"The one you have shut with a club?"
"He deserved it," muttered Thoreau. "He snapped at my hand. But I mean
the other eye, m'sieu--the one that is glaring at us now like a red
bloodstone with the heart of a devil in it! I tell you he is a quarter
wolf...."
"And the broken paw. I suppose that was done by a club, too?"
interrupted David.
"It was broken like that when I traded for him a year ago, m'sieu. I
have not maimed him. And ... yes, you may have the beast! May the saints
preserve you!"
"And his name?"
"The Indian who owned him as a puppy five years ago called him Baree,
which among the Dog Ribs means Wild Blood. He should have been called
The Devil."
Thoreau shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter and its
consequences were now off his hands, and turned in the direction of the
cabin. As he followed the Frenchman, David looked back at Baree. The big
husky had risen from the snow. He was standing at the full length of
his chain, and as David disappeared among the spruce a low whine that
was filled with a strange yearning followed him. He did not hear the
whine, but there came to him distinctly a moment later the dog's racking
cough, and he shivered, and his eyes burned into Thoreau's broad back as
he thought of the fresh blood-clots that were staining the white snow.
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