SUCCESS AND FAILURE

At last the marvel in the north dimmed, the obscure gray shade lifted, the hope in the south brightened, and the mercury climbed reluctantly, with a tyrant’s hate to relinquish power.

Spring weather at twenty-five below zero!  On April 12th a small band of Indians made their appearance.  Of the Dog tribe were they, an offcast of the Great Slaves, according to Rea, and as motley, starring and starved as the Yellow Knives.  But they were friendly, which presupposed ignorance of the white hunters, and Rea persuaded the strongest brave to accompany them as guide northward after musk-oxen.

On April 16th, having given the Indians several caribou carcasses, and assuring them that the cabin was protected by white spirits, Rea and Jones, each with sled and train of dogs, started out after their guide, who was similarly equipped, over the glistening snow toward the north.  They made sixty miles the first day, and pitched their Indian tepee on the shores of Artillery Lake.  Traveling northeast, they covered its white waste of one hundred miles in two days.  Then a day due north, over rolling, monotonously snowy plain; devoid of rock, tree or shrub, brought them into a country of the strangest, queerest little spruce trees, very slender, and none of them over fifteen feet in height.  A primeval forest of saplings.

“Ditchen Nechila,” said the guide.

“Land of Sticks Little,” translated Rea.

An occasional reindeer was seen and numerous foxes and hares trotted off into the woods, evincing more curiosity than fear.  All were silver white, even the reindeer, at a distance, taking the hue of the north.  Once a beautiful creature, unblemished as the snow it trod, ran up a ridge and stood watching the hunters.  It resembled a monster dog, only it was inexpressibly more wild looking.

“Ho!  Ho! there you are!” cried Rea, reaching for his Winchester.  “Polar wolf!  Them’s the white devils we’ll have hell with.”

As if the wolf understood, he lifted his white, sharp head and uttered a bark or howl that was like nothing so much as a haunting, unearthly mourn.  The animal then merged into the white, as if he were really a spirit of the world whence his cry seemed to come.

In this ancient forest of youthful appearing trees, the hunters cut firewood to the full carrying capacity of the sleds.  For five days the Indian guide drove his dogs over the smooth crust, and on the sixth day, about noon, halting in a hollow, he pointed to tracks in the snow and called out:  “Ageter!  Ageter!  Ageter!”

The hunters saw sharply defined hoof-marks, not unlike the tracks of reindeer, except that they were longer.  The tepee was set up on the spot and the dogs unharnessed.

The Indian led the way with the dogs, and Rea and Jones followed, slipping over the hard crust without sinking in and traveling swiftly.  Soon the guide, pointing, again let out the cry:  “Ageter!” at the same moment loosing the dogs.

Some few hundred yards down the hollow, a number of large black animals, not unlike the shaggy, humpy buffalo, lumbered over the snow.  Jones echoed Rea’s yell, and broke into a run, easily distancing the puffing giant.

The musk-oxen squared round to the dogs, and were soon surrounded by the yelping pack.  Jones came up to find six old bulls uttering grunts of rage and shaking ram-like horns at their tormentors.  Notwithstanding that for Jones this was the cumulation of years of desire, the crowning moment, the climax and fruition of long-harbored dreams, he halted before the tame and helpless beasts, with joy not unmixed with pain.

“It will be murder!” he exclaimed.  “It’s like shooting down sheep.”

Rea came crashing up behind him and yelled, “Get busy.  We need fresh meat, an’ I want the skins.”

The bulls succumbed to well-directed shots, and the Indian and Rea hurried back to camp with the dogs to fetch the sleds, while Jones examined with warm interest the animals he had wanted to see all his life.  He found the largest bull approached within a third of the size of a buffalo.  He was of a brownish-black color and very like a large, woolly ram.  His head was broad, with sharp, small ears; the horns had wide and flattened bases and lay flat on the head, to run down back of the eyes, then curve forward to a sharp point.  Like the bison, the musk ox had short, heavy limbs, covered with very long hair, and small, hard hoofs with hairy tufts inside the curve of bone, which probably served as pads or checks to hold the hoof firm on ice.  His legs seemed out of proportion to his body.

Two musk-oxen were loaded on a sled and hauled to camp in one trip.  Skinning them was but short work for such expert hands.  All the choice cuts of meat were saved.  No time was lost in broiling a steak, which they found sweet and juicy, with a flavor of musk that was disagreeable.

