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Page 3
The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a
surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling
about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had been
overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and
fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion
caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment and even to
withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet.
"Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition."
Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread the
bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid over the
snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing his mocassins.
"How many cartridges did you say you had left?" he asked.
"Three," came the answer. "An' I wisht 'twas three hundred. Then I'd
show 'em what for, damn 'em!"
He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to
prop his moccasins before the fire.
"An' I wisht this cold snap'd break," he went on. "It's ben fifty below
for two weeks now. An' I wisht I'd never started on this trip, Henry. I
don't like the looks of it. I don't feel right, somehow. An' while I'm
wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' you an' me
a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playing
cribbage--that's what I wisht."
Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by
his comrade's voice.
"Say, Henry, that other one that come in an' got a fish--why didn't the
dogs pitch into it? That's what's botherin' me."
"You're botherin' too much, Bill," came the sleepy response. "You was
never like this before. You jes' shut up now, an' go to sleep, an'
you'll be all hunkydory in the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's
what's botherin' you."
The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering.
The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they had
flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again
snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar
became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as not
to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire. As
it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back. He glanced
casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them
more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets.
"Henry," he said. "Oh, Henry."
Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, "What's
wrong now?"
"Nothin'," came the answer; "only there's seven of 'em again. I just
counted."
Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid into
a snore as he drifted back into sleep.
In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out
of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six
o'clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while
Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.
"Say, Henry," he asked suddenly, "how many dogs did you say we had?"
"Six."
"Wrong," Bill proclaimed triumphantly.
"Seven again?" Henry queried.
"No, five; one's gone."
"The hell!" Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count
the dogs.
"You're right, Bill," he concluded. "Fatty's gone."
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