"I, also, have eaten bad food in my time," said Shag; "great pains in the stomach I've had from it. Some seasons the White Storm would come early in the Cold Time, and cover the grass not yet fully ripened into seed. It would hold warm because of this, and grow again, and become green; then the white cover would go, and the grass would freeze and become sour to the tongue. Mou-u-ah! but all through the Cold Time I would have great pains. How far do we go now, A'tim, till we rest in the Northland?"
"Till there is food for both of us."
"Quite true," concurred Shag. "We must go on until you also have food, my friend."
It was coming up the bank out of La Biche River that A'tim, perfectly mad with hunger, made a vicious snap at the Bull's leg, just above the hock, meaning to hamstring him. Shag flipped about and faced the Dog Wolf.
"What is this, A'tim?" he demanded, lowering his horns and stamping in vexed restlessness.
"A big fly of the Bull-Dog kind. I snapped at him, and in my eagerness grazed your leg."
Shag tossed his huge head unbelievingly, and snorted through his dilated nostrils. "There are no Bull-Dogs now, A'tim; they were killed off days since by the white-striped Hornets."
"There was one, Shag—at least I thought so, Great Bull."
"Well, don't think again—just that way. Once bitten is twice shy with me; and, as you see, I carry the Tribe mark of your Wolf-kind in my thigh since the time I was a Calf."