He threshed for
a moment with his arms and then lay quiet.

Morganson dropped his rifle (worthless now that the last cartridge was
gone) and slid down the bank through the soft snow. Now that he had
sprung the trap, concealment of his lurking-place was no longer
necessary. He hobbled along the trail to the sled, his fingers making
involuntary gripping and clutching movements inside the mittens.

The snarling of the dogs halted him. The leader, a heavy dog, half
Newfoundland and half Hudson Bay, stood over the body of the man that
lay on the trail, and menaced Morganson with bristling hair and bared
fangs. The other seven dogs of the team were likewise bristling and
snarling. Morganson approached tentatively, and the team surged towards
him. He stopped again and talked to the animals, threatening and
cajoling by turns. He noticed the face of the man under the leader's
feet, and was surprised at how quickly it had turned white with the ebb
of life and the entrance of the frost. John Thompson lay back along the
top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and
his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black
beard pointing skyward.

Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail
into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the
sled. Under the initiative of the leader, the team swung around in its
tangled harness. Because of his crippled condition, Morganson could move
only slowly. He saw the animals circling around on him and tried to
retreat. He almost made it, but the big leader, with a savage lunge,
sank its teeth into the calf of his leg. The flesh was slashed and torn,
but Morganson managed to drag himself clear.

He cursed the brutes fiercely, but could not cow them. They replied with
neck-bristling and snarling, and with quick lunges against their
breastbands. He remembered Oleson, and turned his back upon them and
went along the trail. He scarcely took notice of his lacerated leg. It
was bleeding freely; the main artery had been torn, but he did not know
it.

Especially remarkable to Morganson was the extreme pallor of the Swede,
who the preceding night had been so ruddy-faced. Now his face was like
white marble. What with his fair hair and lashes he looked like a carved
statue rather than something that had been a man a few minutes before.
Morganson pulled off his mittens and searched the body. There was no
money-belt ar