“Now, Rea, for the calves,” exclaimed Jones, “And then we’re homeward bound.”

“I hate to tell this redskin,” replied Rea.  “He’ll be like the others.  But it ain’t likely he’d desert us here.  He’s far from his base, with nothin’ but thet old musket.”  Rea then commanded the attention of the brave, and began to mangle the Great Slave and Yellow Knife languages.  Of this mixture Jones knew but few words.  “Ageter nechila,” which Rea kept repeating, he knew, however, meant “musk-oxen little.”

The guide stared, suddenly appeared to get Rea’s meaning, then vigorously shook his head and gazed at Jones in fear and horror.  Following this came an action as singular as inexplicable.  Slowly rising, he faced the north, lifted his hand, and remained statuesque in his immobility.  Then he began deliberately packing his blankets and traps on his sled, which had not been unhitched from the train of dogs.

“Jackoway ditchen hula,” he said, and pointed south.

“Jackoway ditchen hula,” echoed Rea.  “The damned Indian says ’wife sticks none.’  He’s goin’ to quit us.  What do you think of thet?  His wife’s out of wood.  Jackoway out of wood, an’ here we are two days from the Arctic Ocean.  Jones, the damned heathen don’t go back!”

The trapper coolly cocked his rifle.  The savage, who plainly saw and understood the action, never flinched.  He turned his breast to Rea, and there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest his relation to a craven tribe.

“Good heavens, Rea, don’t kill him!” exclaimed Jones, knocking up the leveled rifle.

“Why not, I’d like to know?” demanded Rea, as if he were considering the fate of a threatening beast.  “I reckon it’d be a bad thing for us to let him go.”

“Let him go,” said Jones.  “We are here on the ground.  We have dogs and meat.  We’ll get our calves and reach the lake as soon as he does, and we might get there before.”

“Mebbe we will,” growled Rea.

No vacillation attended the Indian’s mood.  From friendly guide, he had suddenly been transformed into a dark, sullen savage.  He refused the musk-ox meat offered by Jones, and he pointed south and looked at the white hunters as if he asked them to go with him.  Both men shook their heads in answer.  The savage struck his breast a sounding blow and with his index finger pointed at the white of the north, he shouted dramatically:  “Naza!  Naza!  Naza!”

He then leaped upon his sled, lashed his dogs into a run, and without looking back disappeared over a ridge.

The musk-ox hunters sat long silent.  Finally Rea shook his shaggy locks and roared.  “Ho!  Ho!  Jackoway out of wood!  Jackoway out of wood!  Jackoway out of wood!”

On the day following the desertion, Jones found tracks to the north of the camp, making a broad trail in which were numerous little imprints that sent him flying back to get Rea and the dogs.  Muskoxen in great numbers had passed in the night, and Jones and Rea had not trailed the herd a mile before they had it in sight.  When the dogs burst into full cry, the musk-oxen climbed a high knoll and squared about to give battle.

“Calves!  Calves!  Calves!” cried Jones.

“Hold back!  Hold back!  Thet’s a big herd, an’ they’ll show fight.”

As good fortune would have it, the herd split up into several sections, and one part, hard pressed by the dogs, ran down the knoll, to be cornered under the lee of a bank.  The hunters, seeing this small number, hurried upon them to find three cows and five badly frightened little calves backed against the bank of snow, with small red eyes fastened on the barking, snapping dogs.

To a man of Jones’s experience and skill, the capturing of the calves was a ridiculously easy piece of work.  The cows tossed their heads, watched the dogs, and forgot their young.  The first cast of the lasso settled over the neck of a little fellow.  Jones hauled him out over the slippery snow and laughed as he bound the hairy legs.  In less time than he had taken to capture one buffalo calf, with half the escort, he had all the little musk-oxen bound fast.  Then he signaled this feat by pealing out an Indian yell of victory.

“Buff, we’ve got ’em,” cried Rea; “An’ now for the hell of it gettin’ ’em home.  I’ll fetch the sleds.  You might as well down thet best cow for me.  I can use another skin.”

Of all Jones’s prizes of captured wild beasts ­which numbered nearly every species common to western North America ­he took greatest pride in the little musk-oxen.  In truth, so great had been his passion to capture some of these rare and inaccessible mammals, that he considered the day’s world the fulfillment of his life’s purpose.  He was happy.  Never had he been so delighted as when, the very evening of their captivity, the musk-oxen, evincing no particular fear of him, began to dig with sharp hoofs into the snow for moss.  And they found moss, and ate it, which solved Jones’s greatest problem.  He had hardly dared to think how to feed them, and here they were picking sustenance out of the frozen snow.

