So noiseless was his approach that the tired dogs, snugly curled each in its own deep bed of snow, did not hear him—­your malamutes that are broken to harness are bad watch-dogs at best.  Not until he had melted into the gloom beneath the wide overhang above the cabin door did the first disturbance come.  Then something started into life and the silence was broken.

’Poleon saw that a canvas sled-cover had been used to curtain the door opening, and during the instant following the alarm he brushed the tarpaulin aside and stepped into the pitch-black interior.

It had been a swift maneuver, the result of a lightning-like decision, and not so reckless as it appeared.

He stood now with his back to the rough log wall, every muscle in his body taut, his ears strained for some sound, some challenge.  He had been prepared for a shot out of the darkness, but nothing came.  His lungs were filling with the first deep breath of relief when a sleepy voice spoke: 

“That you, Frank?” ’Poleon remained fixed in his tracks.  “Frank!” There was a moment’s pause, then, “Frank!”

Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in answer.

“Was that you?” Joe McCaskey’s voice again demanded.

“Me?  What—?”

“Was you outside?”

“Outside?”

“I heard the dogs rowing.  They’re stirring now.  Hear ’em?  I’ll swear I saw that fly drop—­” McCaskey’s words died out and again the interior of the cabin became soundless.

“Who’s there?” the former speaker suddenly barked.

When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck.  For a second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only to silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame ignited the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the shadows of the cabin leaping.

Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream.  The flame was crushed in his palms and again the cabin was ink black.  It remained as silent as before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother’s throat.

“Wha—­what’d you—­see?” the younger one gasped.  Both men were now fully awake, but, disregarding the question, Joe cried, wildly: 

“Who are you?  What d’you want?” And then, when no answer came:  “Christ!  Say something.”

’Poleon could hear the wretch moisten his dry lips; he could picture both men sitting bolt upright in their sleeping-bags; he could feel the terror that was creeping over them.

“Who’d you see?” Frank whispered again.

“S-something big!  Right there!  By God!  Something’s in here!”

Joe’s tone was firmer now; nevertheless, fright still held him motionless, paralyzed.  He was staring with blind eyes into the velvet blackness, and his flesh was rippling with a superstitious horror of that formless creature he had glimpsed.  What was it that had walked in out of the night and now crouched ready to spring?  Nothing human, nothing natural, that was sure.