ke those of the wolf, yellow fire
against the green. Black Bart crouched still lower, gathering himself
for the spring, but he was held by the man's yellow gleaming eyes.
They invited the battle. Fear set its icy hand on the soul of the
wolf.

The man seemed to tower up thrice his normal height. His voice rang,
harsh, sudden, unlike the utterance of man or beast: "_Down!_"

Fear conquered Black Bart. The fire died from his eyes. His body sank
as if from exhaustion. He crawled on his belly to the feet of his
master and whined an unutterable submission.

And then that hand, warm and wet with the thing whose taste set the
wolf's heart on fire with the lust to kill, was thrust against his
nose. He leaped back with bared teeth, growling horribly. The eyes
commanded him back, commanded him relentlessly. He howled dismally to
the senseless stars, yet he came; and once more that hand was thrust
against his nose. He licked the fingers.

That blood-lust came hotter than before, but his fear was greater.
He licked the strange hand again, whining. Then the master kneeled.
Another hand, clean, and free from that horrible warm, wet sign of
death, fell upon his shaggy back. The voice which he knew of old came
to him, blew away the red mist from his soul, comforted him.

"Poor Bart!" said the voice, and the hand went slowly over his head.
"It weren't your fault."

The stallion whinnied softly. A deep growl formed in the throat of the
wolf, a mighty effort at speech. And now, like a gleam of light in a
dark room, Dan remembered the house of Buck Daniels. There, at least,
they could not refuse him aid. He drew on his coat, though the
effort set him sweating with agony, got his foot in the stirrup with
difficulty, and dragged himself to the saddle. Satan started at a
swift gallop.

"Faster, Satan! Faster, partner!"

What a response! The strong body settled a little closer to the
earth as the stride increased. The rhythm of the pace grew quicker,
smoother. There was no adequate phrase to describe the matchless
motion. And in front--always just a little in front with the plunging
forefeet of the horse seeming to threaten him at every stride, ran
Black Bart with his head turned as if he were the guard and guide of
the fugitive.

Dan called and Black Bart yelped in answer. Satan tossed up his
head and neighed as he raced along. The two replies were like human
assurances that there was still a fighting chance.

The steady loss of