for one she had crunched a leg-joint to splinters; but now
she lay mangled and still under the struggle. The brute whose
leg-joint she had smashed dragged out from the _melee_; and her
faithful mate, the wide-skulled old wanderer wolf, found himself in
the death-grapple with three raging adversaries, each fairly his match
for weight and strength. True wolf, he fought in silence; but in his
antagonists the mixed breed came out, and they fought with yelps and
snarls.

At this juncture, fortunately for the old wolf, the woodsman's
understanding eye had penetrated the whole situation. He saw that the
black-haired beasts were the common enemy; and he fell upon the three
with his axe. His snow-shoes he had kicked off when making ready for
the struggle. In his mighty grasp the light axe whirled and smote with
the cunning of a rapier; and in a few seconds the old wolf, bleeding
but still vigorous, found himself confronting the man across a heap of
mangled black bodies. The man, lowering his axe, looked at the
bleeding wolf with mingled doubt and approbation. The wolf glared back
for an instant,--fear, hate, and grief in the green gleam of his
eyes,--then turned and fled, his pace accelerated by the cheerful yell
which the man sent after him.

"He's got the sand, sure!" muttered the woodsman, to himself, wiping
his axe. "Glad I didn't hev to knock him on the head, too!"

Then turning about, he saw the disabled whelp trying to sneak off,
and, with unerring aim, threw his axe. The black mongrel sank with a
kick, and lay still. The woodsman got out his pipe, slowly stuffed it
with blackjack, and smoked contemplatively, while he stood and
pondered the slain. He turned over the bodies, and patted the fur of
the long-jawed bitch, which had so splendidly turned back to her
traditions in the time of need. As he thought, the main elements of
the story unfolded themselves to him. Considerately he carried the
limp body, and securely buried it under a heap of stones on the
island. The rest he cached carelessly, intending to return and skin
them on the morrow.

"Them black pelts'll be worth somethin', I reckon!" he said to himself
with satisfaction as he took up his pack.

The Homeward Trail

In the lumber camp, far back upon the lonely headquarters of the
Quah-Davic, there was the stir of something unusual afoot. It was
Christmas Eve, and every kerosene lamp, lantern, and candle that the
camp could boast, was blazing. The l