s throat there rose a whimpering cry
that was like the cry of a child.

Challoner heard that cry as he came back, and something seemed to grip
hold of his heart suddenly, and choke him. He had heard children crying
like that; and it was the motherless cub!

Creeping up behind a dwarf spruce he looked where Noozak lay dead, and
saw Neewa perched on his mother's back. He had killed many things in
his time, for it was his business to kill, and to barter in the pelts
of creatures that others killed. But he had seen nothing like this
before, and he felt all at once as if he had done murder.

"I'm sorry," he breathed softly, "you poor little devil; I'm sorry!"

It was almost a prayer--for forgiveness. Yet there was but one thing to
do now. So quietly that Neewa failed to hear him he crept around with
the wind and stole up behind. He was within a dozen feet of Neewa
before the cub suspected danger. Then it was too late. In a swift rush
Challoner was upon him and, before Neewa could leave the back of his
mother, had smothered him in the folds of the grub sack.

In all his life Challoner had never experienced a livelier five minutes
than the five that followed. Above Neewa's grief and his fear there
rose the savage fighting blood of old Soominitik, his father. He clawed
and bit and kicked and snarled. In those five minutes he was five
little devils all rolled into one, and by the time Challoner had the
rope fastened about Neewa's neck, and his fat body chucked into the
sack, his hands were scratched and lacerated in a score of places.

In the sack Neewa continued to fight until he was exhausted, while
Challoner skinned Noozak and cut from her the meat and fats which he
wanted. The beauty of Noozak's pelt brought a glow into his eyes. In it
he rolled the meat and fats, and with babiche thong bound the whole
into a pack around which he belted the dunnage ends of his shoulder
straps. Weighted under the burden of sixty pounds of pelt and meat he
picked up his rifle--and Neewa. It had been early afternoon when he
left. It was almost sunset when he reached camp. Every foot of the way,
until the last half mile, Neewa fought like a Spartan.

Now he lay limp and almost lifeless in his sack, and when Miki came up
to smell suspiciously of his prison he made no movement of protest. All
smells were alike to him now, and of sounds he made no distinction.
Challoner was nearly done for. Every muscle and bone in his body had
its ache. Yet