“Rea, will you look at that!  Rea, will you look at that!” he kept repeating.  “See, they’re hunting, feed.”

And the giant, with his rare smile, watched him play with the calves.  They were about two and a half feet high, and resembled long-haired sheep.  The ears and horns were undiscernible, and their color considerably lighter than that of the matured beasts.

“No sense of fear of man,” said the life-student of animals.  “But they shrink from the dogs.”

In packing for the journey south, the captives were strapped on the sleds.  This circumstance necessitated a sacrifice of meat and wood, which brought grave, doubtful shakes of Rea’s great head.

Days of hastening over the icy snow, with short hours for sleep and rest, passed before the hunters awoke to the consciousness that they were lost.  The meat they had packed had gone to feed themselves and the dogs.  Only a few sticks of wood were left.

“Better kill a calf, an’ cook meat while we’ve got little wood left,” suggested Rea.

“Kill one of my calves?  I’d starve first!” cried Jones.

The hungry giant said no more.

They headed southwest.  All about them glared the grim monotony of the arctics.  No rock or bush or tree made a welcome mark upon the hoary plain Wonderland of frost, white marble desert, infinitude of gleaming silences!

Snow began to fall, making the dogs flounder, obliterating the sun by which they traveled.  They camped to wait for clearing weather.  Biscuits soaked in tea made their meal.  At dawn Jones crawled out of the tepee.  The snow had ceased.  But where were the dogs?  He yelled in alarm.  Then little mounds of white, scattered here and there became animated, heaved, rocked and rose to dogs.  Blankets of snow had been their covering.

Rea had ceased his “Jackoway out of wood,” for a reiterated question:  “Where are the wolves?”

“Lost,” replied Jones in hollow humor.

Near the close of that day, in which they had resumed travel, from the crest of a ridge they descried a long, low, undulating dark line.  It proved to be the forest of “Little sticks,” where, with grateful assurance of fire and of soon finding their old trail, they made camp.

“We’ve four biscuits left, an’ enough tea for one drink each,” said Rea.  “I calculate we’re two hundred miles from Great Slave Lake.  Where are the wolves?”

At that moment the night wind wafted through the forest a long, haunting mourn.  The calves shifted uneasily; the dogs raised sharp noses to sniff the air, and Rea, settling back against a tree, cried out:  “Ho!  Ho!” Again the savage sound, a keen wailing note with the hunger of the northland in it, broke the cold silence.  “You’ll see a pack of real wolves in a minute,” said Rea.  Soon a swift pattering of feet down a forest slope brought him to his feet with a curse to reach a brawny hand for his rifle.  White streaks crossed the black of the tree trunks; then indistinct forms, the color of snow, swept up, spread out and streaked to and fro.  Jones thought the great, gaunt, pure white beasts the spectral wolves of Rea’s fancy, for they were silent, and silent wolves must belong to dreams only.

“Ho!  Ho!” yelled Rea.  “There’s green-fire eyes for you, Buff.  Hell itself ain’t nothin’ to these white devils.  Get the calves in the tepee, an’ stand ready to loose the dogs, for we’ve got to fight.”

Raising his rifle he opened fire upon the white foe.  A struggling, rustling sound followed the shots.  But whether it was the threshing about of wolves dying in agony, or the fighting of the fortunate ones over those shot, could not be ascertained in the confusion.

Following his example Jones also fired rapidly on the other side of the tepee.  The same inarticulate, silently rustling wrestle succeeded this volley.

“Wait!” cried Rea.  “Be sparin’ of cartridges.”

The dogs strained at their chains and bravely bayed the wolves.  The hunters heaped logs and brush on the fire, which, blazing up, sent a bright light far into the woods.  On the outer edge of that circle moved the white, restless, gliding forms.

“They’re more afraid of fire than of us,” said Jones.

So it proved.  When the fire burned and crackled they kept well in the background.  The hunters had a long respite from serious anxiety, during which time they collected all the available wood at hand.  But at midnight, when this had been mostly consumed, the wolves grew bold again.

“Have you any shots left for the 45-90, besides what’s in the magazine?” asked Rea.

