powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad
track, and Satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life
scared out of him by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer
that he hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new
friend, the half-breed shepherd.

A strange thing then happened. The other dogs became suddenly
quiet, and every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air
once or twice, gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all
those dogs except Satan lost the civilization of centuries and
went back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and were
looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for that little pack, and
after a short parley, he lifted his nose high and started away
without looking back, while the other dogs silently trotted after
him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not
take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, making his
way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another dog
would slink out and silently join the band. Every one of them
Satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog,
on the edge of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later
the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would
inspect his followers. Plainly, he disapproved of Satan, and Satan
kept out of his way. Then he sprang into the turnpike and the band
trotted down it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of
brilliant moonlight. Once, a buggy swept past them. A familiar
odor struck Satan's nose, and he stopped for a moment to smell the
horse's tracks; and right he was, too, for out at her
grandmother's Dinnie refused to be comforted, and in that buggy
was Uncle Billy going back to town after him.