Buried in the heart of the storm, there came upon him an overwhelming desire to return to Neewa's den, and to snuggle up to him once more, even though Neewa lay as if dead.

The strange comradeship that had grown up between the two--their wanderings together all through the summer, the joys and hardships of the days and months in which they had fought and feasted like brothers--were memories as vivid in his brain as if it had all happened yesterday.

And in the dark wind-fall, buried deeper and deeper under the snow, he dreamed.
He dreamed of Challoner, who had been his master in the days of his joyous puppyhood; he dreamed of the time when Neewa, the motherless cub, was brought into camp, and of the happenings that had come to them afterward; the loss of his master, of their strange and thrilling adventures in the wilderness, and last of all of Neewa's denning-up.

He could not understand that.

Awake, and listening to the storm, he wondered why it was that Neewa no longer hunted with him, but had curled himself up into a round ball, and slept a sleep from which he could not rouse him.