Then came an evening when she watched Dan play with
Black Bart—a game of tag in which they
darted about the room with a violence which threatened
to wreck the furniture, but running with such soft
footfalls that there was no sound except the rattle
of Bart’s claws against the floor and the rush
of their breath. They came to an abrupt stop
and Dan dropped into a chair while Black Bart sank
upon his haunches and snapped at the hand which Dan
flicked across his face with lightning movements.
The master fell motionless and silent. His eyes
forgot the wolf. Rising, they rested on Kate’s
face. They rose again and looked past her.
She understood and waited.
“Kate,” he said at last, “I’ve
got to start on the trail.”
Her smile went out. She looked where she knew
his eyes were staring, through the window and far
out across the hills where the shadows deepened and
dropped slanting and black across the hollows.
Far away a coyote wailed. The wind which swept
the hills seemed to her like a refrain of Dan’s
whistling—the song and the summons of the
untamed.
“That trail will never bring you home,”
she said.
There was a long silence.
“You ain’t cryin’, honey?”
“I’m not crying, Dan.”
“I got to go.”
“Yes.”
“Kate, you got a dyin’ whisper in your
voice.”
“That will pass, dear.”
“Why, honey, you are cryin’!”
He took her face between his hands, and stared into
her misted eyes, but then his glance wandered past
her, through the window, out to the shadowy hills.
“You won’t leave me now?” she pleaded.
“I must!”
“Give me one hour more!”
“Look!” he said, and pointed.
She saw Black Bart reared up with his forepaws resting
on the window-sill, while he looked into the thickening
night with the eyes of the hunter which sees in the
dark.
“The wolf knows, Kate,” he said, “but
I can’t explain.”
He kissed her forehead, but she strained close to
him and raised her lips.
She cried, “My whole soul is on them.”
“Not that!” he said huskily. “There’s
still blood on my lips an’ I’m goin’
out to get them clean.”
He was gone through the door with the wolf racing
before him.
She stumbled after him, her arms outspread, blind
with tears; and then, seeing that he was gone indeed,
she dropped into the chair, buried her face against
the place where his head had rested, and wept.
Far away the coyote wailed again, and this time nearer.
THE COWARD
Before the coyote cried again, three shadows glided
into the night. The lighted window in the house
was like a staring eye that searched after them, but
Satan, with the wolf running before, vanished quickly
among the shadows of the hills. They were glad.
They were loosed in the void of the mountain-desert
with no destiny save the will of the master.
They seemed like one being rather than three.
The wolf was the eyes, the horse the strong body to
flee or pursue, and the man was the brain which directed,
and the power which struck.
