White Fang – 3
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As night fell, they camped among a bunch of spruce at the edge of the frozen river. The fire they lit rose in the dark, and the dogs gathered close. None strayed far.
Bill watched them settle. There was something different in the way they carried themselves — less ease, more watchfulness.
“They’re uneasy, Henry.”
“They just feel safer this way,” Henry said, without looking up.
Bill waited a moment. “Henry…”
“What now?”
His voice quivered. “We have… six.”
Henry stopped eating and turned.
Bill shook his head. “There were seven.”
Henry did not reply. The thought remained between them, unsettled.
The howling rose again in the distance, and they — men and dogs — drew closer to the fire. Sleep came slowly, but weariness took hold.
Sometime in the night, Bill rose and fed the flames. “Seven… there are seven,” he muttered. “I counted wrong.”
Henry grunted and drifted back into sleep.
Morning came. The cold had deepened, and the fire had nearly died. As Henry knelt to set it right, Bill watched the dogs.
“Five.”
Henry did not answer.
“The seventh… last night — ” Bill’s voice trailed off.
Neither of them looked toward the trees. The fire gave a soft crack. The trail stretched on.