That same night, ten miles to the west, Miki slept under a windfall of
logs and treetops not more than half a mile from Le Beau's trapline.
In the early dawn, when Le Beau left his cabin, accompanied by Netah,
The Killer, Miki came out from under his windfall after a night of
troublous dreams. He had dreamed of those first weeks after he had lost
his master, when Neewa was always at his side; and the visions that had
come to him filled him with an uneasiness and a loneliness that made
him whine as he stood watching the dark shadows fading away before the
coming of day. Could Le Beau have seen him there, as the first of the
cold sun struck upon him, the words which he had repeated over and over
to The Killer would have stuck in his throat. For at eleven months of
age Miki was a young giant of his breed. He weighed sixty pounds, and
none of that sixty was fat. His body was as slim and as lean as a
wolf's. His chest was massive, and over it the muscles rolled like
BABICHE cord when he moved. His legs were like the legs of Hela, the
big Mackenzie hound who was his father; and with his jaws he could
crack a caribou bone as Le Beau might have cracked it with a stone. For
eight of the eleven months of his life the wilderness had been his
master; it had tempered him to the hardness of living steel; it had
wrought him without abeyance to age in the mould of its pitiless
schooling--had taught him to fight for his life, to kill that he might
live, and to use his brain before he used his jaws. He was as powerful
as Netah, The Killer, who was twice his age, and with his strength he
possessed a cunning and a quickness which The Killer would never know.
Thus had the raw wilderness prepared him for this day.
As the sun fired up the forest with a cold flame Miki set off in
direction of Le Beau's trapline. He came to where Le Beau had passed
yesterday and sniffed suspiciously of the man-smell that was still
strong in the snowshoe tracks. He had become accustomed to this smell,
but he had not lost his suspicion of it. It was repugnant to him, even
as it fascinated him. It filled him with an inexplicable fear, and yet
he found himself powerless to run away from it. Three times in the last
ten days he had seen the man-brute himself. Once he had been hiding
within a dozen yards of Le Beau when he passed.
This morning he headed straight for the swamp through which Le Beau's
traps were set. There the rabbits were thickest and it was in the swamp
that they most frequently got in Jacques's KEKEKS--the little houses he
built of sticks and cedar boughs to keep the snow off his baits. They
were so numerous that they were a pest, and each time that Le Beau made
his trip over the line he found at least two out of every three traps
sprung by them, and therefore made useless for the catching of fur.
But, where there were many rabbits there were also fishers and lynx,
and in spite of the rage which the plague of rabbits sent him into, Le
Beau continued to set his traps there. And now, in addition to the
rabbits, he had the wild dog to contend with.
His heart was fired by a vengeful anticipation as he hurried on through
the glow of the early sun, with The Killer at his heels, led by a
BABICHE thong. Miki was nosing about the first trap-house as Netah and
Le Beau entered the edge of the swamp, three miles to the east.
It was in this KEKEK that Miki had killed the fisher-cat the previous
morning. It was empty now. Even the bait-peg was gone, and there was no
sign of a trap. A quarter of a mile farther on he came to a second
trap-house, and this also was empty. He was a bit puzzled. And then he
went on to the third house. He stood for several minutes, sniffing the
air still more suspiciously, before he drew close to it. The man-tracks
were thicker here. The snow was beaten down with them, and the scent of
Le Beau was so strong in the air that for a space Miki believed he was
near. Then he advanced so that he got a look into the door of the
trap-house. Squatted there, staring at him with big round eyes, was a
huge snowshoe rabbit. A premonition of danger held Miki back. It was
something in the attitude of Wapoos, the old rabbit. He was not like
the others he had caught along Le Beau's line. He was not struggling in
a trap; he was not stretched out, half frozen, and he was not dangling
at the end of a snare. He was all furred up into a warm and comfortable
looking ball. As a matter of fact, Le Beau had caught him with his
hands in a hollow log, and had tied him to the bait peg with a piece of
buck-skin string; and after that, just out of Wapoos's reach, he had
set a nest of traps and covered them with snow.
Nearer and nearer to this menace drew Miki, in spite of the
unaccountable impulse that warned him to keep back. Wapoos, fascinated
by his slow and deadly advance, made no movement, but sat as if frozen
into stone. Then Miki was at him. His powerful jaws closed with a
crunch. In the same instant there came the angry snap of steel and a
fisher-trap closed on one of his hind feet. With a snarl he dropped
Wapoos and turned upon it, SNAP--SNAP--SNAP went three more of
Jacques's nest of traps. Two of them missed. The third caught him by a
front paw. As he had caught Wapoos, and as he had killed the
fisher-cat, so now he seized this new and savage enemy between his
jaws. His fangs crunched on the cold steel; he literally tore it from
his paw so that blood streamed forth and strained the snow red. Madly
he twisted himself to get at his hind foot. On this foot the
fisher-trap had secured a hold that was unbreakable. He ground it
between his jaws until the blood ran from his mouth. He was fighting it
when Le Beau came out from behind a clump of spruce twenty yards away
with The Killer at his heels.
