rush stimulated the wild blood in Flash and he lunged again, this time with all the powerful drive of a killing lobo behind his teeth.
The steer ran on, one hind leg giving under him. Then Flash struck the other leg and the steer went down. Even as he reached the ground a gray shape drove at his throat and slashed it open with savage fangs that cut in like knives.
Flash stood over his kill, listening to the roar of hoofs, and the crazed bawling of cows as the stampede gathered numbers and rolled on down the valley—and he was all wolf, a great gray beast of prey with the tame strain submerged deep beneath the wild.
He roamed the valley for a full week, sleeping by day and killing by night. Then the old longing for Moran reasserted itself and called him back to the Bar T range. He covered the hundred miles in a single night and approached the Bar T buildings cautiously just before dawn. There was a light in the bunkhouse; the boys were getting up.
Flash drew near, trying to catch the sound of Moran’s voice in the murmur that came from the bunkhouse. A horrible shock of surprise flooded
