There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled in from the river bed to the camp among the trees. Half a dozen men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire. They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness. He looked at them like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech.
"Red she–wolf. . . . Come in with the dogs at feedin' time. . . . First she ate the dog–food. . . . Then she ate the dogs. . . . An' after that she ate Bill. . . . "
"Where's Lord Alfred?" one of the men bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly.
He shook his head slowly. "No, she didn't eat him. . . . He's roostin' in a tree at the last camp."
"Dead?" the man shouted.
"An' in a box," Henry answered. He jerked his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner. "Say, you lemme alone. . . . I'm jes' plump tuckered out. . . . Goo' night, everybody."
His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on his chest. And even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the frosty air.
But there was another sound. Far and faint it was, in the remote distance, the cry of the hungry wolf–pack as it took the trail of other meat than the man it had just missed.