Half an hour later he turned
back into the wilderness with his supplies. It was dark when he
returned to where he had left Kazan. He placed him upon the sledge and
the four huskies whined as they dragged on their burden, from which
the smell of death came to them. They stopped in the deep forests
beyond the lake and Jan built a fire.
This night, as on all nights in his lonely life, Jan drew Kazan close
to him, and he shivered as the other dogs slunk back from him
suspiciously and the fire and the spruce tops broke the stillness of
the forest. He looked at the crackling flames, at the fitful shadows
which they set dancing and grimacing about him, and it seemed to him
now that they were no longer friends, but were taunting him--gloating
in Kazan's death, and telling him that he was alone, alone, alone. He
let the fire die down, stirring it into life only when the cold
stiffened him, and when at last he fell into an unquiet slumber it was
still to hear the spruce tops whispering to him that Kazan was dead,
and that in dying he had broken the last fragile link between Jan
Thoreau and Melisse.
He went on at dawn, with Kazan wrapped in his blanket on the sledge.
He planned to reach the cabin that night, and the next day he would
bury his old comrade.
Pages:
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244