On reaching the head waters of Dall River, the man ensconced himself in the cabin. Skookum, his muzzle removed, was left on the end of his chain, tethered to a tree, where each day for a week, Dalzene took fiendish delight in provoking an attack and then knocking the great dog down with his club. The procedure never varied. Each morning Skookum took a fish from the hand that Dalzene extended to the extreme limit of the chain, and always his yellow eyes were fixed on the club the man held in his right hand. Later in the day Dalzene would approach with the hated muzzle in his left hand instead of the fish, and then it was that the yellow eyes would blaze, the hair bristle along the dog’s back, and the low growl rumble continuously from the mighty throat. “I’ll tame you, damn you! One of these days yer goin’ to stand while I muzzle you without windin’ you up, an’ I’ll keep on knockin’ you down till I do!” The man would approach to just within the limit of the chain, the dog, lips drawn back to expose the gleaming white fangs, would crouch in the snow, his yellow eyes blazing hate, and with muscles taut, would launch his eighty-five pounds straight at the man’s face. A quick backward spring, and the heavy club would crash against the great body in mid-air, and Skookum would fall in the snow to stagger to his feet and glare his abysmal hate. At length came a day when the strong cold gave way before heavy clouds. The temperature rose to near zero, and early in the morning snow began to fall. Skookum took his fish as usual, and withdrew to the tree to eat it, and Dalzene stood for a moment and watched him.