“THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE” 15 
ters. When he had licked the frozen blood away 
and could feel the soothing of his own warm 
tongue, Swiftfoot got up again and poked 
around. There was no scent nor sound of the 
men and dogs. The sleds had moved far on. 
The bodies of four of his companions lay on the 
snow. He sniffed them. Three were dead, the 
_ fourth—Softfur, the mate of Fang—was alive. 
Swiftfoot crouched beside her and began to lick 
her face. She wasn’t his mate, but she was alive, 
and he hated to be alone. You don’t fare so well 
when you hunt alone. Suddenly he pricked up 
his ears, and elevated his muzzle, baring his teeth 
with an angry snarl. There was an answering 
growl from the undergrowth by the trail, and the 
gray form of Fang suddenly emerged. Swift- 
foot’s ears went down, his tail moved, like a dog’s, 
causing him a twinge of pain, and he resigned the 
task of resuscitating Softfur to Fang, turning his 
attention again to his own wound. 
Softfur, like him, had been knocked uncon- 
scious by the butt of a rifle. Fang was unhurt; 
he had fled. If Swiftfoot had been a dog, he 
would have called Fang a coward, and despised 
