He shuddered, and for a moment the thought got the better of his nerves.  He had not intended to shoot except from necessity, but all at once his rifle came to his shoulder and he sent a stream of fire out where the eyes were thickest.  Baree knew what the shots meant, and filled with the mad desire to get at the throat of one of his enemies he dashed in their direction.  Carvel gave a startled yell as he went.  He saw the flash of Baree’s body, saw it swallowed up in the gloom, and in that same instant heard the deadly clash of fangs and the impact of bodies.  A wild thrill shot through him.  The dog had charged alone—­and the wolves had waited.  There could be but one end.  His four-footed comrade had gone straight into the jaws of death!

He could hear the ravening snap of those jaws out in the darkness.  It was sickening.  His hand went to the Colt .45 at his belt, and he thrust his empty rifle butt downward into the snow.  With the big automatic before his eyes he plunged out into the darkness, and from his lips there issued a wild yelling that could have been heard a mile away.  With the yelling a steady stream of fire spat from the Colt into the mass of fighting beasts.  There were eight shots in the automatic, and not until the plunger clicked with metallic emptiness did Carvel cease his yelling and retreat into the firelight.  He listened, breathing deeply.  He no longer saw eyes in the darkness, nor did he hear the movement of bodies.  The suddenness and ferocity of his attack had driven back the wolf horde.  But the dog!  He caught his breath, and strained his eyes.  A shadow was dragging itself into the circle of light.  It was Baree.  Carvel ran to him, put his arms under his shoulders, and brought him to the fire.

For a long time after that there was a questioning light in Carvel’s eyes.  He reloaded his guns, put fresh fuel on the fire, and from his pack dug out strips of cloth with which he bandaged three or four of the deepest cuts in Baree’s legs.  And a dozen times he asked, in a wondering sort of way,

“Now what the deuce made you do that, old chap?  What have you got against the wolves?”

All that night he did not sleep, but watched.

Their experience with the wolves broke down the last bit of uncertainty that might have existed between the man and the dog.  For days after that, as they traveled slowly north and west, Carvel nursed Baree as he might have cared for a sick child.  Because of the dog’s hurts, he made only a few miles a day.  Baree understood, and in him there grew stronger and stronger a great love for the man whose hands were as gentle as the Willow’s and whose voice warmed him with the thrill of an immeasurable comradeship.  He no longer feared him or had a suspicion of him.  And Carvel, on his part, was observing things.  The vast emptiness of the world about them, and their aloneness, gave him the opportunity of pondering over unimportant details, and he found