CHAPTER EIGHT


Not without a slight twinge of trepidation did Philip step from
his canoe to her. He had not heard Croisset go ashore, and for a
moment he felt as if he were deliberately placing himself at the
mercy of a wolf-pack. Josephine may have guessed the effect of the
savage spectacle he had beheld from the canoe, for she was close
to the water's edge to meet him. She spoke, and in the pitch
darkness he reached out. Her hand was groping for him, and her
fingers closed firmly about his own.

"They are my bodyguard, and I have trained them all from puppies,"
she explained. "They don't like strangers, but will fight for
anything that I touch. So I will lead you." She turned with him
toward the pack, and cried in her clear, commanding voice:
"Marche, boys!--Tyr, Captain, Thor, Marche! Hoosh, hoosh, Marche!"

It seemed as if a hundred eyes gleamed out of the blackness; then
there was a movement, a whining, snarling, snapping movement, and
as they walked up the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could
hear the pack falling out to the side and behind them. Also he
knew that Jean was ahead of them now. He did not speak, nor did
Josephine offer to break the silence again. Still letting her hand
rest in his she followed close behind the half-breed. Her hand was
so cold that Philip involuntarily held it tighter in his own, as