Impulsively he put out a hand. It fell unflinchingly
on Baree's head, and in an instant the crunching of the dog's jaw had
ceased, and he lay as if dead. David bent nearer. With the thumb and
forefinger of his other hand he gently lifted the swollen lid. It caused
a hurt. Baree whined softly. His great body trembled. His ivory fangs
clicked like the teeth of a man with ague. To his wolfish soul,
trembling in a body that had been condemned, beaten, clubbed almost to
the door of death, that hurt caused by David's fingers was a caress. He
understood. He saw with a vision that was keener than sight. Faith was
born in him, and burned like a conflagration. His head dropped to the
snow; a great, gasping sigh ran through him, and his trembling ceased.
His good eye closed slowly as David gently and persistently massaged the
muscles of the other with his thumb and forefinger. When at last he rose
to his feet and returned to the cabin, Baree followed him to the edge of
the clearing.
Mukoki and the Missioner had made their beds of balsam boughs, two on
the floor and one in the bunk, and the Cree had already rolled himself
in his blanket when David entered the shack. Father Roland was wiping
David's gun.
"We'll give you a little practice with this to-morrow," he promised.
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