Then came an evening when she watched Dan play with Black Bart--a
game of tag in which they darted about the room with a violence
which threatened to wreck the furniture, but running with such soft
footfalls that there was no sound except the rattle of Bart's claws
against the floor and the rush of their breath. They came to an abrupt
stop and Dan dropped into a chair while Black Bart sank upon his
haunches and snapped at the hand which Dan flicked across his face
with lightning movements. The master fell motionless and silent. His
eyes forgot the wolf. Rising, they rested on Kate's face. They rose
again and looked past her.
She understood and waited.
"Kate," he said at last, "I've got to start on the trail."
Her smile went out. She looked where she knew his eyes were staring,
through the window and far out across the hills where the shadows
deepened and dropped slanting and black across the hollows. Far away
a coyote wailed. The wind which swept the hills seemed to her like a
refrain of Dan's whistling--the song and the summons of the untamed.
"That trail will never bring you home," she said.
There was a long silence.
"You ain't cryin', honey?"
"I'm not crying, Dan.
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