair streaming about her, as he had seen it in the tent, when
he had leaped up and killed the other man. In her blue eyes there was
the same wild terror, and her face was white as the snow. And the
second and third time, she too called, "Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!"--and all
that part of him that was dog, and not wolf, trembled joyously at the
sound of her voice, and he almost crept in to take his beating. But fear
of the club was the greater, and he held back, hour after hour, until now
it was silent again in the tent, and he could no longer see their shadows,
and the fire was dying down.
Cautiously he crept out from the thick gloom, working his way on his
belly toward the packed sledge, and what remained of the burned logs.
Beyond that sledge, hidden in the darkness of the trees, was the body of
the man he had killed, covered with a blanket. Thorpe, his master, had
dragged it there.
He lay down, with his nose to the warm coals and his eyes leveled
between his forepaws, straight at the closed tent-flap. He meant to keep
awake, to watch, to be ready to slink off into the forest at the first
movement there. But a warmth was rising from out of the gray ash of
the fire-bed, and his eyes closed. Twice--three times--he fought himself
back into watchfulness; but the last time his eyes came only half open,
and closed heavily again.
And now, in his sleep, he whined softly, and the splendid muscles of
his legs and shoulders twitched, and sudden shuddering ripples ran
along his tawny spine. Thorpe, who was in the tent, if he had seen him,
would have known that he was dreaming. And Thorpe's wife, whose
golden head lay close against his breast, and who shuddered and
trembled now and then even as Kazan was doing, would have known

what he was dreaming about.
In his sleep he was leaping again at the end of his chain. His jaws
snapped like castanets of steel,--and the sound awakened him, and he
sprang to his feet, his spine as stiff as a brush, and his snarling fangs
bared like ivory knives. He had awakened just in time. There was
movement in the tent. His master was awake, and if he did not escape--
He sped swiftly into the thick spruce, and paused, flat and hidden, with
only his head showing from behind a tree. He knew that his master
would not spare him. Three times Thorpe had beaten him for snapping
at McCready. The last time he would have shot him if the girl had not
saved him. And now he had torn McCready's throat. He had taken the
life from him, and his master would not spare him. Even the woman
could not save him.
Kazan was sorry that his master had returned, dazed and bleeding, after
he had torn McCready's jugular. Then he would have had her always.
She would have loved him. She did love him. And he would have
followed her, and fought for her always, and died for her when the time
came. But Thorpe had come in from the forest again, and Kazan had
slunk away quickly--for Thorpe meant to him what all men meant to
him now: the club, the whip and the strange things that spat fire and
death. And now--
Thorpe had come out from the tent. It was approaching dawn, and in
his hand he held a rifle. A moment later the girl came out, and her hand
caught the man's arm. They looked toward the thing covered by the
blanket. Then she spoke to Thorpe and he suddenly straightened and
threw back his head.
"H-o-o-o-o--Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!" he called.
A shiver ran through Kazan. The man was trying to inveigle him back.
He had in his hand the thing that killed.
"Kazan--Kazan--Ka-a-a-a-zan!" he shouted again.

Kazan sneaked cautiously back from the tree. He knew that distance
meant nothing to the cold thing of death that Thorpe held in his hand.
He turned his head once, and whined softly, and for an instant a great
longing filled his reddened eyes as he saw the last of the girl.