Two dogs on their feet - two dogs like these - he knew he could not match. His plan was shock tactics until one of them sprawled.
His first charge went amiss. The big hound crouched and met the weight compactly, though the impetus of The Ghost crushed flat. But The Ghost, mid-spring, saw that he would have no success here, and changed his mind while he was in the air. He had hardly struck when he wheeled and shot across the back of the first dog at the second.
The latter was taken by surprise, for this first maneuver had taken a fraction of a part of the time that it takes a horse to stamp his foot. He was only half turned as The Ghost’s massive shoulder, set for that purpose, struck him and before he could sink in his teeth, the hound was toppled on his back and the under part of him was ripped wide by the teeth of the wolf.
It was like the striking of two blows, and The Ghost leaped and met the spring of the first dog with a clash of teeth. Then he danced away, swift as a phantom. His purpose was a simple one. If he fought and fled at the same time the wounded dog would drop behind - to die later, perhaps. But now he discovered that he could not draw one of the pair away from the other. They had been too well trained to separate, and, moreover, they had already tasted the metal of this foe. Where was the man? And how much time was left?
Far off he saw the horseman coming, spurring desperately; but far away indeed! The two dogs stood side by side, the injured one with lowered head, but still strong as ever, for the loss of blood would not affect it for some moments unless it tried to run.
The Ghost circled them like a playing colt. The sound dog followed him deftly to take the charge, but the injured one was not so agile. The Ghost found an infinitesimal opening and leaped. His teeth gashed the flank; he continued his leap high above the heads of both and landed on the far side. As he twisted to face them the sound dog charged, infuriated by this dodging work. The Ghost met him joyously and gave him his shoulder cunningly low and to the side. He took a rip on the side of his jaw uncomplaining. The dog sprawled. Instantly a foreleg crunched in the teeth of The Ghost, and the wolf shot away to choose his next point of attack.
The dogs were both no better than dead now, and standing back to back, crouching together, one with a foreleg drawn up, and one bleeding terribly from the body, they seemed to know it.
The Ghost tried circling again, and as they swung to meet him, he glimpsed the rider shooting over a nearer ridge of hills. There was short time for work. He determined on a more or less blind risk and charged straight in, his head low as he always kept it for close quarters, for that gave the shaggy hide of his back and shoulders to the teeth of the enemy, and afforded him at least a hope of an opening at the point of points - the under throat.
In this instance, at least, it worked like a charm. One set of teeth closed on one shoulder, and one on the other. Bad cuts, those, perhaps. He cared not. He had twisted his head with snakelike agility, and his great fangs were buried in the throat of the dog with the broken leg. That terrible grip made the other release his own hold instantly. In a moment he was flat on his back. A wolf would have released its grip there and tried to spring away. The Ghost held it until he had worried his fore-fangs into the life blood. Then he whirled with red-dripping muzzle from that quivering body and snapped at his remaining opponent.
The other had shifted for the throat of The Ghost, but it was a side grip; he had not the wolfish cunning of The Ghost, which taught him the easiest way to get at the seat of life! But at least his grip made The Ghost helpless for biting. He realized it instantly and, at the expense of a badly torn neck, wrenched himself away and flung off at a distance for the last charge. It was only a formality. The final bolt of the dog had been fired; the terrible wound was taking toll now, and his legs were bending under his weight. But before he charged, The Ghost saw the horse on the nearest hill.
He was amazed, first of all, to see that the horse was not in motion, and then he caught the glint of the sun on metal and understood. The rifle was at the shoulder of the marskman. Terror swept over The Ghost, the fear of man. He gave up the second killing, so temptingly near at hand, and wheeled to fly, but as he turned broadside, something stung him through the right thigh and tipped him on to that side as he tried to spring away.
Only that swerving to the side had kept the bullet from plowing through his brain. It seemed strange that so slight a thing should unnerve him, but there was no question about it. Slight though the pain had been, his right hind leg was useless. He found it out as he whirled to his feet, nearly falling again as he made the first stride. Again the gun barked, but this time the bullet sang evilly close, yet harmless.
Behind him the deep music of the hunt was blowing up the wind as he dropped over the hill, running heavily on the three legs - a far, far sound. He would have given it no heed a little time before, but now it meant much indeed. One greyhound, the least of the pack, could finish him now. With bristling hair the great wolf bent to his work, panic-stricken. One dog killed, one dying - surely that was a handsome price for the life of even The Ghost, but the big wolf had no mind for dying. He wanted, at least, some narrow place where he could stand at bay and battle to the death as the king of wolves should do.
It was a marvel that he should run as he was running now, but he knew that it was a short effort that lay within the possibilities of his strength. The blood was flowing steadily from the wounded leg, and now that the numbness was gone he felt a steady ache of pain.
Behind the hill there was the dull echo of a gun; that was when the sick-hearted huntsman killed his hopelessly wounded dog. Back there a voice was shouting; that was the hunter as he called up the rest of the hunt, and his halloo was sending the hounds hot on the blood trail. At that scent of blood a new note came into the voices of the yelling hounds, and the tired wolf heard it and knew its meaning. His own bay had rung with some such note on many a like trail.
Into yonder hills he felt that his strength would carry him, though now the chase was coming perilously near; and in those hills he might find some hole in the ground where he could back. Then let the dogs come at him one by one or two by two, and he would teach them how a death-fight should be made! Or perhaps when he gained some such shelter, a man would come and stand at a distance and kill him with one of those bee-humming bullets. But in that case it was no shame to die. Nothing in the mountains, The Ghost knew, dared face man.
The hunt roared over the hills as he labored up the far slope. He gained the hilltop with the gasping of the hounds close on the wind behind him, and, past the rise, the first thing he saw was the house of a man, a shack huddled against the side of the hill. He shrank back, snarling, but then he saw only the narrow opening of the doorway. There was a place where he would have shelter for his back, and there he could turn at bay. In his panic he bore on again with his broken-gaited lope, and plunged through the door.
Too late he saw the man inside, close to the door. He braced his three feet; but the force of his gallop and his weight carried the bloodstained monster across the little room and crashing against the farther wall.
There was a corner. The Ghost shrank into it, and with his forefeet braced and his red mouth gaping, while panting racked his sides, he waited for the finish, unafraid.
The man beside the door had risen, and he was other than the men whom The Ghost had seen when he crawled to lonely camp fires in the mountains. He was larger; it seemed that he would never stop rising as he stood up from the box on which he had been sitting.