CHAPTER XIV.
Five dead dogs, their stark bodies clearly outlined on the snow by a sparkling aurora, met Britton's startled gaze when he stumbled sleepily out of the cramped quarters of the tent. A cry of something like despair escaped him as he ran to examine them, turning the gaunt carcasses over and over.
Lessari heard the shout of perturbation and shuffled forth from under the flaps.
"What wrong have you?" he asked anxiously.
Rex stood aside and showed the corpses of their faithful animals.
"They're killed," he said briefly, "and you know what that means for us!"
White horror grew in the Corsican's brown face till it was blanched to a sickly hue. He fully realized that the loss of the dog-team had buried them alive in a frozen wilderness whose relentless cruelty would slowly crush their lives. In a dazed way, he fingered the bodies.
"Not any marks–not any marks," was his vacant observation.
"No," agreed Britton, who controlled himself with difficulty, "they have been neither knifed nor shot, yet some man's hand has done it. Gaucho and the rest of the huskies appeared as well last night as they ever did. No, Lessari, it wasn't an epidemic or even the bitter frost."
"How they are killed, then?" the Corsican inquired petulantly.