Chapter XXIX
Almost in a breath Shep's ferocity passed away. He eyed the still form for a sign of life, but quickly the fierce yellow lights died from his eyes. The avenger, the remorseless slayer was gone, and just the shepherd, rare comrade and fellow guardian of the flocks, remained. His tail wagged in friendship, the stiff hairs began to lie down at the animal's shoulders. And he looked up in inarticulate appeal to the girl's face,
"It's no use, old boy," the girl told him. "I'm tied fast and I can't go with you. And—yes—the fire is coming."
She told the truth. It had still a long way to go before it encompassed the floor of the draw, but it was steadily, remorselessly drawing nearer. The dog whined softly.
The girl shook her head. "I can't go, old boy," she repeated. "We're lost—you and I and your master, too. You've helped us all you can."
The animal seemed to understand. A great, brooding sorrow came into his intelligent eyes. Here was the third of them that had given his all for the sheep, one who had stayed for his work when his swift legs and sure instincts could have saved him from the fire; and when all is said and
