Her hand touched him.
Then he heard a step outside.
It was his master, and with that old thrill of fear--fear of the club--he went swiftly to the door.

Yes, there was his master in the firelight--and in his hand he held the club.

He was coming slowly, almost falling at each step, and his face was red with blood.

But he had _the club_! He would beat him again--beat him terribly for hurting McCready; so Kazan slipped quietly under the tent-flap and stole off into the shadows.

From out the gloom of the thick spruce he looked back, and a low whine of love and grief rose and died softly in his throat.
They would beat him always now--after _that_.