McCready’s face was terrible now.  It was like a beast’s.  He was hatless.  Kazan slunk deeper in his shadow at the low horrible laugh that fell from his lips—­for the man still held the club.  In a moment he dropped that, and approached the tent.  He drew back the flap and peered in.  Thorpe’s wife was sleeping, and as quietly as a cat he entered and hung the lantern on a nail in the tent-pole.  His movement did not awaken her, and for a few moments he stood there, staring—­staring.

Outside, crouching in the deep shadow, Kazan tried to fathom the meaning of these strange things that were happening.  Why had his master and McCready gone out into the forest?  Why had not his master returned?  It was his master, and not McCready, who belonged in that tent.  Then why was McCready there?  He watched McCready as he entered, and suddenly the dog was on his feet, his back tense and bristling, his limbs rigid.  He saw McCready’s huge shadow on the canvas, and a moment later there came a strange piercing cry.  In the wild terror of that cry he recognized her voice—­and he leaped toward the tent.  The leash stopped him, choking the snarl in his throat.  He saw the shadows struggling now, and there came cry after cry.  She was calling to his master, and with his master’s name she was calling him!

“Kazan—­Kazan—­”

He leaped again, and was thrown upon his back.  A second and a third time he sprang the length of the leash into the night, and the babiche cord about his neck cut into his flesh like a knife.  He stopped for an instant, gasping for breath.  The shadows were still fighting.  Now they were upright!  Now they were crumpling down!  With a fierce snarl he flung his whole weight once more at the end of the chain.  There was a snap, as the thong about his neck gave way.

In half a dozen bounds Kazan made the tent and rushed under the flap.  With a snarl he was at McCready’s throat.  The first snap of his powerful jaws was death, but he did not know that.  He knew only that his mistress was there, and that he was fighting for her.  There came one choking gasping cry that ended with a terrible sob; it was McCready.  The man sank from his knees upon his back, and Kazan thrust his fangs deeper into his enemy’s throat; he felt the warm blood.

The dog’s mistress was calling to him now.  She was pulling at his shaggy neck.  But he would not loose his hold—­not for a long time.  When he did, his mistress looked down once upon the man and covered her face with her hands.  Then she sank down upon the blankets.  She was very still.  Her face and hands were cold, and Kazan muzzled them tenderly.  Her eyes were closed.  He snuggled up close against her, with his ready jaws turned toward the dead man.  Why was she so still, he wondered?

A long time passed, and then she moved.  Her eyes opened.  Her hand touched him.

Then he heard a step outside.