he stove, though he had no thought or
desire for warmth. His action was mechanical and unheeding. Then he sat
down; and, as he sat, he heard the howling of the dogs as, in chorus,
they mourned their dead companions.

As the noise continued the man's nerves vibrated with the hideous dole.
It rose and fell, in mournful cadence, until he could stand it no
longer. So he rose and reloaded his revolver. The action brought him
relief. It did more: it brought him a feeling akin to joy. And he passed
out into the night.

Forceful action alone could serve him. His dread, the torture of heart
and brain, found relief in the thought of taking life. A lust for
slaughter was upon him.

He closed the door behind him, and, from the storm porch, peered out
beyond. The moon had just risen above the ghostly mountain peak, and its
deep, yellow light shone down over the gleaming crests in long shafts of
dull fire. Twenty yards away, the three huskies were squatting upon the
ground facing each other, as might their blood relations, the
timber-wolves. Their long, sharp muzzles were thrown up towards the
starlit heavens, and their voices trolled drearily from their cavernous
throats, thrilling the air and arousing the mountain echoes.

For a second there was a gleam of light in the darkness of the porch as
the moon's rays caught the burnished metal of the man's revolver. Then
three shots rang sharply out. Three hideous voices were instantly
hushed; three bodies rolled over, falling almost side by side. The
labour of the trace would know the huskies no more.

But the man's passion was only rising. He reentered the hut, thrilled
with a strange wild joy. A fierceness leapt within him as he seated
himself beside the stove and gazed over at the still form of his
brother. And up out of the forest came the yelp of famished wolf and
starving coyote.

The hunched figure made no move.

Wild thoughts surged through his brain, thoughts which had no sequence,
no continuity. He had not eaten the whole day, and though food was now
to his hand he heeded it not. He was exhausted and utterly weary of
body. But he sought no rest. He was living upon the vitality of his poor
strained brain, sapping the tide of reason which flowed none too surely.

The time passed.

The cries of the wolves gathered force and drew nearer. The scent of
blood was in the air. That night they were very bold. With muzzles
thrown up they snuffed at the scent they loved, and came