WRITTEN FOR AND ORIGINALLYPUBLISHED IN THE RED BOOK MAGAZINE
Kazan lay mute and motionless, his gray nose between his forepaws, hiseyes half closed. A rock could have appeared scarcely less lifeless thanhe; not a muscle twitched; not a hair moved; not an eyelid quivered. Yetevery drop of the wild blood in his splendid body was racing in aferment of excitement that Kazan had never before experienced; everynerve and fiber of his wonderful muscles was tense as steel wire.Quarter-strain wolf, three-quarters "husky," he had lived the four yearsof his life in the wilderness. He had felt the pangs of starvation. Heknew what it meant to freeze. He had listened to the wailing winds ofthe long Arctic night over the barrens. He had heard the thunder of thetorrent and the cataract, and had cowered under the mighty crash of thestorm. His throat and sides were scarred by battle, and his eyes werered with the blister of the snows. He was called Kazan, the Wild Dog,because he was a giant among his kind and as fearless, even, as the menwho drove him through the perils of a frozen world.
He had never known fear—until now. He had never felt in him before thedesire to run—not even on that terrible day in the forest when he hadfought and killed the big gray lynx. He did not know what it was thatfrightened him, but he knew that he was in another world, and that manythings in it startled and alarmed him. It was his first glimps