He stepped a space in advance and waited between two pines.  The dogs of the camp were disturbing the night with their jangle, and he watched for their coming.  A dark spot, growing rapidly, took form upon the dim white expanse of snow.  It was a forerunner of the pack, leaping cleanly, and, after the wolf fashion, singing direction to its brothers.  Hitchcock stood in the shadow.  As it sprang past, he reached out, gripped its forelegs in mid-career, and sent it whirling earthward.  Then he struck it a well-judged blow beneath the ear, and flung it to Sipsu.  And while she clapped on the harness, he, with his axe, held the passage between the trees, till a shaggy flood of white teeth and glistening eyes surged and crested just beyond reach.  Sipsu worked rapidly.  When she had finished, he leaped forward, seized and stunned a second, and flung it to her.  This he repeated thrice again, and when the sled team stood snarling in a string of ten, he called, “Enough!”

But at this instant a young buck, the forerunner of the tribe, and swift of limb, wading through the dogs and cuffing right and left, attempted the passage.  The butt of Hitchcock’s rifle drove him to his knees, whence he toppled over sideways.  The witch doctor, running lustily, saw the blow fall.

Hitchcock called to Sipsu to pull out.  At her shrill “Chook!” the maddened brutes shot straight ahead, and the sled, bounding mightily, just missed unseating her.  The powers were evidently angry with the witch doctor, for at this moment they plunged him upon the trail.  The lead-dog fouled his snowshoes and tripped him up, and the nine succeeding dogs trod him under foot and the sled bumped over him.  But he was quick to his feet, and the night might have turned out differently had not Sipsu struck backward with the long dog-whip and smitten him a blinding blow across the eyes.  Hitchcock, hurrying to overtake her, collided against him as he swayed with pain in the middle of the trail.  Thus it was, when this primitive theologian got back to the chief’s lodge, that his wisdom had been increased in so far as concerns the efficacy of the white man’s fist.  So, when he orated then and there in the council, he was wroth against all white men.

* * * * *

“Tumble out, you loafers!  Tumble out!  Grub’ll be ready before you get into your footgear!”

Dave Wertz threw off the bearskin, sat up, and yawned.

Hawes stretched, discovered a lame muscle in his arm, and rubbed it sleepily.  “Wonder where Hitchcock bunked last night?” he queried, reaching for his moccasins.  They were stiff, and he walked gingerly in his socks to the fire to thaw them out.  “It’s a blessing he’s gone,” he added, “though he was a mighty good worker.”

“Yep.  Too masterful.  That was his trouble.  Too bad for Sipsu.  Think he cared for her much?”

“Don’t think so.  Just principle.  That’s all.  He thought it wasn’t right—­and, of course, it wasn’t,—­but that was no reason for us to interfere and get hustled over the divide before our time.”