Kazan trotted back to her, sniffed at her blind face and whined. Gray
Wolf still did not move. He returned to the dogs and his jaws opened and
closed with a snap. Still more clearly came the wild voice of the
carnival, and no longer to be held back by Kazan's leadership, the four
huskies dropped their heads and slunk like shadows in its direction.
Kazan hesitated, urging Gray Wolf. But not a muscle of Gray Wolf's body
moved. She would have followed him in face of fire but not in face of
man. Not a sound escaped her ears. She heard the quick fall of Kazan's
feet as he left her. In another moment she knew that he was gone.
Then--and not until then--did she lift her head, and from her soft
throat there broke a whimpering cry.

It was her last call to Kazan. But stronger than that there was running
through Kazan's excited blood the call of man and of dog. The huskies
were far in advance of him now and for a few moments he raced madly to
overtake them. Then he slowed down until he was trotting, and a hundred
yards farther on he stopped. Less than a mile away he could see where
the flames of the great fires were reddening the sky. He gazed back to
see if Gray Wolf was following and then went on until he struck an open
and hard traveled trail. It was beaten with the footprints of men and
dogs, and over it two of the caribou had been dragged a day or two
before.

At last he came to the thinned out strip of timber that surrounded the
clearing and the flare of the flames was in his eyes. The bedlam of
sound that came to him now was like fire in his brain. He heard the song
and the laughter of men, the shrill cries of women and children, the
barking and snarling and fighting of a hundred dogs. He wanted to rush
out and join them, to become again a part of what he had once been. Yard