CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That same night, ten miles to the west, Miki slept under a windfall of logs and treetops not more than half a mile from Le Beau’s trapline.

In the early dawn, when Le Beau left his cabin, accompanied by Netah, The Killer, Miki came out from under his windfall after a night of troublous dreams.  He had dreamed of those first weeks after he had lost his master, when Neewa was always at his side; and the visions that had come to him filled him with an uneasiness and a loneliness that made him whine as he stood watching the dark shadows fading away before the coming of day.  Could Le Beau have seen him there, as the first of the cold sun struck upon him, the words which he had repeated over and over to The Killer would have stuck in his throat.  For at eleven months of age Miki was a young giant of his breed.  He weighed sixty pounds, and none of that sixty was fat.  His body was as slim and as lean as a wolf’s.  His chest was massive, and over it the muscles rolled like babiche cord when he moved.  His legs were like the legs of Hela, the big Mackenzie hound who was his father; and with his jaws he could crack a caribou bone as Le Beau might have cracked it with a stone.  For eight of the eleven months of his life the wilderness had been his master; it had tempered him to the hardness of living steel; it had wrought him without abeyance to age in the mould of its pitiless schooling—­had taught him to fight for his life, to kill that he might live, and to use his brain before he used his jaws.  He was as powerful as Netah, The Killer, who was twice his age, and with his strength he possessed a cunning and a quickness which The Killer would never know.  Thus had the raw wilderness prepared him for this day.

As the sun fired up the forest with a cold flame Miki set off in direction of Le Beau’s trapline.  He came to where Le Beau had passed yesterday and sniffed suspiciously of the man-smell that was still strong in the snowshoe tracks.  He had become accustomed to this smell, but he had not lost his suspicion of it.  It was repugnant to him, even as it fascinated him.  It filled him with an inexplicable fear, and yet he found himself powerless to run away from it.  Three times in the last ten days he had seen the man-brute himself.  Once he had been hiding within a dozen yards of Le Beau when he passed.

This morning he headed straight for the swamp through which Le Beau’s traps were set.  There the rabbits were thickest and it was in the swamp that they most frequently got in Jacques’s KEKEKS—­ the little houses he built of sticks and cedar boughs to keep the snow off his baits.  They were so numerous that they were a pest, and each time that Le Beau made his trip over the line he found at least two out of every three traps sprung by them, and therefore made useless for the catching of fur.  But, where there were many rabbits there were also fishers and lynx, and in spite of the rage which the plague of rabbits sent him into, Le Beau continued to set his traps there.  And now, in addition to the rabbits, he had the wild dog to contend with.