pulled his gun and opened the door. “Come on, Flash, old fellow,” he said.
With one mighty spring Flash cleared the open door and was off, a swift gray streak in the moonlight with a gun barking spitefully behind him.
“He’s a smart one,” said the man with the gun. “He knew! He almost made it at that, but I got him.”
The men crowded out of the bunkhouse. Fifty yards along the trail Flash had left they found where he had fallen and there was blood in the snow.
“We’ll find him to-morrow,” Kinney said. “He can’t travel far.” But in the morning the trail was blotted under half a foot of new snow. When Moran notified them to ship the dog to him, word was sent back that Flash was dead.
