The Son of the Wolf | Page 5

the bonds of their comradeship.
So close was the tie that he had often been conscious of a vague
jealousy of Ruth, from the first time she had come between. And now it
must be severed by his own hand.
Though he prayed for a moose, just one moose, all game seemed to
have deserted the land, and nightfall found the exhausted man crawling
into camp, lighthanded, heavyhearted. An uproar from the dogs and
shrill cries from Ruth hastened him.
Bursting into the camp, he saw the girl in the midst of the snarling pack,
laying about her with an ax. The dogs had broken the iron rule of their

masters and were rushing the grub.
He joined the issue with his rifle reversed, and the hoary game of
natural selection was played out with all the ruthlessness of its primeval
environment. Rifle and ax went up and down, hit or missed with
monotonous regularity; lithe bodies flashed, with wild eyes and
dripping fangs; and man and beast fought for supremacy to the bitterest
conclusion. Then the beaten brutes crept to the edge of the firelight,
licking their wounds, voicing their misery to the stars.
The whole stock of dried salmon had been devoured, and perhaps five
pounds of flour remained to tide them over two hundred miles of
wilderness. Ruth returned to her husband, while Malemute Kid cut up
the warm body of one of the dogs, the skull of which had been crushed
by the ax. Every portion was carefully put away, save the hide and offal,
which were cast to his fellows of the moment before.
Morning brought fresh trouble. The animals were turning on each other.
Carmen, who still clung to her slender thread of life, was downed by
the pack. The lash fell among them unheeded. They cringed and cried
under the blows, but refused to scatter till the last wretched bit had
disappeared--bones, hide, hair, everything.
Malemute Kid went about his work, listening to Mason, who was back
in Tennessee, delivering tangled discourses and wild exhortations to his
brethren of other days.
Taking advantage of neighboring pines, he worked rapidly, and Ruth
watched him make a cache similar to those sometimes used by hunters
to preserve their meat from the wolverines and dogs. One after the
other, he bent the tops of two small pines toward each other and nearly
to the ground, making them fast with thongs of moosehide. Then he
beat the dogs into submission and harnessed them to two of the sleds,
loading the same with everything but the furs which enveloped Mason.
These he wrapped and lashed tightly about him, fastening either end of
the robes to the bent pines. A single stroke of his hunting knife would
release them and send the body high in the air.

Ruth had received her husband's last wishes and made no struggle. Poor
girl, she had learned the lesson of obedience well. From a child, she
had bowed, and seen all women bow, to the lords of creation, and it did
not seem in the nature of things for woman to resist. The Kid permitted
her one outburst of grief, as she kissed her husband--her own people
had no such custom--then led her to the foremost sled and helped her
into her snowshoes. Blindly, instinctively, she took the gee pole and
whip, and 'mushed' the dogs out on the trail. Then he returned to Mason,
who had fallen into a coma, and long after she was out of sight
crouched by the fire, waiting, hoping, praying for his comrade to die.
It is not pleasant to be alone with painful thoughts in the White Silence.
The silence of gloom is merciful, shrouding one as with protection and
breathing a thousand intangible sympathies; but the bright White
Silence, clear and cold, under steely skies, is pitiless.
An hour passed--two hours--but the man would not die. At high noon
the sun, without raising its rim above the southern horizon, threw a
suggestion of fire athwart the heavens, then quickly drew it back.
Malemute Kid roused and dragged himself to his comrade's side. He
cast one glance about him. The White Silence seemed to sneer, and a
great fear came upon him. There was a sharp report; Mason swung into
his aerial sepulcher, and Malemute Kid lashed the dogs into a wild
gallop as he fled across the snow.

The Son of the Wolf
Man rarely places a proper valuation upon his womankind, at least not
until deprived of them. He has no conception of the subtle atmosphere
exhaled by the sex feminine, so long as he bathes in it; but let it be
withdrawn, and an ever-growing void begins to manifest itself in his
existence, and he becomes hungry, in a vague sort of way, for