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 knew what a club meant!