He was like
a thing at bay--a hunted creature that had been prisoned. And then David
noticed that he had but one good eye. It was bloodshot, balefully alert,
and fixed on him like a round ball of fire. The lids had closed over his
other eye; they were swollen; there was a big lump just over where the
eye should have been. Then he saw that the beast's lips were cut and
bleeding. There was blood on the snow; and suddenly the big brute
covered his fangs to give a racking cough, as though he had swallowed a
sharp fish-bone, and fresh blood dripped out of his mouth on the snow
between his forepaws. One of these forepaws was twisted; it had been
broken.
"You poor devil!" said David aloud.
He sat down on a birch log within six feet of the end of the chain, and
looked steadily into the big husky's one bloodshot eye as he said
again:
"You poor devil!"
Baree, the dog, did not understand. It puzzled him that this man did not
carry a club. He was used to clubs. So far back as he could remember the
club had been the one dominant thing in his life. It was a club that had
closed his eye. It was a club that had broken one of his teeth and cut
his lips, and it was a club that had beat against his ribs
until--now--the blood came up into his throat and choked him, and
dripped out of his mouth.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97