match his tremendous speed against that of these pigmy cousins each time he sighted them. This was no part of Moran’s plan, and Flash, to his everlasting disgust, spent much of his time chained to a staple in the cabin wall.
Morning and evening Moran lay concealed on some commanding ridge, sweeping the country with his powerful glasses as he tried to determine the locality where the swift family had their home.
Riders from the Bar T ranch often dropped by, sometimes stopping to see Moran or lolling sidewise in their saddles to exchange a few words before riding on. Those who came to the cabin when Moran was gone always spoke in a friendly tone to Flash but made no move to touch him. It was known to them that this great wolf dog with the bright yellow eyes would allow no hand to touch him but Moran’s.
Long before they came in sight the thudding hoofs and creak of the saddle leather informed Flash of their approach. Then the wind announced their identity to his quivering nose.
Thus it happened that on the morning Brent rode to the cabin Flash was standing tense and rigid, his shoulder hair bristling, even before Brent turned the corner of the corral.
