From beyond that barrier of spruce there soon came a sound that man might have heard—­neither the beginning nor the end of a wail, but something like it.  Minute by minute it came more clearly, now growing in volume, now almost dying away, but every instant approaching—­the distant hunting call of the wolf-pack!  What the hangman’s noose is to the murderer, what the leveled rifles are to the condemned spy, that hunt-cry of the wolves is to the wounded animal of the forests.

Instinct taught this to the old bull.  His head dropped, his huge antlers leveled themselves with his shoulders, and he set off at a slow trot toward the east.  He was taking chances in thus crossing the open, but to him the spruce forest was home, and there he might find refuge.  In his brute brain he reasoned that he could get there before the wolves broke cover.  And then—­

Again he stopped, so suddenly that his forward legs doubled under him and he pitched into the snow.  This time, from the direction of the wolf-pack, there came the ringing report of a rifle!  It might have been a mile or two miles away, but distance did not lessen the fear it brought to the dying king of the North.  That day he had heard the same sound, and it had brought mysterious and weakening pain in his vitals.  With a supreme effort he brought himself to his feet, once more sniffed into the north, the east, and the west, then turned and buried himself in the black and frozen wilderness of tamarack.

Stillness fell again with the sound of the rifle-shot.  It might have lasted five minutes or ten, when a long, solitary howl floated from across the lake.  It ended in the sharp, quick yelp of a wolf on the trail, and an instant later was taken up by others, until the pack was once more in full cry.  Almost simultaneously a figure darted out upon the ice from the edge of the forest.  A dozen paces and it paused and turned back toward the black wall of spruce.

“Are you coming, Wabi?”

A voice answered from the woods.  “Yes.  Hurry up—­run!”

Thus urged, the other turned his face once more across the lake.  He was a youth of not more than eighteen.  In his right hand he carried a club.  His left arm, as if badly injured, was done up in a sling improvised from a lumberman’s heavy scarf.  His face was scratched and bleeding, and his whole appearance showed that he was nearing complete exhaustion.  For a few moments he ran through the snow, then halted to a staggering walk.  His breath came in painful gasps.  The club slipped from his nerveless fingers, and conscious of the deathly weakness that was overcoming him he did not attempt to regain it.  Foot by foot he struggled on, until suddenly his knees gave way under him and he sank down into the snow.