When Haines dropped out of sight, Dan's whistling stopped. He looked
up to the pitiless glitter of the stars. He looked down to the sombre
sweep of black hills. The wind was like a voice saying over and over
again: "Failure." Everything was lost.

He slipped from the saddle and took off his coat. From his left
shoulder the blood welled slowly, steadily. He tore a strip from his
shirt and attempted to make a bandage, but he could not manage it with
one hand.

The world thronged with hostile forces eager to hunt him to the death.
He needed all his strength, and now that was ebbing from a wound which
a child could have staunched for him, but where could he find even a
friendly child? Truly all was lost! The satyr or the black panther
once had less need of man's help than had Dan, but now he was hurt in
body and soul. That matchless co-ordination of eye with hand and foot
was gone. He saw Kate smiling into the eyes of Haines; he imagined
Bill Kilduff sitting on the back of Satan, controlling all that
glorious force and speed; he saw Hal Purvis fighting venomously with
Bart for the mastery which eventually must belong to the man.

He turned to the wild pair. Vaguely they sensed a danger threatening
their master, and their eyes mourned for his hurt. He buried his face
on the strong, smooth shoulder of Satan, and groaned. There came the
answering whinny and the hot breath of the horse against the side of
his face. There was the whine of Black Bart behind him, then the rough
tongue of the wolf touched the dripping fingers. Then he felt a hot
gust of the wolf's breath against his hand.

Too late he realized what that meant. He whirled with a cry of
command, but the snarl of Black Bart cut it short. The wolf stood
bristling, trembling with eagerness for the kill, his great white
fangs gleaming, his snarl shrill and guttural with the frenzy of his
desire, for he had tasted blood. Dan understood as he stared into the
yellow green fury of the wolf's eyes, yet he felt no fear, only a
glory in the fierce, silent conflict. He could not move the fingers of
his left hand, but those of his right curved, stiffened. He desired
nothing more in the world than the contact with that great, bristling
black body, to leap aside from those ominous teeth, to set his fingers
in the wolf's throat. Reason might have told him the folly of such a
strife, but all that remained in his mind was the love of combat--a
blind passion. His eyes glowed li