the
next elevation to see if he could catch it again. He stood there for a
long moment, raising and lowering his head, and then turning a little
sidewise so that the wind would cut into his nostrils--which was a
trick the grey had taught him. The scent was gone and the wind blew to
him only the pure coolness of dew, just sharpened to fragrance by a
scent of distant sagebrush. He gave up and turned about to head for
the mares.

The step for which he raised his forefoot was not completed for down
the hollow behind him he saw a grey skulker slinking with its belly
close to the ground. If it stood erect it would be as tall as a calf
new-born. The tail was fluffy, the coat of fur a veritable mane around
the throat, the head long of muzzle and broad across the forehead with
dark marks between the eyes and arching like brows above them so that
the facial expression was one of almost human wisdom and wistfulness.
It was a beautiful creature to watch, as its smooth trot carried it
with incredible speed across the stallion's line of retreat, but
Alcatraz had seen those grey kings of the mountains before and knew
everything about them except their scent. He saw no beauty in the
lofer wolf.

The blood which congealed in his veins was released; he reared and
wheeled and burst away at full gallop; there was a sobbing whine of
eagerness behind him--the lobo was stretched in pursuit.

Never in his life had the chestnut run as he ran now, and never had he
fled so hopelessly. He knew that one slash of those great white teeth
would cut his throat to the vital arteries. He knew that for all
his speed he had neither the foot nor the wind to escape the grey
marauder. It was only a matter of time, and short time at that, before
the end came. The lofer prefers young meat and as a rule will cut
down a yearling colt, or dine on warm veal, eschewing cold flesh and
feeding only once from every kill--the lobo being the Lucullus of
beasts of prey--but this prowler had either found scanty fare in a
long journey across the mountains or else he wished to kill now for
pure deviltry and not from hunger. At any rate, he slid over the
ground like the shadow of a cloud driven in a storm.

Already he gained fast, and yet he had not attained top speed; when he
did, he would walk up on the chestnut as the latter could walk up on
the mares of his herd.

Over a hill bolted Alcatraz and beneath him he saw a faint hope of
escape--the flash of water where a