beside the master, whining, and leaping as high as Barry's knee.
“You seen something?” queried Barry. “Are they comin' on the trail again?”
He swayed a bit to one side and diverted Satan out of his course so as to climb one of the more commanding swells. From this point he glanced back and saw a dust cloud, much like that which a small whirlwind picks up, rolling down the nearest slope of the Morgan Hills. At that distance the posse looked hardly larger than one unit, and certainly they could not see the single horseman they followed; however, they could follow the trail easily across this ground. Satan had turned to look back.
“Shall we go back and play around 'em, boy?” asked Barry.
Black Bart had run on ahead, and now he turned with a short howl.
“The partner says 'no,'” continued the master. “Of all the dogs I ever see, Bart plays the most careful game, but out on the trail, Satan”—here he sent the stallion into the sweeping lope—“Bart knows more'n you an' me put together, so we'll do what he says.”
For answer, Satan lengthened a little into his stride. As for the wolf-dog, he went off like a black bolt into the eye of the wind, streaking it west to hunt out the easiest course. A wolf—and surely there was more of wolf than of dog in Black Bart—has a finer sense for the lay of ground than anything on four feet. He