“Yes, a good handful.”

“Well, get busy.”

With careful aim Jones emptied the magazine into the gray, gliding, groping mass.  The same rustling, shuffling, almost silent strife ensued.

“Rea, there’s something uncanny about those brutes.  A silent pack of wolves!”

“Ho!  Ho!” rolled the giant’s answer through the woods.

For the present the attack appeared to have been effectually checked.  The hunters, sparingly adding a little of their fast diminishing pile of fuel to the fire, decided to lie down for much needed rest, but not for sleep.  How long they lay there, cramped by the calves, listening for stealthy steps, neither could tell; it might have been moments and it might have been hours.  All at once came a rapid rush of pattering feet, succeeded by a chorus of angry barks, then a terrible commingling of savage snarls, growls, snaps and yelps.

“Out!” yelled Rea.  “They’re on the dogs!”

Jones pushed his cocked rifle ahead of him and straightened up outside the tepee.  A wolf, large as a panther and white as the gleaming snow, sprang at him.  Even as he discharged his rifle, right against the breast of the beast, he saw its dripping jaws, its wicked green eyes, like spurts of fire and felt its hot breath.  It fell at his feet and writhed in the death struggle.  Slender bodies of black and white, whirling and tussling together, sent out fiendish uproar.  Rea threw a blazing stick of wood among them, which sizzled as it met the furry coats, and brandishing another he ran into the thick of the fight.  Unable to stand the proximity of fire, the wolves bolted and loped off into the woods.

“What a huge brute!” exclaimed Jones, dragging the one he had shot into the light.  It was a superb animal, thin, supple, strong, with a coat of frosty fur, very long and fine.  Rea began at once to skin it, remarking that he hoped to find other pelts in the morning.

Though the wolves remained in the vicinity of camp, none ventured near.  The dogs moaned and whined; their restlessness increased as dawn approached, and when the gray light came, Jones founds that some of them had been badly lacerated by the fangs of the wolves.  Rea hunted for dead wolves and found not so much as a piece of white fur.

Soon the hunters were speeding southward.  Other than a disposition to fight among themselves, the dogs showed no evil effects of the attack.  They were lashed to their best speed, for Rea said the white rangers of the north would never quit their trail.  All day the men listened for the wild, lonesome, haunting mourn.  But it came not.

A wonderful halo of white and gold, that Rea called a sun-dog, hung in the sky all afternoon, and dazzlingly bright over the dazzling world of snow circled and glowed a mocking sun, brother of the desert mirage, beautiful illusion, smiling cold out of the polar blue.

The first pale evening star twinkled in the east when the hunters made camp on the shore of Artilery Lake.  At dusk the clear, silent air opened to the sound of a long, haunting mourn.

“Ho!  Ho!” called Rea.  His hoarse, deep voice rang defiance to the foe.

While he built a fire before the tepee, Jones strode up and down, suddenly to whip out his knife and make for the tame little musk-oxen, now digging the snow.  Then he wheeled abruptly and held out the blade to Rea.

“What for?” demanded the giant.

“We’ve got to eat,” said Jones.  “And I can’t kill one of them.  I can’t, so you do it.”

“Kill one of our calves?” roared Rea.  “Not till hell freezes over!  I ain’t commenced to get hungry.  Besides, the wolves are going to eat us, calves and all.”

Nothing more was said.  They ate their last biscuit.  Jones packed the calves away in the tepee, and turned to the dogs.  All day they had worried him; something was amiss with them, and even as he went among them a fierce fight broke out.  Jones saw it was unusual, for the attacked dogs showed craven fear, and the attacking ones a howling, savage intensity that surprised him.  Then one of the vicious brutes rolled his eyes, frothed at the mouth, shuddered and leaped in his harness, vented a hoarse howl and fell back shaking and retching.

“My God!  Rea!” cried Jones in horror.  “Come here!  Look!  That dog is dying of rabies!  Hydrophobia!  The white wolves have hydrophobia!”

“If you ain’t right!” exclaimed Rea.  “I seen a dog die of thet onct, an’ he acted like this.  An’ thet one ain’t all.  Look, Buff! look at them green eyes!  Didn’t I say the white wolves was hell?  We’ll have to kill every dog we’ve got.”

