This was a little past midnight.  From then until morning the earth and snow under the windfall were torn up by the struggles of the wolf, the dog and the lynx to regain their freedom.  And when morning came, all three were exhausted, and lay on their sides, panting and with bleeding jaws, waiting for the coming of man—­and death.

Henri and Weyman were out early.  When they struck off the main line toward the windfall, Henri pointed to the tracks of Kazan and Gray Wolf, and his dark face lighted up with pleasure and excitement.  When they reached the shelter under the mass of fallen timber, both stood speechless for a moment, astounded by what they saw.  Even Henri had seen nothing like this before—­two wolves and a lynx, all in traps, and almost within reach of one another’s fangs.  But surprise could not long delay the business of Henri’s hunter’s instinct.  The wolves lay first in his path, and he was raising his rifle to put a steel-capped bullet through the base of Kazan’s brain, when Weyman caught him eagerly by the arm.  Weyman was staring.  His fingers dug into Henri’s flesh.  His eyes had caught a glimpse of the steel-studded collar about Kazan’s neck.

“Wait!” he cried.  “It’s not a wolf.  It’s a dog!”

Henri lowered his rifle, staring at the collar.  Weyman’s eyes shot to Gray Wolf.  She was facing them, snarling, her white fangs bared to the foes she could not see.  Her blind eyes were closed.  Where there should have been eyes there was only hair, and an exclamation broke from Weyman’s lips.

“Look!” he commanded of Henri.  “What in the name of heaven—­”

“One is dog—­wild dog that has run to the wolves,” said Henri.  “And the other is—­wolf.”

“And blind!” gasped Weyman.

“Oui, blind, m’sieur,” added Henri, falling partly into French in his amazement.  He was raising his rifle again.  Weyman seized it firmly.

[Illustration:  “Wait! it’s not a wolf!”]

“Don’t kill them, Henri,” he said.  “Give them to me—­alive.  Figure up the value of the lynx they have destroyed, and add to that the wolf bounty, and I will pay.  Alive, they are worth to me a great deal.  My God, a dog—­and a blind wolf—­mates!”

He still held Henri’s rifle, and Henri was staring at him, as if he did not yet quite understand.

Weyman continued speaking, his eyes and face blazing.

“A dog—­and a blind wolf—­mates!” he repeated.  “It is wonderful, Henri.  Down there, they will say I have gone beyond reason, when my book comes out.  But I shall have proof.  I shall take twenty photographs here, before you kill the lynx.  I shall keep the dog and the wolf alive.  And I shall pay you, Henri, a hundred dollars apiece for the two.  May I have them?”

Henri nodded.  He held his rifle in readiness, while Weyman unpacked his camera and got to work.  Snarling fangs greeted the click of the camera-shutter—­the fangs of wolf and lynx.  But Kazan lay cringing, not through fear, but because he still recognized the mastery of man.  And when he had finished with his pictures, Weyman approached almost within reach of him, and spoke even more kindly to him than the man who had lived back in the deserted cabin.