Ted was wishing that some one would come.
He had heard a cry. Why didn't whoever had called out come at once?
He couldn't last more than a minute longer, and the strong, murky smell of the beast was turning him faint, as the wolf seemed to be gaining in strength and savagery.
Presently he knew the reason. He felt that his side was wet.
His wound had opened again, and he was bleeding.
The wolf had smelled his blood, and it had renewed its strength and courage, while it weakened and took the life out of Ted.
Suddenly there was a crash of hoofs on the sod. Stella's clear voice rang out, and the swish of a quirt came through the air.
That was all Ted remembered, except that he felt relieved of the weight of the wolf, which was running like a streak of gray lightning toward the hills.
His eyes opened, and he saw Stella bending over him, and managed to stagger to his feet, congratulating himself as his hand went to his throat that he had at least saved it from the white fangs of his enemy.