Too late he realized what that meant.  He whirled with a cry of command, but the snarl of Black Bart cut it short.  The wolf stood bristling, trembling with eagerness for the kill, his great white fangs gleaming, his snarl shrill and guttural with the frenzy of his desire, for he had tasted blood.  Dan understood as he stared into the yellow green fury of the wolf’s eyes, yet he felt no fear, only a glory in the fierce, silent conflict.  He could not move the fingers of his left hand, but those of his right curved, stiffened.  He desired nothing more in the world than the contact with that great, bristling black body, to leap aside from those ominous teeth, to set his fingers in the wolf’s throat.  Reason might have told him the folly of such a strife, but all that remained in his mind was the love of combat—­a blind passion.  His eyes glowed like 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.