But Baldy, knowing that the time for action had come, that his supremacy
as a leader must be acknowledged, and at once, firmly held his ground.
Turning, he faced them fearlessly. There was a low ominous growl, a
smouldering light in his strange, somber eyes, a baring of his sharp
white fangs. Yet it was something else, a something in the very nature
of the dog, in his steadfast spirit, his indomitable will, that made the
others feel in some subtle, final way that they must obey him. So when
he swung round they followed him as unswervingly as they would have
followed Kid.
Far away in the whiteness, Baldy saw a black spot toward which he sped
with mad impatience. It grew more and more distinct, till, beside it, he
saw that it was his master, lying pale, motionless and blood-stained in
the trail. From a deep gash on his head a crimson stream oozed and
froze, matting his hair and the fur on his parka.
Baldy stopped short, quivering with an unknown dread. There was
something terrifying in the tense body, so still, so mute. He licked the
pallid face, the cold hands, and placed a gentle paw upon the man's
breast, scratching softly to see if he could not gain some response.
There was no answer to his loving appeal; and throwing back his head,
there broke from him the weird, wild wail of the Malamute, his
inheritance from some wolf ancestor. The other dogs joined the mournful
chorus, and then, as it died away, he tried again and again to rouse his
silent master.
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