Moran found the trail across the drift, true, straight and evenly spaced; still he was not convinced. A sudden thought flitted across his mind.
“Flash!” he called. “Flash! Come out of it, you big gray rascal. Come on out here.”
He knew that Flash’s body had never been found after the shooting at the Bar T ranch. The Wind River wolf had never reappeared on the range and it was presumed that Flash was dead. There was just a chance that he had survived.
Moran called again and again.
Out in the timber Flash thrilled and trembled. First the sound of the whistle; then the familiar appearance of the man he followed and the scent he knew for Moran’s; now the much loved voice; all senses coordinated and Flash knew that this was Moran. He longed to go to him but hard experience had taught him that all men, even former friends, now sought his life.
He circled several times clear around the spot where Moran sat on a log. Moran caught occasional glimpses of him through the trees. It was Flash!
Each circle was drawn closer. Flash heard the glad note in Moran’s voice. Moran carried no rifle but there was a holster at his hip and Flash
