What is the conflict of this story? Jim Clyman edged his knife out of its sheath. An animal was not supposed to mean anything when human lives were at stake, but the little spaniel was more to him than any person. He was a friend, one to whom he could confide his innermost thoughts and troubles, one who had always been satisfied to share his fortune. The knife point stopped at the dog’s throat, and Clyman held it there while he looked at the eager people about the fire. They had been led on by tangible hope, by certain knowledge that, when their food gave out, they had a final resource in the dog. And they could go no further without food. The dog would feed them tonight, tomorrow, and perhaps the day after. It would see them through. He touched the knife against the dog’s throat, and the spaniel whimpered in his arms.