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And then, with tight-drawn lips and jaws agape, she hurled herself straight at the throat of the stumbling man. Darkness was gathering when, a mile to the northward, Jake LaFranz and Irish Fallon, who were laboring with six big horses and a rough log drag to break out the trail, suddenly paused to listen. Through the thin, cold air rang a sound the like of which neither had ever heard.
But the greener knew that the boss was masking, while Moncrossen accepted the other's guileless expression at its face value, and his pendulous lips widened into a grin of genuine relief as he greeted the arrivals. "Hullo! You back a'ready? Hullo, Dunnigan! I'm sure glad you come; we'll have some real grub fer a change. "Hey, LaFranz!" he called to the passing Frenchman.
And then, as if in echo, the long-drawn wail of the great white wolf. They stared at each other white-lipped; for that last cry was a thing men talked about of nights with bated breath and deep curses. Neither had heard it before nor would either hear it again but each recognized the sound instinctively, as he would recognize the sound of Gabriel's trump. "It's her!" gasped LaFranz. "God save us!
The big Irishman turned and swung down the tote-road, the webs of his rackets leaving a broad trail in the snow. LaFranz cowered upon the snow-plow and sought refuge in craven prayer and curses the while he shot frightened glances into the darkening forest. He thought of cutting the horses loose and starting them for camp at a run.
Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th' wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwere Frinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' harses." They found LaFranz waiting in fear and trembling. The heavy snow-plow was left in readiness for the morrow's trail-breaking, and the horses hitched to a rough sled and headed for camp.
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