Hugh's astonishment was nothing compared to the coyote's own. He had expected flight, panic,—anything on earth except an actual attitude of self-defense. Just for a moment he stood motionless, snarling, trying to find courage to attack. But not for nothing had Manitou put his curse upon him.
All at once it came to him that he had made a mistake. There was something familiar about the sturdy figure, the lowered head, the curling horns. He remembered certain passes in the High Rockies,—and various trim, horned creatures that might occasionally be met there. Even Broken Fang did not care to meet these people on a narrow trail,—and Running Feet remembered with some haste that he had an appointment on the other side of the hill.
At that instant Hugh shot. The distance was far; the bullet whizzed hot along Running Feet's shoulder. He didn't wait for a second shot. He turned and fled at the fastest pace he knew. And with the air whizzing past him he wholly missed the curious words that the herder uttered,—the strange remark that he made to Spot, still standing defiantly with lowered horns on the trail.
"Good Lord, Spot," he cried, "you're not just a sheep. Sure as I live, you're a " But he didn't finish telling what Spot was. Perhaps he didn't know; and the ideas that were glowing dimly in his brain did not yet take the form of a
