And then Kazan leaped for that death-grip at the throat--and missed.

It was only by an inch again, and the wolf came back, as he had done, and laid open Kazan's flank so that the blood ran down his leg and reddened the snow.

The burn of that flank-wound told Kazan that his enemy was old in the game of fighting.
He crouched low, his head straight out, and his throat close to the snow.

It was a trick Kazan had learned in puppyhood--to shield his throat, and wait.
Twice the wolf circled about him, and Kazan pivoted slowly, his eyes half closed.

A second time the wolf leaped, and Kazan threw up his terrible jaws, sure of that fatal grip just in front of the forelegs.
His teeth snapped on empty air.