There must be no sporting chances in his strategy.  The way of the wolf is to cover every opening, to prepare for every contingency that his brute mind can foresee.  He would give and receive no quarter, and the ancient fairness and honor must be likewise forgotten.  He must take no risk with his own life until the last of the three was down.  What happened thereafter did not greatly concern him.  The world could shatter to atoms after that for all he would care.  He was a son of forest solitude; and he had but one dream left in life.

It was not his aim to give his foes the least chance to fight back, the slightest hope of battle.  He would use any advantage, descend to any wile.  This was not to be a sportsmen’s war, but a grim battle to the death, inexorable and merciless.

These things were all fully known to him before ever he left the hillside, and like a man asleep, walked down to his camp.  The fire had burned down to coals—­sullen and angry—­but he heaped on fuel, and they broke into a blaze.  Then, Fenris at his side, he squatted on the ground beside the dancing flame.

He watched it, fascinated; mostly silent but sometimes muttering and whispering half-enunciated words.  His red eyes and the black hair, matted about his lips and shadowing the backs of his hands, gave him a wild, fierce look; and it was as if the primal blood-lust and hatred that seared him had literally swept him back into the forgotten centuries,—­the first, savage human hunter at the edge of the retreating glaciers.  The scene had not changed:  dark spruce and the red glow of fire; and there was atavism in his very posture.  The first men had squatted beside their camp fires this same way, their wolfine pets beside them, as they made their battle plans.

The eager flames held Ben’s fascinated gaze as a crystal ball might hold the eyes of a seer.  They seemed to have a message for him if he could just grasp it, a course whereby he might achieve success.  Oh, they could be cruel, relentless—­mercilessly eating their way into sensitive flesh.  They were no respecters of persons, these creeping, leaping tongues.  Nor must he have any scruples or qualms as to how he gained his ends.  He too must be merciless, and if necessary, strike down the innocent in order to reach the guilty.

As he watched certain knowledge reached him of life and death.  The conclusion slowly came to him that just blind killing was not enough.  For all he knew death might bring instant forgetfulness—­and thus not constitute in itself a satisfactory measure of vengeance.  The fear of death was a reality and a torment:  for all he knew, the thing itself might be a change for the better.  It might be that, suddenly hurled out of this world of three dimensions, his enemies would have no knowledge nor carry no memories of the hand that struck them down.  There could be no satisfaction in this.  To murder from ambush might be a measure of expedience, but never one of self-gratification.  When Ben struck he wanted them to know who was their enemy, and for what crime they were laid low.