He began washing the wound again. Baree's teeth had sunk deep, and
there was a troubled look in the factor's face. It was July--a bad
month for bites. From his kit he got a small flask of whisky and turned
a bit of the raw liquor on the wound, cursing Baree as it burned into
his flesh.

Baree's half-shut eyes were fixed on him steadily. He knew that at last
he had met the deadliest of all his enemies. And yet he was not afraid.
The club in Bush McTaggart's hand had not killed his spirit. It had
killed his fear. It had roused in him a hatred such as he had never
known--not even when he was fighting Oohoomisew, the outlaw owl. The
vengeful animosity of the wolf was burning in him now, along with the
savage courage of the dog. He did not flinch when McTaggart approached
him again. He made an effort to raise himself, that he might spring at
this man-monster. In the effort, swaddled as he was in the blanket, he
rolled over in a helpless and ludicrous heap.

The sight of it touched McTaggart's risibilities, and he laughed. He
sat down with his back to the tree again and filled his pipe.

Baree did not take his eyes from McTaggart as he smoked. He watched the
man when the latter stretched himself out on the bare ground and went
to sleep. He listened, still later, to the man-monster's heinous
snoring. Again and again during the long night he struggled to free
himself. He would never forget that night. It was terrible. In the
thick, hot folds of the blanket his limbs and body were suffocated
until the blood almost stood still in his veins. Yet he did not whine.

They began to journey before the sun was up, for if Baree's blood was
almost dead within him, Bush McTaggart's was scorching his body. He