He took three wolves—­smashed-in-heads and chests—­with him to the other world, that bear, and left three others well on the road there. All six followed him by the path he had gone when the pack had done with him; but the losses might not improve the temper of the pack, though they partially stayed the hunger of a few.  And the white wolf seemed to know that.  Full devilish indeed was the cunning of that brute.

Scarcely was the last bone cracked, scarcely the last wisp of skin snapped up, than the white wolf, wet, and red and wringing over the head, was away again, at full speed—­and his full speed was a thing to gasp over—­with a wild and rousing howl that gave the pack no time to ponder on its casualties.

This time also there was no trail, so the pack had full leisure to concentrate all its energies upon the job in hand, or paw, I should say—­namely, galloping.  No, racing would be the only word; for the white wolf, knowing his kind, perhaps, gave the pack no leisure to grow dangerous over its losses or its hunger.  Only idleness gives time for questions to be asked about leadership, and he kept them busy; and if they wanted to keep up with him at all, they must needs extend themselves to the full.

Soon he led them to a clearing running, straight as a railway cutting, through the forest.  Out in the clearing, he dropped his head, howled, flung half round, and began to follow tracks; but the scent was enough for him without the tracks.  They were the footprints, the sleigh-trail, and the hoofprints of the beaters, the hunters, and the pack-horses, loaded with game from the hunt of the day that had just gone.

For a moment the pack, even that pack, his pack, the pack of the White Wolf of the Frozen Wastes, checked a little, shied, and were dumb.  They were used to his leading them upon some hectic murder-raids, but never one quite so blatant as this.

Quickly, however, the real pain in their empty stomachs got the better of them, and they swept round and began to follow—­half-a-dozen here and there—­with whimpers.  And then, the excitement spreading, they all rushed in, and breaking out, with a blood-curdling rush, into the full-throated chorus, “Yi-yi-i-ki-yi!” of the wolf-pack in full cry—­an M.F.H. who had never heard wolves might have mistaken it for the music of a pack of hounds if he had listened to it from a distance—­they swept on after the vanishing white brush of their leader, like some great, hurrying, dark cloud-shadow, up the trail.

Anon, going always at their tireless wolf-lope that no beast in the world can outdistance in the end, they came to a village.  Some of the beaters lived at this village, and had remained there.  The wolves swept on and round the miserable place—­some actually raced through the snowed-up street—­and took up the continued trail on the other side.

Anon they came to an open plain, where the trail split, many of the beaters that were left striking away to another village where they lived; but the white wolf tore straight on along the main trail, the trail of the hunters, the attendants, and the pack-horses.  And the shadows of the wolves in the moonlight kept pace with them all that terrible way.