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James Oliver Curwood
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 197 pages of information about Kazan.

It was his master, and with that old thrill of fear—­fear of the club—­he went swiftly to the door.  Yes, there was his master in the firelight—­and in his hand he held the club.  He was coming slowly, almost falling at each step, and his face was red with blood.  But he had the club!  He would beat him again—­beat him terribly for hurting McCready; so Kazan slipped quietly under the tent-flap and stole off into the shadows.  From out the gloom of the thick spruce he looked back, and a low whine of love and grief rose and died softly in his throat.  They would beat him always now—­after that.  Even she would beat him.  They would hunt him down, and beat him when they found him.

From out of the glow of the fire he turned his wolfish head to the depths of the forest.  There were no clubs or stinging lashes out in that gloom.  They would never find him there.

For another moment he wavered.  And then, as silently as one of the wild creatures whose blood was partly his, he stole away into the blackness of the night.

CHAPTER IV

FREE FROM BONDS

There was a low moaning of the wind in the spruce-tops as Kazan slunk off into the blackness and mystery of the forest.  For hours he lay near the camp, his red and blistered eyes gazing steadily at the tent wherein the terrible thing had happened a little while before.

He knew now what death was.  He could tell it farther than man.  He could smell it in the air.  And he knew that there was death all about him, and that he was the cause of it.  He lay on his belly in the deep snow and shivered, and the three-quarters of him that was dog whined in a grief-stricken way, while the quarter that was wolf still revealed itself menacingly in his fangs, and in the vengeful glare of his eyes.

Three times the man—­his master—­came out of the tent, and shouted loudly, “Kazan—­Kazan—­Kazan!”

Three times the woman came with him.  In the firelight Kazan could see her shining hair streaming about her, as he had seen it in the tent, when he had leaped up and killed the other man.  In her blue eyes there was the same wild terror, and her face was white as the snow.  And the second and third time, she too called, “Kazan—­Kazan—­Kazan!”—­and all that part of him that was dog, and not wolf, trembled joyously at the sound of her voice, and he almost crept in to take his beating.  But fear of the club was the greater, and he held back, hour after hour, until now it was silent again in the tent, and he could no longer see their shadows, and the fire was dying down.

Cautiously he crept out from the thick gloom, working his way on his belly toward the packed sledge, and what remained of the burned logs.  Beyond that sledge, hidden in the darkness of the trees, was the body of the man he had killed, covered with a blanket.  Thorpe, his master, had dragged it there.

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