Kazan lay mute and motionless, his gray nose between his forepaws,
his eyes half closed. A rock could have appeared scarcely less
lifeless than he; not a muscle twitched; not a hair moved; not an
eyelid quivered. Yet every drop of the wild blood in his splendid
body was racing in a ferment of excitement that Kazan had never
before experienced; every nerve and fiber of his wonderful muscles
was tense as steel wire. Quarter-strain wolf, three-quarters
"husky," he had lived the four years of his life in the wilderness.
He had felt the pangs of starvation. He knew what it meant to
freeze. He had listened to the wailing winds of the long Arctic
night over the barrens. He had heard the thunder of the torrent and
the cataract, and had cowered under the mighty crash of the storm.
His throat and sides were scarred by battle, and his eyes were red
with the blister of the snows. He was called Kazan, the Wild Dog,
because he was a giant among his kind and as fearless, even, as the
men who drove him through the perils of a frozen world.
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