For as the hunters were coming at a brisk trot in single file along the
"old trading path," as it was called even then, the fleecy white clouds
racing above in the dense blue of the sky, their violet shadows fleeting
as swift along the slopes of the velvet-soft azure mountains, and the
wind far outstripping them in the vernal budding woods, a sudden stir
near at hand caused Emsden to turn his head. Just above him, on a rugged
slope where no trees grew save a scraggy cedar here and there amidst the
shelving ledges of rock outcropping through the soft verdant turf, he
saw a stealthy, furtive shape; he was aware of a hasty cowed glance over
the shoulder, and then a stretching of supple limbs in flight. Before he
himself hardly knew it the sharp crack of his rifle rang out,--the aim
was almost instinctive.

And it was as true as instinct,--a large black wolf, his pelt glossy and
fresh with the renewal of the season, lay stretched dead in an instant
upon the slope. Emsden sprang from his horse, tossed the reins to "X,"
and, drawing his knife, ran up the steep ascent to secure the animal's
skin.

Only vaguely, as in a dream, he heard a sudden deep roar, beheld a
horned creature leaping heavily upon its fore quarters, tossing its hind
legs and tail into the air. Then an infuriated bull, breaking from the
bushes, charged fiercely down upon him. Emsden threw himself into a
posture of defense as instantly as if he had been a trained bullfighter
and the arena his wonted sphere, holding the knife close in front of
him, presenting the blade with a quick keen calculation for the animal's
jugular. The knife was Emsden's only weapon, for his pistols were in the
holster on the saddle, and his discharged rifle lay where he had flung
it on the ground after firing. He had only time to wonder that his