short cut to the mill, he was not leaving Helen Foraker. Taylor was gone, but he would be back—that, or the girl would follow him down that trail some day, to the ends of the earth if necessary; she was that sort—
He dropped his wrench. The screen door slammed behind Helen. The wind lulled. Pauguk was whining, straining, eyes on the trail Taylor had taken.
For a long interval Goddard stood there. He tried to resume his work, but could not. The rage in his heart grew unbearable and after a time he moved away toward the house, going slowly, silently, on the balls of his feet. The wolf dog turned a quick look at him and glared back at the way her enemy had gone. He spoke softly to her, snapping his thumb. He grasped, her chain, letting it slip through his fingers as he advanced. His hand rested on her back and his fingers fumbled at the snap.
The wolf was free! She was starting forward, crouching, bewildered by this liberty. She dropped her nose to the ground, she went forward, at a walk, at a trot, she reached the edge of the pine; stopped, circled, started on; the trot gave to a gallop and then through the forest echoed the long-drawn hunting cry of her forebears.
Inside the house, a movement, an exclamation. Helen Foraker appeared in the doorway. She saw Goddard, the chain in his hands, and as she cried out to him that long, curdling cry came again, fainter, reverberating through the trees.
"Milt! What—"
Guilty fright swept his face. "He'd 've come back," he said. "He'd 've come back an' you—"
"Milt, she'll kill him!—You murderer!"
She started toward the trail, calling the dog breathlessly
