brook, new-swelled by the rains,
was running bankfull, a noisy torrent. He went down the slope like the
wind, struck the level at such speed that the air stung his nostrils,
and leaped from the firm gravel at the edge of the stream.

The far bank seemed a mighty distance as he soared high--the water
rushed broad and swift beneath him, no swimming if he struck that
bubbling current--and then, a last pitch forwards in mid-air; a
forefoot struck ground, the bank crushed in beneath his weight, and
then he was scrambling to the safety beyond and reeling into a new
gallop.

Behind him, he saw the shadowy pursuer skim down the slope, fling
into the air, and drop out of sight. Had he reached the shore? Ten
seconds--no long and ominous head appeared--certainly he had fallen
short and landed in the furious current. Alcatraz dropped his
heart-breaking pace to a moderate gallop, but as he did so he saw
a form which dripped with water scramble into view fifty yards
down-stream--the lobo had managed to reach safety after all and now he
came like a bullet to end the chase.

There was only half a hope left to Alcatraz and that was to turn and
attempt to leave the wolf again at the water-jump; but now his renewed
panic paralyzed all power of thinking. He did not even do the next
best thing--race straight away in a true line, but bearing off first
to the left and then to the right, he shot across the hills in a
miserably wavering flight.

The lobo came like doom behind him. The chill of the water had enraged
him. Besides, he did not often have to waste such time and energy to
make a kill, and now, bent on a quick ending, the fur which fringed
his lean belly cut the dew from the grass as he stretched to his full
and matchless speed. Alcatraz saw and strained forward but he had
reached his limit and the wolf gained with the passage of every
second.

Another danger appeared. Off to the side and well ahead, spurring his
mount to top effort, came Red Perris, who must have marked the chase
with his glass. Alcatraz gave him not a glance, not a thought. What
was the whisper and burn of a rope, what was even the hum of a bullet
compared with the tearing teeth of the lofer wolf? So he kept to his
course, stretched straight from the tip of his nose to the end of his
flying tail and marking from the corner of his eye that the lobo still
gained vital inches at every leap.

The horseman to his left shot over a hill and disappeared into the
h