Jones shot the dog, and soon afterward three more that manifested signs of the disease.  It was an awful situation.  To kill all the dogs meant simply to sacrifice his life and Rea’s; it meant abandoning hope of ever reaching the cabin.  Then to risk being bitten by one of the poisoned, maddened brutes, to risk the most horrible of agonizing deaths ­that was even worse.

“Rea, we’ve one chance,” cried Jones, with pale face.  “Can you hold the dogs, one by one, while muzzle them?”

“Ho!  Ho!” replied the giant.  Placing his bowie knife between his teeth, with gloved hands he seized and dragged one of the dogs to the campfire.  The animal whined and protested, but showed no ill spirit.  Jones muzzled his jaws tightly with strong cords.  Another and another were tied up, then one which tried to snap at Jones was nearly crushed by the giant’s grip.  The last, a surly brute, broke out into mad ravings the moment he felt the touch of Jones’s hands, and writhing, frothing, he snapped Jones’s sleeve.  Rea jerked him loose and held him in the air with one arm, while with the other he swung the bowie.  They hauled the dead dogs out on the snow, and returning to the fire sat down to await the cry they expected.

Presently, as darkness fastened down tight, it came ­the same cry, wild, haunting, mourning.  But for hours it was not repeated.

“Better rest some,” said Rea; “I’ll call you if they come.”

Jones dropped to sleep as he touched his blankets.  Morning dawned for him, to find the great, dark, shadowy figure of the giant nodding over the fire.

“How’s this?  Why didn’t you call me?” demanded Jones.

“The wolves only fought a little over the dead dogs.”

On the instant Jones saw a wolf skulking up the bank.  Throwing up his rifle, which he had carried out of the tepee, he took a snap-shot at the beast.  It ran off on three legs, to go out of sight over the hank.  Jones scrambled up the steep, slippery place, and upon arriving at the ridge, which took several moments of hard work, he looked everywhere for the wolf.  In a moment he saw the animal, standing still some hundred or more paces down a hollow.  With the quick report of Jones’s second shot, the wolf fell and rolled over.  The hunter ran to the spot to find the wolf was dead.  Taking hold of a front paw, he dragged the animal over the snow to camp.  Rea began to skin the animal, when suddenly he exclaimed: 

“This fellow’s hind foot is gone!”

“That’s strange.  I saw it hanging by the skin as the wolf ran up the bank.  I’ll look for it.”

By the bloody trail on the snow he returned to the place where the wolf had fallen, and thence back to the spot where its leg had been broken by the bullet.  He discovered no sign of the foot.

“Didn’t find it, did you?” said Rea.

“No, and it appears odd to me.  The snow is so hard the foot could not have sunk.”

“Well, the wolf ate his foot, thet’s what,” returned Rea.  “Look at them teeth marks!”

“Is it possible?” Jones stared at the leg Rea held up.

“Yes, it is.  These wolves are crazy at times.  You’ve seen thet.  An’ the smell of blood, an’ nothin’ else, mind you, in my opinion, made him eat his own’ foot.  We’ll cut him open.”

Impossible as the thing seemed to Jones ­and he could not but believe further evidence of his own’ eyes ­it was even stranger to drive a train of mad dogs.  Yet that was what Rea and he did, and lashed them, beat them to cover many miles in the long day’s journey.  Rabies had broken out in several dogs so alarmingly that Jones had to kill them at the end of the run.  And hardly had the sound of the shots died when faint and far away, but clear as a bell, bayed on the wind the same haunting mourn of a trailing wolf.

“Ho!  Ho! where are the wolves?” cried Rea.

A waiting, watching, sleepless night followed.  Again the hunters faced the south.  Hour after hour, riding, running, walking, they urged the poor, jaded, poisoned dogs.  At dark they reached the head of Artillery Lake.  Rea placed the tepee between two huge stones.  Then the hungry hunters, tired, grim, silent, desperate, awaited the familiar cry.

It came on the cold wind, the same haunting mourn, dreadful in its significance.

Absence of fire inspirited the wary wolves.  Out of the pale gloom gaunt white forms emerged, agile and stealthy, slipping on velvet-padded feet, closer, closer, closer.  The dogs wailed in terror.

“Into the tepee!” yelled Rea.

Jones plunged in after his comrade.  The despairing howls of the dogs, drowned in more savage, frightful sounds, knelled one tragedy and foreboded a more terrible one.  Jones looked out to see a white mass, like leaping waves of a rapid.

