Білий ікол
The Long Trail
"I’magreein’withyou,"wasMatt’sanswer,andagainhisemployerwasnotquitesatisfiedwithhim.
"ButhowinthenameofthegreatSardanapolisheknowsyou’regoin’iswhatgetsme,"thedog-mushercontinuedinnocently.
"It’sbeyondme,Matt,"Scottanswered,withamournfulshakeofthehead.
Thencamethedaywhen,throughtheopencabindoor,WhiteFangsawthefatalgriponthefloorandthelove-masterpackingthingsintoit. Also,therewerecomingsandgoings,andtheerstwhileplacidatmosphereofthecabinwasvexedwithstrangeperturbationsandunrest. Herewasindubitableevidence. WhiteFanghadalreadyscentedit.Henowreasonedit. Hisgodwaspreparingforanotherflight. Andsincehehadnottakenhimwithhimbefore,so,now,hecouldlooktobeleftbehind.
Thatnightheliftedthelongwolf-howl. Ashehadhowled,inhispuppydays,whenhefledbackfromtheWildtothevillagetofinditvanishedandnaughtbutarubbish-heaptomarkthesiteofGreyBeaver’stepee,sonowhepointedhismuzzletothecoldstarsandtoldtothemhiswoe.
Insidethecabinthetwomenhadjustgonetobed.
"He’sgoneoffhisfoodagain,"Mattremarkedfromhisbunk.
TherewasagruntfromWeedonScott’sbunk,andastirofblankets.
"Fromthewayhecutuptheothertimeyouwentaway,Iwouldn’twonderthistimebutwhathedied."
Theblanketsintheotherbunkstirredirritably.
