He reached inside his skin coat and there he felt papers which he had
taken from the hole in the lob-stick tree. They were safe. For twenty
years he had guarded them. To-morrow he would take them to the great
company at Prince Albert. And after that--after he had done this
thing, what would there remain in life for Jan Thoreau? Perhaps the
company might take him, and he would remain in civilization. That
would be best--for him. He would fight against the call of his forests
as years and years ago he had fought against that call of the Other
World that had filled him with unrest for a time. He had killed THAT.
If he DID return to his forests, he would go far to the west, or far
to the east. No one that had ever known him would hear again of Jan
Thoreau.
Kazan had crept to his blanket, daring to encroach upon it inch by
inch, until his great wolf-head lay upon Jan's arm. It was ten years
ago that Jan had taken Kazan, a little half-blind puppy that he and
Melisse had chosen from a litter of half a dozen stronger brothers and
sisters. Kazan was all that was left to him now. He loved the other
dogs, but they were not like Kazan. He tightened his arm about the
dog's head. Exhaustion, and the warmth of the fire, made him drowsy,
and, after a time, he slept, with his head thrown back against the
tree.
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