Then Kazan caught the scent, and he saw the shadowy figure coming through the starlight.  He tried to drag himself back, but he could move only by inches.  The man came rapidly nearer.  Kazan caught the glisten of the rifle in his hand.  He heard his hollow cough, and the tread of his feet in the snow.  Gray Wolf crouched shoulder to shoulder with him, trembling and showing her teeth.  When Pierre had approached within fifty feet of them she slunk back into the deeper shadows of the spruce.

Kazan’s fangs were bared menacingly when Pierre stopped and looked down at him.  With an effort he dragged himself to his feet, but fell back into the snow again.  The man leaned his rifle against a sapling and bent over him fearlessly.  With a fierce growl Kazan snapped at his extended hands.  To his surprise the man did not pick up a stick or a club.  He held out his hand again—­cautiously—­and spoke in a voice new to Kazan.  The dog snapped again, and growled.

The man persisted, talking to him all the time, and once his mittened hand touched Kazan’s head, and escaped before the jaws could reach it.  Again and again the man reached out his hand, and three times Kazan felt the touch of it, and there was neither threat nor hurt in it.  At last Pierre turned away and went back over the trail.

When he was out of sight and hearing, Kazan whined, and the crest along his spine flattened.  He looked wistfully toward the glow of the fire.  The man had not hurt him, and the three-quarters of him that was dog wanted to follow.

Gray Wolf came back, and stood with stiffly planted forefeet at his side.  She had never been this near to man before, except when the pack had overtaken the sledge out on the plain.  She could not understand.  Every instinct that was in her warned her that he was the most dangerous of all things, more to be feared than the strongest beasts, the storms, the floods, cold and starvation.  And yet this man had not harmed her mate.  She sniffed at Kazan’s back and head, where the mittened hand had touched.  Then she trotted back into the darkness again, for beyond the edge of the forest she once more saw moving life.

The man was returning, and with him was the girl.  Her voice was soft and sweet, and there was about her the breath and sweetness of woman.  The man stood prepared, but not threatening.

“Be careful, Joan,” he warned.

She dropped on her knees in the snow, just out of reach.

“Come, boy—­come!” she said gently.  She held out her hand.  Kazan’s muscles twitched.  He moved an inch—­two inches toward her.  There was the old light in her eyes and face now, the love and gentleness he had known once before, when another woman with shining hair and eyes had come into his life.  “Come!” she whispered as she saw him move, and she bent a little, reached a little farther with her hand, and at last touched his head.

Pierre knelt beside her.  He was proffering something, and Kazan smelled meat.  But it was the girl’s hand that made him tremble and shiver, and when she drew back, urging him to follow her, he dragged himself painfully a foot or two through the snow.  Not until then did the girl see his mangled leg.  In an instant she had forgotten all caution, and was down close at his side.