“Pump lead into thet!” cried Rea.

Rapidly Jones emptied his rifle into the white fray.  The mass split; gaunt wolves leaped high to fall back dead; others wriggled and limped away; others dragged their hind quarters; others darted at the tepee.

“No more cartridges!” yelled Jones.

The giant grabbed the ax, and barred the door of the tepee.  Crash! the heavy iron cleaved the skull of the first brute.  Crash! it lamed the second.  Then Rea stood in the narrow passage between the rocks, waiting with uplifted ax.  A shaggy, white demon, snapping his jaws, sprang like a dog.  A sodden, thudding blow met him and he slunk away without a cry.  Another rabid beast launched his white body at the giant.  Like a flash the ax descended.  In agony the wolf fell, to spin round and round, running on his hind legs, while his head and shoulders and forelegs remained in the snow.  His back was broken.

Jones crouched in the opening of the tepee, knife in hand.  He doubted his senses.  This was a nightmare.  He saw two wolves leap at once.  He heard the crash of the ax; he saw one wolf go down and the other slip under the swinging weapon to grasp the giant’s hip.  Jones’s heard the rend of cloth, and then he pounced like a cat, to drive his knife into the body of the beast.  Another nimble foe lunged at Rea, to sprawl broken and limp from the iron.  It was a silent fight.  The giant shut the way to his comrade and the calves; he made no outcry; he needed but one blow for every beast; magnificent, he wielded death and faced it ­silent.  He brought the white wild dogs of the north down with lightning blows, and when no more sprang to the attack, down on the frigid silence he rolled his cry:  “Ho!  Ho!”

“Rea!  Rea! how is it with you?” called Jones, climbing out.

“A torn coat ­no more, my lad.”

Three of the poor dogs were dead; the fourth and last gasped at the hunters and died.

The wintry night became a thing of half-conscious past, a dream to the hunters, manifesting its reality only by the stark, stiff bodies of wolves, white in the gray morning.

“If we can eat, we’ll make the cabin,” said Rea.  “But the dogs an’ wolves are poison.”

“Shall I kill a calf?” asked Jones.

“Ho!  Ho! when hell freezes over ­if we must!”

Jones found one 45-90 cartridge in all the outfit, and with that in the chamber of his rifle, once more struck south.  Spruce trees began to show on the barrens and caribou trails roused hope in the hearts of the hunters.

“Look in the spruces,” whispered Jones, dropping the rope of his sled.  Among the black trees gray objects moved.

“Caribou!” said Rea.  “Hurry!  Shoot!  Don’t miss!”

But Jones waited.  He knew the value of the last bullet.  He had a hunter’s patience.  When the caribou came out in an open space, Jones whistled.  It was then the rifle grew set and fixed; it was then the red fire belched forth.

At four hundred yards the bullet took some fraction of time to strike.  What a long time that was!  Then both hunters heard the spiteful spat of the lead.  The caribou fell, jumped up, ran down the slope, and fell again to rise no more.

An hour of rest, with fire and meat, changed the world to the hunters; still glistening, it yet had lost its bitter cold its deathlike clutch.

“What’s this?” cried Jones.

Moccasin tracks of different sizes, all toeing north, arrested the hunters.

“Pointed north!  Wonder what thet means?” Rea plodded on, doubtfully shaking his head.

Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night!  The hunters rested, listening ever for the haunting mourn.  Day again, white, passionless, monotonous, silent day.  The hunters traveled on ­on ­on, ever listening for the haunting mourn.

Another dusk found them within thirty miles of their cabin.  Only one more day now.

Rea talked of his furs, of the splendid white furs he could not bring.  Jones talked of his little muskoxen calves and joyfully watched them dig for moss in the snow.

Vigilance relaxed that night.  Outworn nature rebelled, and both hunters slept.

Rea awoke first, and kicking off the blankets, went out.  His terrible roar of rage made Jones fly to his side.

Under the very shadow of the tepee, where the little musk-oxen had been tethered, they lay stretched out pathetically on crimson snow ­stiff stone-cold, dead.  Moccasin tracks told the story of the tragedy.

Jones leaned against his comrade.

The giant raised his huge fist.

“Jackoway out of wood!  Jackoway out of wood!”

Then he choked.

The north wind, blowing through the thin, dark, weird spruce trees, moaned and seemed to sigh, “Naza!  Naza!  Naza!”