"Ghur-r-r! Of the Wolf-kind, quite true, Great Bull—that is their way; but I, who am no Wolf, but a Dog, do not seek to hamstring my friends."
The Bull answered nothing, but as they journeyed watched his companion carefully.
"Dreadfully foolish!" mused A'tim. "I must coax this stupid Bull into a muskeg; his big carcass will keep me alive through all the Cold Time."
They were now well within the treacherous muskeg lands which border the Athabasca; and that very night, while Shag slumbered in the deep sleep of a full age, A'tim, whose lean stomach tugged at his eyelids and kept them open, stole off into the forest, and searched by the strong light of the moon for a bog that would mire his comrade to death.
An open piece of swamp land, fringed by tamarack and slim-bodied spruce, promised fair for his scheme. Back and forth, back and forth over its cushion of deep moss he passed, seeking for a treacherous place—a place wherein Shag would sink to the belly; where the sand-mud would grasp his legs like soft chains and hold him to his death, but not engulf the body—that must remain for A'tim's eating.