SANCTUARY 187 



distance the crusted snow held, then — suddenly — at 

 every step he went through. He rose again, fell, 

 rose once more, on, on. 



The treacherous plateau lay behind, but the 

 powerful gait was broken now, and the harried 

 beast lurched as he ran. 



O-o-o-o-hr-h-h ' O-o-o-o-li-h-h ! W-a-a-a-h-h-h ! 

 W-a-a-a-fi-h-h I 



He heard them coming, big sleuth-hounds and 

 strong, ten or a dozen of them, not more — the 

 wolves of Alaska never mass together in the vast 

 packs in which their brethren of Russia are said to 

 hunt — sweeping across the surface of the snow in 

 a compact body, whimpering, with a dry, patter, 

 patter of feet. 



On went the moose, head well up still, carrying 

 his mighty antlers along his flanks, drawing his 

 breath in sobbing pants. He went on because the 

 desperate flight had become an almost mechanical 

 action. It had lasted so long that it was easier to 

 go on than to pull up — he would go on until he 

 was overpowered. And he was doomed ; he realized 

 that. There were so many wolves. Had he been 

 fresh, he would have made a great fight of it, for he 

 was ever a fighter. But the hours of harrying had 



