life a torment. He understood perfectly what displeasing treatment would be his if the dogs came upon him at the killing. Not even Broken Fang, the puma, can always protect himself against the onslaught of the Barking One on guard over the flocks. He is fast as lightning and as terrible as the she-wolves at the lair mouth. And Running Feet knew quite well the deadly qualities of the glittering stick that the herder carried in the hollow of his arm.
To-day, however, there was only one dog, and he worked on the far side of the flock. The herder rested under a tree; if Running Feet kept to the shelter of the brush, there was nothing to fear from him. True, he would be obliged to dip out into the open to seize one of the lambs, but if fortune only permitted them to lie close enough to the edge of the thicket, he could do it without danger. Fortune wasn't usually good to Running Feet; but to-day perhaps his luck had turned. And at that point in his wolfine thoughts he made out the figure of Spot, in tireless vigil on the highest point of the rock pile.
It was too good to be true. The distance was full two hundred yards from the herder; the dog was equally distant. The brush went clear to the base of the rocks; one or two little leaps into the open would put him within killing range. Then one or two slashing bites with his white fangs,—and that would complete a perfect afternoon.
