wild key, a beat of shrill sound broken by shriller sounds--the
long wolf-howling of many wolf-dogs, a screaming of unrest and pain,
mournful with hopelessness and rebellion. Smoke swung back the crystal
of his watch and by the feel of finger-tips on the naked hands made out
eleven o'clock. The men about him quickened. The legs that had lifted
through a dozen strenuous hours lifted in a still swifter pace that was
half a run and mostly a running jog. Through a dark spruce-flat they
burst upon an abrupt glare of light from many fires and upon an abrupt
increase of sound. The great camp lay before them.

And as they entered and threaded the irregular runways of the
hunting-camp, a vast tumult, as in a wave, rose to meet them and rolled
on with them--cries, greetings, questions and answers, jests and jests
thrust back again, the snapping snarl of wolf-dogs rushing in furry
projectiles of wrath upon Smoke's stranger dogs, the scolding of squaws,
laughter, the whimpering of children and wailing of infants, the moans
of the sick aroused afresh to pain, all the pandemonium of a camp of
nerveless, primitive wilderness folk.

Striking with clubs and the butts of guns, Smoke's party drove back the
attacking dogs, while his own dogs, snapping and snarling, awed by so
many enemies, shrank in among the legs of their human protectors, and
bristled along stiff-legged in menacing prance.

They halted in the trampled snow by an open fire, where Shorty and two
young Indians, squatted on their hams, were broiling strips of
caribou meat. Three other young Indians, lying in furs on a mat of
spruce-boughs, sat up. Shorty looked across the fire at his partner,
but with a sternly impassive face, like those of his companions, made no
sign and went on broiling the meat.

"What's the matter?" Smoke demanded, half in irritation. "Lost your
speech?"

The old familiar grin twisted on Shorty's face. "Nope," he answered.
"I'm a Indian. I'm learnin' not to show surprise. When did they catch
you?"

"Next day after you left."

"Hum," Shorty said, the light of whimsy dancing in his eyes. "Well, I'm
doin' fine, thank you most to death. This is the bachelors' camp." He
waved his hand to embrace its magnificence, which consisted of a fire,
beds of spruce-boughs laid on top of the snow, flies of caribou skin,
and wind-shields of twisted spruce and willow withes. "An' these are the
bachelors." This time his hand indicated the young men, and he spat a