That night, with doubt in his heart, Challoner fastened him near the tent with a tough rope of babiche.

For a long time after Challoner had gone to bed Miki sat on his haunches close to the spruce to which he was fastened.  It must have been ten o’clock, and the night was so still that the snap of a dying ember in the fire was like the crack of a whip to his ears.  Miki’s eyes were wide open and alert.  Near the slowly burning logs, wrapped in his thick blankets, he could make out the motionless form of the Indian, asleep.  Back of him the sledge-dogs had wallowed their beds in the snow and were silent.  The moon was almost straight overhead, and a mile or two away a wolf pointed his muzzle to the radiant glow of it and howled.  The sound, like a distant calling voice, added new fire to the growing thrill in Miki’s blood.  He turned in the direction of the wailing voice.  He wanted to call back.  He wanted to throw up his head and cry out to the forests, and the moon, and the starlit sky.  But only his jaws clicked, and he looked at the tent in which Challoner was sleeping.  He dropped down upon his belly in the snow.  But his head was still alert and listening.  The moon had already begun its westward decline.  The fire burned out until the logs were only a dull and slumbering glow; the hand of Challoner’s watch passed midnight, and still Miki was wide-eyed and restless in the thrill of the thing that was upon him.  And then at last The Call that was coming to him from out of the night became his master, and he gnawed the babiche in two.  It was the call of the Woman—­of Nanette and the baby.

In his freedom Miki sniffed at the edge of Challoner’s tent.  His back sagged.  His tail drooped.  He knew that in this hour he was betraying the master for whom he had waited so long, and who had lived so vividly in his dreams.  It was not reasoning, but an instinctive oppression of fact.  He would come back.  That conviction burned dully in his brain.  But now—­to-night—­he must go.  He slunk off into the darkness.  With the stealth of a fox he made his way between the sleeping dogs.  Not until he was a quarter of a mile from the camp did he straighten out, and then a gray and fleeting shadow he sped westward under the light of the moon.

There was no hesitation in the manner of his going.  Free of the pain of his wounds, strong-limbed, deep-lunged as the strongest wolf of the forests, he went on tirelessly.  Rabbits bobbing out of his path did not make him pause; even the strong scent of a fisher-cat almost under his nose did not swerve him a foot from his trail.  Through swamp and deep forest, over lake and stream, across open barren and charred burns his unerring sense of orientation led him on.  Once he stopped to drink where the swift current of a creek kept the water open.  Even then he gulped in haste—­and shot on.  The moon drifted lower and lower until it sank into oblivion.  The stars began to fade away The little ones went out, and the big ones grew sleepy and dull.  A great snow-ghostly gloom settled over the forest world.