more than they need; it's an instinct with 'em, for if they did they'd pay for it by going hungry later. Nature has a way of teachin' the wild varmints what to do. But dogs have been domesticated so long that they've forgotten most of their instincts, and once they get started, once the killin' fever gets a hold of 'em, they don't know when to quit. There's many a dog that has slashed a hundred sheep in one night—jumpin' from one to another, tearing out one throat after another, and runnin' the rest till they die. It's kind of a madness that gets a hold of 'em once they get started. True, my dogs ain't ever got the habit, but one taste will teach 'em. And they're half-wild already, as any man well knows who seen 'em tear that little black cub-bear to pieces last week. Just tore him to little scraps of black fur."
Fargo leaned back in his chair and laughed. The sound burst out suddenly above the even murmur of his talk, and it was no less terrible to hear than the bay of the pack a few minutes before. It was a wild, harsh sound,—and African travelers might have been given cause to remember the hyenas, laughing on the sun-baked hills. It pleased him to recall that scene in the forest beyond the creek, in which his pack of dogs had killed the cub. It moved him in unlovely, dark ways. The little bear had been a clumsy, furry, amiable little creature—representing what is perhaps the most lovable breed of all the wild
