It may have been this, a whisper back through the years of savage forebears, that made Kazan roll in the snow now and then where the feet of the pack had trod the thickest.
That night the pack killed a caribou on the edge of the lake, and feasted until nearly dawn.

Kazan hung in the face of the wind.

The smell of blood and of warm flesh tickled his nostrils, and his sharp ears could catch the cracking of bones.

But the instinct was stronger than the temptation.
Not until broad day, when the pack had scattered far and wide over the plain, did he go boldly to the scene of the kill.

He found nothing but an area of blood-reddened snow, covered with bones, entrails and torn bits of tough hide.