der 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."

"An' he went like greased lightnin' once he got started. Couldn't 've
seen 'm for smoke."

"No chance at all," Henry concluded. "They jes' swallowed 'm alive. I
bet he was yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!"

"He always was a fool dog," said Bill.

"But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an' commit suicide
that way." He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative
eye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. "I bet
none of the others would do it."

"Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire with a club," Bill agreed. "I
always did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty anyway."

And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail--less scant
than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.

CHAPTER II--THE SHE-WOLF

Breakfast eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the men
turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness