He trotted about the bull, the hair along his spine bristling like a brush, his eyes wide and menacing.

He snarled at the still air.

His jaws clicked, and he sat back on his haunches and faced the blood-stained trail that the moose had left before he died.

Again that instinct as infallible as reason told him that danger would come from there.
Like a red ribbon the trail ran back through the wilderness.

The little swift-moving ermine were everywhere this night, looking like white rats as they dodged about in the moonlight.