When he reached the bottom he no longer hesitated, but darted swiftly in the direction of the cabin.  Because of that instinct of the wild that was still in him, he always approached the cabin with caution.  He never gave warning, and for a moment Joan was startled when she looked up from her baby and saw Kazan’s shaggy head and shoulders in the open door.  The baby struggled and kicked in her delight, and held out her two hands with cooing cries to Kazan.  Joan, too, held out a hand.

“Kazan!” she cried softly.  “Come in, Kazan!”

Slowly the wild red light in Kazan’s eyes softened.  He put a forefoot on the sill, and stood there, while the girl urged him again.  Suddenly his legs seemed to sink a little under him, his tail drooped and he slunk in with that doggish air of having committed a crime.  The creatures he loved were in the cabin, but the cabin itself he hated.  He hated all cabins, for they all breathed of the club and the whip and bondage.  Like all sledge-dogs he preferred the open snow for a bed, and the spruce-tops for shelter.

Joan dropped her hand to his head, and at its touch there thrilled through him that strange joy that was his reward for leaving Gray Wolf and the wild.  Slowly he raised his head until his black muzzle rested on her lap, and he closed his eyes while that wonderful little creature that mystified him so—­the baby—­prodded him with her tiny feet, and pulled his tawny hair.  He loved these baby-maulings even more than the touch of Joan’s hand.

Motionless, sphinx-like, undemonstrative in every muscle of his body, Kazan stood, scarcely breathing.  More than once this lack of demonstration had urged Joan’s husband to warn her.  But the wolf that was in Kazan, his wild aloofness, even his mating with Gray Wolf had made her love him more.  She understood, and had faith in him.

In the days of the last snow Kazan had proved himself.  A neighboring trapper had run over with his team, and the baby Joan had toddled up to one of the big huskies.  There was a fierce snap of jaws, a scream of horror from Joan, a shout from the men as they leaped toward the pack.  But Kazan was ahead of them all.  In a gray streak that traveled with the speed of a bullet he was at the big husky’s throat.  When they pulled him off, the husky was dead.  Joan thought of that now, as the baby kicked and tousled Kazan’s head.

“Good old Kazan,” she cried softly, putting her face down close to him.  “We’re glad you came, Kazan, for we’re going to be alone to-night—­baby and I. Daddy’s gone to the post, and you must care for us while he’s away.”

She tickled his nose with the end of her long shining braid.  This always delighted the baby, for in spite of his stoicism Kazan had to sniff and sometimes to sneeze, and twig his ears.  And it pleased him, too.  He loved the sweet scent of Joan’s hair.

“And you’d fight for us, if you had to, wouldn’t you?” she went on.  Then she rose quietly.  “I must close the door,” she said.  “I don’t want you to go away again to-day, Kazan.  You must stay with us.”