too, though it showed murderous fangs whenever Vic moved, did not stir from
his place, but lay flattening into the ground.

"Cut to the right! Cut to the right, Harry!" came the voice of the sheriff,
already piping from the distance as the last of the posse brushed out from
the trees. "Yo hoi! Gus, take the left arroyo!"

Two answering yells, and then the rush of hoofs fell away. They were
cornering the stranger, no doubt, and Vic struggled to lift himself to his
feet and watch until a faint sound from the dog made him look down. Bart
lay with his haunches drawn up under him, his forepaws digging into the
soft loam, his eyes demoniac. Instinctively Vic reached for his absent gun,
and then, despairing, relaxed to his former position. The wolf-dog lowered
his head to his paws and there remained with the eyes following each intake
of Gregg's breath. A rattle of gunshots flung back loosely from the hills,
and among them Vic winced at the sound of the sheriff's rifle, clear and
ringing over the bark of the revolvers.

Had they nailed the stranger? The firing recommenced, more faintly and
prolonged, so that it was plain the posse maintained a running fusilade
after the fugitive. After that fear of his own growing weakness shut out
all else from the mind of Gregg as he felt his senses, his physical
strength, flowing out like an ebb tide to a sea which, he knew, was death.
He began to work desperately to bind up the wound and stop the flow of
blood and it was fear which gave him momentary strength to tear away his
shirt and then with his teeth and left hand rip it into strips. After that,
heedless of the pain, he constructed a rude bandage, very clumsily, for he
had to work over his shoulder. Here his teeth, once more, were almost as
useful as another hand, and as the bandage grew tight the deadly, warm
trickle along his side lessened and his fingers fell away from the last