“Fine dog,” said he of the coffee pot, and they turned and looked admiringly at Flash.
“Part wolf—most wolf,” he qualified. He stretched forth his hand to Flash. “Come here, boy!” he ordered.
Flash avoided the hand and moved stiffly away.
“He’s more or less peculiar and set in his ways,” Moran explained. “I raised him and he never lets any man handle him but me.”
“He’d soon make up with me,” the other persisted, “I’d like to own that dog. I’ve got a pack horse,” he suggested. “He’s about as wicked looking as your wolf. He can kick, strike, buck and bite at the same time; but man—he’s built! And he sure can tote a pack; weighs eleven hundred lean and was raised in the hills.”
“Of Vermont?” Moran mildly queried.
“Bullseye!” the would-be Vermonter said regretfully. “Will you swap?”
Moran shook his head.
“He can’t be bought,” he said.
One of the men leaped suddenly to his feet and crossed to the point of the spur. After looking up the meadow he turned hurriedly to a picketed horse and led him back to the log which held the saddles.”
