His lips wrinkled back from the fangs. He would show them one burst of real running. He would teach them some respect for speed!
Down the slope he went like a flash. The fastest greyhound ever whelped could never have measured against that gray streak. A rattling volley, the angry-bee humming overhead, and the kissing of bullets against the grass, showed that the huntsmen were vainly striving to head him off or drop him by a chance distance shot. As well shoot at the wind.
He was down the hill and into the rolling country. The greyhounds were hopelessly out of it now, but they had served their purpose well. They had taken the edge from his appetite for running, and now that he was partly winded, the wolfhounds, running loosely and well, were at his very heels.
Lightning fast, but smooth-gaited as running water, he went up the next slope. It was steep, and there was easier going on either side, but he knew that the main body of the hounds was close enough to follow him more or less blindly. He heard the men whistling as he raceddoubtless that was to encourage the dogs to try for the kill then and there.
The Ghost grinned again. There was reason behind this climb of the hill, for on the other side of it, he well knew, there was a sandy-bottomed gulch thick with shrubbery. They would expect him to go straight across it, or, if he did not appear on the other side, they would guess that he had gone far away down the gulch. But that was not his plan. As soon as he was out of sight in the thicket he would double back at a sharp angle and go down the gulch, doubling on the whole hunt. At the worst the dogs would simply pick up his trail, and there would be nothing lost. At the best, he would gain five minutes, which meant complete safety - or perhaps he would lose the whole hunt on the spot.
So on he went like the wind.
The hounds dropped swiftly behind him, and in a moment more he had dipped over the brow of the hill and shot down into the thicketed gully. It was rank with the smell of sage, and that would probably drown his scent to the hurrying hounds. At least it might delay them.
So he took care to choose his way, never brushing for an instant even the tip of his tail against the foliage for fear that would print his scent for the followers. Straight back down the gulch he rushed, though the loose sand hindered his going. But he rejoiced when he heard the hunt go crashing into the thicket well above him, and then the calling of the dogs faded a little in the opposite direction.
Still he kept up a brisk pace, although the game was, to all intents and purposes, practically done. He had successfully doubled on them, doubled in the very face of men. The savage brain of The Ghost rejoiced.
He remained in the shrubbery for some time, until, sure of his place, he slid out into the basin of that main valley where they had cut him off. The whole pack had gone by. The shrill voices of the greyhounds sounded far off up-wind. The Ghost was once more victorious.
But what was this? What was this deep voice not so far away, with the deep ring to it, and the heavy fiber? He whirled into the teeth of the wind, snarling with incredulous rage. And there they came! Unbelievably one man had outguessed him again. There was the rider in the very act of spurring his horse, in the new direction, while his ”Halloo” sent two rangy hounds away on the trail.
They came like two bullets, great dark fellows, their long legs driving their bodies forward in straight lines. They were breathed and rested, too, by the rest which had been theirs while The Ghost was laboring through the sand and the shrubbery, and now they were on his heels as close as ever.
Furiously he took to flight again. There was no question of trickery or doubling now. He must show them a clean pair of heels or be run down and detained until the deadly rifle came up and did its work. The Ghost ran as he had never run before. The hallooing of the solitary hunter had picked up the pack on the other side of the hill. He heard the noise of the main body far off, rolling down the wind, but they were nothingless than nothing at that distance.
The whole danger had centered now on these two dogs and on the single horseman. But by evil chance, the dogs were the best blooded, the best breathed, the biggest and most formidable of the whole pack; and the hunter behind them was mounted on the finest horse of the lot. An incredibly fine shot, also, for he rode with his rifle in his hand and pumped in a snap shot time and again, shots that came perilously close, at times, and always, in spite of himself, the angry-bee humming made The Ghost wince toward the ground and falter for an instant in his running; and each of these faltering brought the hounds yards and yards nearer to him.
But the battle was by no means over. For the third consecutive time The Ghost was forced to sprint, and before ten minutes he was spent. Had there been only wild blood in him, he would have wheeled then and fought at bay. But there was more than wild blood in him. There was that mysterious “gameness” that a dog has, which enables it to toil on and labor on when strength of body is gone and only strength of nerve and will power remains. On this electric reserve The Ghost called, his tail and his head flagging down a little, and the breathing coming burningly into his lungs with great gasps.
The wind was carrying scent and sound of the dogs to him now, and on the wind, before long, he heard their gasping as they followed. Plainly they were not in much better condition. Twice they spurted, and twice he answered the spurts and drew away. A third time they put forth their full strength, and a third time The Ghost answered. This time one of them came close enough for a leap, but his teeth closed a fraction of an inch from the tail of the wolf.
It was a dying effort, The Ghost sensed. The dogs still labored stanchly behind him, and the dizzy miles spun underfoot while they followed, but still they were running with more and more effort, and The Ghost was beginning to come back to his wind and to his natural strength, tired by the frenzy of the long effort, but still with much left.
A few minutes more, and the dogs were growing exhausted, while he was commencing to recuperate. He could have spurted again; but the wolfhounds were both nearly spent. They were fast dropping back to a dogged gait which they would maintain till they fell. But such bulldogging would never overtake The Ghost, no matter what it might do to other wolves.
He saw another thing now, as he turned his head.
The long chase had distanced the man. He bobbed into view only momentarily now and then, on a hilltop, and dipped out of sight into the next gulch. His horse must be spent, likewise. As for the rest of the chase, it was gone beyond sight, almost beyond hearing, laboring vaguely on in the hope that it might come up to view the kill.
But here were two dogs running at his heels; two dogs that would not have dared to chase him a hundred yards had it not been for the support of the master. To be sure they were big fellows. One of them would have matched a common wolf; two would have killed a big lobo with ease. But The Ghost was different, and he knew the difference. A dog fought by training and brain; a wolf fought by instinct; but The Ghost brought all three elements into his fighting.
The mad desire to turn and fight began to make the brain of The Ghost reel. He had been shamed long enough. His decision came over him almost without his own volition. He waited till he had topped the next hill. Looking back, there was no horseman in sight. Then he wheeled and leaped back at the wolfhounds.
Chapter IV
Unexpected Aid
They would fight by the book, he knew. But The Ghost knew the book, also. He leaped as though he were striving to get between them, and, as he had expected, they at once sprang apart so as to take him one from each side and grip at his flanks. But knowing this, they were no sooner separated than The Ghost checked himself mid-plunge, shot sidewise with a sort of sweeping dance step, and rushed the wise-headed dog on the right.