When the horse started, the dogs returned to the flock, too wise to waste energy in a vain pursuit. At a word from Mackenzie they began collecting the shuddering sheep. Dad Frazer came bobbing down the hill with the lantern, breathing loud in his excitement.
“Lord!” said he, when he saw the havoc his light revealed; “a regular old murderin’ stock-killer. And I didn’t think there was any grizzly in forty miles.”
Mackenzie took the lantern, sweeping its light over the mangled bodies of several sheep, torn limb from limb, scattered about as if they had been the center of an explosion.
“A murderin’ old stock-killer!” said Dad, panting, out of breath.
Mackenzie held up the light, looking the old man in the face.
“A grizzly don’t hop a horse and lope off, and I never met one yet that wore boots,” said he. He swung the light near the ground again, pointing to the trampled footprints among the mangled carcasses.
“It was a man!” said Dad, in terrified amazement. “Tore ’em apart like they was rabbits!” He looked up, his weathered face white, his eyes staring. “It takes––it takes––Lord! Do you know how much muscle it takes to tear a sheep up that a-way?”
Mackenzie did not reply. He stood, turning a bloody heap of wool and torn flesh with his foot, stunned by this unexampled excess of human ferocity.
Dad recovered from his amazement presently, bent and studied the trampled ground.