It was a tragic moment, a pitiful incident of the trail--a dying
dog, two comrades in anger.

Ruth glanced solicitously from man to man. But Malemute Kid
restrained himself, though there was a world of reproach in his
eyes, and, bending over the dog, cut the traces. No word was
spoken. The teams were doublespanned and the difficulty overcome;
the sleds were under way again, the dying dog dragging herself
along in the rear. As long as an animal can travel, it is not
shot, and this last chance is accorded it--the crawling into
camp, if it can, in the hope of a moose being killed.

Already penitent for his angry action, but too stubborn to make
amends, Mason toiled on at the head of the cavalcade, little
dreaming that danger hovered in the air. The timber clustered
thick in the sheltered bottom, and through this they threaded
their way. Fifty feet or more from the trail towered a lofty
pine. For generations it had stood there, and for generations
destiny had had this one end in view--perhaps the same had been
decreed of Mason.

He stooped to fasten the loosened thong of his moccasin. The
sleds came to a halt, and the dogs lay down in the snow without a
whimper. The stillness was weird; not a breath rustled the
frost-encrusted forest; the cold and silence of outer space had
chilled the heart and smote the trembling lips of nature. A sigh
pulsed through the air--they did not seem to actually hear it,
but rather felt it, like the premonition of movement in a
motionless void. Then the great tree, burdened with its weight of