Miki, no longer fighting the trap, was eyeing them as they advanced.  In this moment of peril he felt no fear of the man.  In his veins the hot blood raged with a killing madness.  The truth leapt upon him in a flash of instinctive awakening.  These two were his enemies instead of the thing on his foot—­the man-beast, and Netah, The Killer.  He remembered—­as if it were yesterday.  This was not the first time he had seen a man with a club in his hand.  And Le Beau held a club.  But he was not afraid.  His steady eyes watched Netah.  Unleashed by his master, The Killer stood on stiff legs a dozen feet away, the wiry crest along his spine erect, his muscles tense.

Miki heard the man-beast’s voice.

“Go to, you devil!  Go to!”

Miki waited, without the quiver of a muscle.  Thus much he had learned of his hard lessons in the wilderness—­to wait, and watch, and use his cunning.  He was flat on his belly, his nose between his forepaws.  His lips were drawn back a little, just a little; but he made no sound, and his eyes were as steady as two points of flame.  Le Beau stared.  He felt suddenly a new thrill, and it was not the thrill of his desire for vengeance.  Never had he seen a lynx or a fox or a wolf in a trap like that.  Never had he seen a dog with eyes like the eyes that were on Netah.  For a moment he held his breath.

Foot by foot, and then almost inch by inch, The Killer crept in.  Ten feet, eight, six—­and all that time Miki made no move, never winked an eye.  With a snarl like that of a tiger, Netah came at him.

What happened then was the most marvellous thing that Jacques Le Beau had ever seen.  So swiftly that his eyes could scarcely follow the movement, Miki had passed like a flash under the belly of Netah, and turning then at the end of his trap chain he was at The Killer’s throat before Le Beau could have counted ten.  They were down, and The Brute gripped the club in his hand and stared like one fascinated.  He heard the grinding crunch of jaws, and he knew they were the Wild Dog’s jaws; he heard a snarl choking slowly into a wheezing sob of agony, and he knew that the sound came from The Eller.  The blood rose into his face.  The red fire in his eyes grew livid—­a blaze of exultation, of triumph.

“Tonnerre de dieu! he is choking the life out of Netah!” he gasped.  “Non, I have never seen a dog like that.  I will keep him alive; and he shall fight Durant’s POOS over at Post Fort O’ God!  By the belly of Saint Gris, I say—­”

The Killer was as good as dead if left another minute.  With upraised club Le Beau advanced.  As he sank his fangs deeper into Netah’s throat Miki saw the new danger out of the corner of his eye.  He loosed his jaws and swung himself free of The Killer as the club descended.  He only partly evaded the smashing blow, which caught him on the shoulder and knocked him down.  Quick as a flash he was