“Patter! patter! patter!”
There it is again! It is not fifty yards from where he last halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian.
“Wolves!” whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his ear.
Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills—thin and poor and hungry and savage—the legs tireless—the mouth full of teeth which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their dark forms flitting from point to point—the patter of their feet upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded.
Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and left, and gallops after—tongues out—eyes flashing—great flakes of foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to be followed by the cowardly coyotes.
Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there—aye! it is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right—a second on the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest! The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of the rest.
With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse staggers—recovers—plunges forward—falls to the earth. It was a glorious struggle; but he has lost.
There is a confused heap of snarling, fighting, maddened beasts, and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket are in shreds—the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the veins stand out, the muscles tighten, and he wonders at his own speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about him—a circle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which are to meet in his flesh.
There is an interval—a breathing spell. He looks up at the stars—out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no quaking—no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes—a second—a third—and a fourth, and they give before the man they had looked upon as their certain prey. But it is only for a moment. He sees them gathering for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock. Even a savage would have admired the heroic fight he made for life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart.