With the coming of dawn he tried once more to awaken Neewa.  But this time he was not so insistent.  Nor did he have the desire to nip Neewa with his teeth.  Something had happened—­something which he could not understand.  He sensed the thing, but he could not reason it.  And he was filled with a strange and foreboding fear.

He went down again to hunt.  Under the glory of the moon and stars it had been a wild night of carnival for the rabbits, and in the edge of the timber Miki found the snow beaten hard in places with their tracks.  It was not difficult for him to stalk his breakfast this morning.  He made his kill, and feasted.  He killed again after that, and still again.  He could have gone on killing, for now that the snow betrayed them, the hiding-places of the rabbits were so many traps for them.  Miki’s courage returned.  He was fired again with the joy of life.  Never had he known such hunting, never had he found such a treasure-house before—­not even in the coulee where the currants grew.  He ate until he could eat no more, and then he went back to Neewa, carrying with him one of the rabbits he had slain.  He dropped it in front of his comrade, and whined.  Even then Neewa did not respond, except to draw a deeper breath, and change his position a little.

That afternoon, for the first time in many hours, Neewa rose to his feet, stretched himself, and sniffed of the dead rabbit.  But he did not eat.  To Miki’s consternation he rolled himself round and round in his nest of sand and went to sleep again.

The next day, at about the same time, Neewa roused himself once more.  This time he went as far as the mouth of the den, and lapped up a few mouthfuls of snow.  But he still refused to eat the rabbit.  Again it was Nature telling him that he must not disturb the pine needles and dry bark with which he had padded his stomach and intestines.  And he went to sleep again.  He did not get up after that.

Day followed day, and, growing lonelier as the winter deepened, Miki hunted alone.  All through November he came back each night and slept with Neewa.  And Neewa was as if dead, except that his body was warm, and he breathed, and made little sounds now and then in his throat.  But this did not satisfy the great yearning that was becoming more and more insistent in Miki’s soul, the overwhelming desire for company, for a brotherhood on the trail.  He loved Neewa.  Through the first long weeks of winter he returned to him faithfully; he brought him meat.  He was filled with a strange grief—­even greater than if Neewa had been dead.  For Miki knew that he was alive, and he could not account for the thing that had happened.  Death he would have understood, and from death he would have gone away—­for good.