moved forward surreptitiously along the ice, his eyes eagerly searching every cover for game, his thick club poised for a quick, deft blow. But evidently all game had deserted its wonted habitat of the creek banks.
Slowly, anxiety crept into the hunter's eyes and played under the mask of a recent beard. The whinny of a horse, feeding in a contiguous stalk-field, at one time startled him almost into a run; and once again, when what sounded like a baying of hounds came from ahead, he turned aside and forced his way into a resisting hazel thicket, where he waited a long time, listening breathlessly.
After a while the Man heard what seemed to be the same baying from a point more distant. Other hunters than himself, he surmised, were abroad, hunting, mayhap, similar game, but how much more did success mean to him than to them!
After a time the Man chanced upon an ear of corn in an otherwise clean-husked field. He tore the grains from the cob with brute eagerness and swung on across the field in search of other ears.
A giant jackrabbit rose before him and bounded away, his long black-tipped ears standing vertical, his easy, rhythmic leaps showing the slight exertion that was companion of his assurance. The Man clenched his teeth and flung his club with all the might of an arm not long since powerful.
His weakness surprised, nay, mildly terrified him. His club fell far short and the long-eared ranger of the prairies loped out of sight at a derisively slow pace before his incredulous eyes. The Man even fancied he perceived something fiendishly human in the open mockery of the rabbit's effortless escape. He uttered a little groan of despair before he again stumbled onward toward the nowhere of his goal.
For another hour he pushed forward, following the winding course, of the stream. Where the ice-road of the creek
crooked round a wooded spur the Man came face to face with a great wolfish dog.
The hunter stopped abruptly, perchance slightly startled, and stared a little suspiciously at the shaggy stranger, his club ready. But the dog showed no sign of hostility. His out-lolling tongue looked dry, as from extreme thirst, and his lean flanks heaved as from the exertion of a long chase. It was obvious to the Man that the distressed stranger had sought the creek for water, only to find ice.
They stood regarding each other in silence, the Man and the dog, the one grim of countenance and great of bulk—truly a menacing figure; the other amiable, fairly exuberant with good nature, his brown eyes smiling and his ragged bush of a tail wagging a message of friendliness to all the world, Apparently he wanted but a single word of encouragement to bound forward and lick the Man’s hand in token of meek servility.
But the Man did not pronounce the one word that might so readily have gained him a friend, wherefore the dog waited. The latter, being only a brute, could suspect nothing of the dark purpose that was slowly taking root in the other’s brain, else he would have turned away in alarm and fled from the Thing which, having come upon it unexpectedly, he had mistaken for a man.
Studiedly, calculatively, the Man took stock of the stranger. The dog, meanwhile, did not budge, but his great bush of a tail suddenly ceased wagging and his small pointed ears seemed all but to hide themselves in the coarse hair of his shaggy coat. It was as if some vague distrust of the Man had forced itself unbidden upon him.
"Come here, you fool!" said the Man at last, half whimsically, and, cheerfully obedient, the dog gave a playful bound and buried his dry muzzle in the speaker's free hand, whining in friendly canine fashion, heedless of the ominous club.
The Man drew one haind out of his glove and stroked the dog's tangled coat.
"Ha! you tramp," he exclaimed, "you're a regular boneyard under all that mat of hair, ain’t you?"
The Tramp, thus happily named, thrashed his ragged tail about in high glee. He only stopped after a space to lick the blue ice with his pasty tongue, as though he would make clear to the Man his grievous plight. But the gray hard face of the other remained destitute of pity. The bleak cynicism in his expression even seemed to stand out in bolder relief.
"We're sure two of a kind, ain't we, vagabond? And after all it may be a lucky thing for me we met.... You see, old fellow, I'm starving. You look as if you knew what it meant to starve, yourself. If you've ever been as hungry or as desperately miserable as I am now you'll not think hard of me for what I've got to do. Yes, yes! I know you re anxious to be friendly all right"—at the dog, suspicion put to rout, snuggled closer to him—"but there’s only one way I can see you at present," he went on, his drawl growing as cold as wind blowing off ice. "You see, I’ve got to live, vagabond—and by God I’m going to live!"
The ferocity of some wild thing of prey, cornered, of a sudden had come into the human thing's wheezy voice. After a moment he added, half to himself, as if in justification of his fell design:
"You're only a useless, half-starved tramp-dog, anyway."
At the accusation the vagabond suddenly ceased licking the ice and raised his head. For a moment he gazed steadily into the Man's eyes with every appearance of human comprehension. But the Man was familiar with the ways of dogs, as with the ways of men. He was not disconcerted.
He drew from his pocket a heavy-bladed knife, with which he somewhat laboriously gouged a little cavity in the ice, carefully preserving the resulting chips. Swinging his arms rapidly, he slowly forced the sluggish blood into his blue-gray hands until presently they tingled and glowed with comparative warmth. This done, he assembled the chips, a double handful. The melting action of his hands was assisted by his steaming breath.
Gradually the water dripped through his fingers and filled the small cavity in the ice, which was the one way to obtain drink, since the ice itself lay in a single solid cake clear to the creek-bottom.
The Man turned from his labor to find the Tramp watching him intently, his small wolflike ears perked forward in pathetic eagerness.
"There—take it!" jerked out the Man in a voice that was almost a croak.
He rose with difficulty, club in hand.
“That's the last you'll get—or need—for a d—d long time," he muttered, half inaudibly. His lids had narrowed and the pupils of his shag-browed eyes might have been points of flame.
The vagabond wagged his flail-like tail gratefully and was lapping at the tiny pool before his dry tongue had reached its surface. Towering above the unsuspecting brute, the Man stretched his long arms tentatively. There must be no bungling, he thought; he reasoned that his life was at stake.
When the tiny hole was all but dry he suddenly gripped the club in both hands and swung with mighty force for the tramp-dog's head.
A million echoes resounded through the lonely little wood as a chorus of shrill, agonizing cries contended dissonantly with hoarse, full-throated human curses.
The vagabond staggered blindly away from the fatal lure of the sweetly reviving nectar, too dazed, too horribly numbed for flight, a great lump pushing
