He howled dismally to
the senseless stars, yet he came; and once more that hand was thrust
against his nose. He licked the fingers.
That blood-lust came hotter than before, but his fear was greater.
He licked the strange hand again, whining. Then the master kneeled.
Another hand, clean, and free from that horrible warm, wet sign of
death, fell upon his shaggy back. The voice which he knew of old came
to him, blew away the red mist from his soul, comforted him.
"Poor Bart!" said the voice, and the hand went slowly over his head.
"It weren't your fault."
The stallion whinnied softly. A deep growl formed in the throat of the
wolf, a mighty effort at speech. And now, like a gleam of light in a
dark room, Dan remembered the house of Buck Daniels. There, at least,
they could not refuse him aid. He drew on his coat, though the
effort set him sweating with agony, got his foot in the stirrup with
difficulty, and dragged himself to the saddle. Satan started at a
swift gallop.
"Faster, Satan! Faster, partner!"
What a response! The strong body settled a little closer to the
earth as the stride increased. The rhythm of the pace grew quicker,
smoother. There was no adequate phrase to describe the matchless
motion.
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