Sometimes she would open the door, and from
out the dark would arise the sound of wolfish quarrels over the feast,
disembodied snappings and snarlings. Or when the low-swimming moon
shed a misty glimmer on the open she would peer through a thawed place
on the window-pane, and see gray shapes circling about the half-picked
skeletons. Sometimes, when Bill was gone, and all about the cabin was
utterly still, one, bolder or hungrier than his fellows, would trot
across the meadow, drawn by the scent of the meat. Two or three of
these Hazel shot with her own rifle.
But when February marked another span on the calendar the wolves came
no more. The bones were clean.
There was no impending misfortune or danger that she could point to or
forecast with certitude. Nevertheless, struggle against it as she
might, knowing it for pure psychological phenomena arising out of her
harsh environment. Hazel suffered continual vague forebodings. The
bald, white peaks seemed to surround her like a prison from which there
could be no release. From day to day she was harassed by dismal
thoughts. She would wake in the night clutching at her husband. Such
days as he went out alone she passed in restless anxiety.
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