The Brute stopped. He was panting, and his eyes were aflame. Two
hundred yards away he had heard the clinking of the trap-chain.
"OW! he is there," he gasped, tightening his hold on The Killer's lead
thong. "He is there, Netah, you Red Eye! That is the robber devil you
are to kill--almost. I will unfasten you, and then--GO TO!"
Miki, no longer fighting the trap, was eyeing them as they advanced. In
this moment of peril he felt no fear of the man. In his veins the hot
blood raged with a killing madness. The truth leapt upon him in a flash
of instinctive awakening. These two were his enemies instead of the
thing on his foot--the man-beast, and Netah, The Killer. He
remembered--as if it were yesterday. This was not the first time he had
seen a man with a club in his hand. And Le Beau held a club. But he was
not afraid. His steady eyes watched Netah. Unleashed by his master, The
Killer stood on stiff legs a dozen feet away, the wiry crest along his
spine erect, his muscles tense.
Miki heard the man-beast's voice.
"Go to, you devil! GO TO!"
Miki waited, without the quiver of a muscle. Thus much he had learned
of his hard lessons in the wilderness--to wait, and watch, and use his
cunning. He was flat on his belly, his nose between his forepaws. His
lips were drawn back a little, just a little; but he made no sound, and
his eyes were as steady as two points of flame. Le Beau stared. He felt
suddenly a new thrill, and it was not the thrill of his desire for
vengeance. Never had he seen a lynx or a fox or a wolf in a trap like
that. Never had he seen a dog with eyes like the eyes that were on
Netah. For a moment he held his breath.
Foot by foot, and then almost inch by inch, The Killer crept in. Ten
feet, eight, six--and all that time Miki made no move, never winked an
eye. With a snarl like that of a tiger, Netah came at him.
What happened then was the most marvellous thing that Jacques Le Beau
had ever seen. So swiftly that his eyes could scarcely follow the
movement, Miki had passed like a flash under the belly of Netah, and
turning then at the end of his trap chain he was at The Killer's throat
before Le Beau could have counted ten. They were down, and The Brute
gripped the club in his hand and stared like one fascinated. He heard
the grinding crunch of jaws, and he knew they were the Wild Dog's jaws;
he heard a snarl choking slowly into a wheezing sob of agony, and he
knew that the sound came from The Eller. The blood rose into his face.
The red fire in his eyes grew livid--a blaze of exultation, of triumph.
"TONNERRE DE DIEU! he is choking the life out of Netah!" he gasped.
"NON, I have never seen a dog like that. I will keep him alive; and he
shall fight Durant's POOS over at Post Fort O' God! By the belly of
Saint Gris, I say--"
The Killer was as good as dead if left another minute. With upraised
club Le Beau advanced. As he sank his fangs deeper into Netah's throat
Miki saw the new danger out of the corner of his eye. He loosed his
jaws and swung himself free of The Killer as the club descended. He
only partly evaded the smashing blow, which caught him on the shoulder
and knocked him down. Quick as a flash he was on his feet and had
lunged at Le Beau. The Frenchman was a master with the club. All his
life he had used it, and he brought it around in a sudden side-swing
that landed with terrific force against Miki's head. The blood spurted
from his mouth and nostrils. He was dazed and half blinded. He leapt
again, and the club caught him once more. He heard Le Beau's ferocious
cry of joy. A third, a fourth, and a fifth time he went down under the
club, and Le Beau no longer laughed, but swung his weapon with a look
that was half fear in his eyes. The sixth time the club missed, and
Miki's jaws closed against The Brute's chest, ripping away the thick
coat and shirt as if they had been of paper, and leaving on Le Beau's
skin a bleeding gash. Ten inches more--a little better vision in his
blood-dimmed eyes--and he would have reached the man's throat. A great
cry rose out of Le Beau. For an instant he felt the appalling nearness
of death.
"Netah! Netah!" he cried, and swung the club wildly.
Netah did not respond. It may be that in this moment he sensed the fact
that it was his master who had made him into a monster. About him was
the wilderness, opening its doors of freedom. When Le Beau called again
The Killer was slinking away, dripping blood as he went--and this was
the last that Le Beau saw of him. Probably he joined the wolves, for
The Killer was a quarter-strain wild.
Le Beau got no more than a glimpse of him as he disappeared. His
club-arm shot out again, a clean miss; and this time it was pure chance
that saved him. The trap-chain caught, and Miki fell back when his hot
breath was almost at The Brute's jugular. He fell upon his side. Before
he could recover himself the club was pounding his head into the snow.
The world grew black. He no longer had the power to move. Lying as if
dead he still heard over him the panting, exultant voice of the
man-beast. For Le Beau, black though his heart was, could not keep back
a prayerful cry of thankfulness that he was victor--and had missed
death, though by a space no wider than the link of a chain.