Faster flew the brush. Now the eyes of the cow glared desperate defiance.
One might almost see her bony side, ruffled by the cutting north wind,
heave with her breathing. She was fighting death for herself and her
baby--but for how long? Already the nose of one great, gray beast was
straight uplifted, sniffing, impatient. Would they risk a charge upon
those lowered horns? The dark pines shook their feathery heads
hopelessly. A little while perhaps, and then--

Chip laid down the brush and sank back in the chair. Was the sun so low?
He could do no more--yes, he took up a brush and added the title:
"The Last Stand."

He was very white, and his hand shook. Johnny leaned over the back of
the chair, his eyes glued to the picture.

"Gee," he muttered, huskily, "I'd like t' git a whack at them wolves
once."

Chip turned his head until he could look at the lad's face. "What do you
think of it, kid?" he asked, shakily.

Johnny did not answer for a moment. It was hard to put what he felt into
words. "I dunno just how t' say it," he said, gropingly, at last, "but
it makes me want t' go gunnin' fer them wolves b'fore they hamstring her.
It--well--it don't seem t' me like it was a pitcher, somehow. It seems
like the reel thing, kinda."

Chip moved his head languidly upon the cushion.