A gray streak--nothing more tangible than a streak of gray, silent and
terrible, shot through the dawn-gloom. It was Kazan. He came without a
snarl, without a cry, and in a moment he and the husky were in the
throes of terrific battle.
The four other huskies ran in quickly and stood waiting a dozen paces
from the combatants. Gray Wolf lay crouched on her belly. The giant
husky and the quarter-strain wolf-dog were not fighting like sledge-dog
or wolf. For a few moments rage and hatred made them fight like
mongrels. Both had holds. Now one was down, and now the other, and so
swiftly did they change their positions that the four waiting
sledge-dogs were puzzled and stood motionless. Under other conditions
they would have leaped upon the first of the fighters to be thrown upon
his back and torn him to pieces. That was the way of the wolf and the
wolf-dog. But now they stood back, hesitating and fearful.
The big husky had never been beaten in battle. Great Dane ancestors had
given him a huge bulk and a jaw that could crush an ordinary dog's head.
But in Kazan he was meeting not only the dog and the wolf, but all that
was best in the two. And Kazan had the advantage of a few hours of rest
and a full stomach. More than that, he was fighting for Gray Wolf. His
fangs had sunk deep in the husky's shoulder, and the husky's long teeth
met through the hide and flesh of his neck. An inch deeper, and they
would have pierced his jugular. Kazan knew this, as he crunched his
enemy's shoulder-bone, and every instant--even in their fiercest
struggling--he was guarding against a second and more successful lunge
of those powerful jaws.
At last the lunge came, and quicker than the wolf itself Kazan freed
himself and leaped back. His chest dripped blood, but he did not feel
the hurt. They began slowly to circle, and now the watching sledge-dogs
drew a step or two nearer, and their jaws drooled nervously and their
red eyes glared as they waited for the fatal moment. Their eyes were on
the big husky. He became the pivot of Kazan's wider circle now, and he
limped as he turned. His shoulder was broken. His ears were flattened
as he watched Kazan.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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