He felt her trembling against his chest.
He looked at the moon and the stars again, the mystery of Gray Wolf and of the night throbbing in his blood.
Not much of his life had been spent at the posts.

Most of it had been on the trail--in the traces--and the spirit of the mating season had only stirred him from afar.

But it was very near now.

Gray Wolf lifted her head.

Her soft muzzle touched the wound on his neck, and in the gentleness of that touch, in the low sound in her throat, Kazan felt and heard again that wonderful something that had come with the caress of the woman's hand and the sound of her voice.
He turned, whining, his back bristling, his head high and defiant of the wilderness which he faced.