He knew well enough that he had his death wounds unless something were done to them soon, and he knew, also, that to heal those wounds was beyond his power. But between the approach of the soft-voiced giant and the healing of his hurts he made no connection. He had seen men, at a distance, catch horses and dogs, and always they had used these methods of soft-voiced approach with one hand outstretched in sign of amity. Humanity, to The Ghost, meant nothing but a succession of wiles, dangerous stratagems.
The big man had halted at the second snarl, and now he stood looking quietly down into the face of the lobo. The Ghost trembled with fear. It had been thrilling enough, in old days, to crawl to the edge of light circling around a camp fire and wait until the eyes of one of the men went toward him, unseeing, but seeming to see. Then with the shadows to shelter him, he had always felt as if the glance of a man paralyzed his strength.
Worst of all, there was a continual temptation growing in him to give up the battle and surrender to this man as to the inevitable. The Ghost recognized the madness of that impulse with bristling hair and another throat-racking growl. Of course it was the dog instinct in him, and he fought valiantly against it. A strange desire came to him to let that extended hand touch him, and then to close his eyes and wait for what would happen with a vague surety that it would only be pleasant.
He must fight that away. He must find a means of escape. But the door was still closed, and the only way out was through the window. In his one hind leg there was still power, he felt, to carry him through the window with a leap, but the man blocked the way. Therefore the man must be destroyed first. He looked at Bull Hunter, carefully avoiding the face and eyes. He discovered at once that, omitting the face, there was nothing terrible about a human being. Outside of the eyes, there was nothing strange or strong.
The Ghost lowered his head a little more to make ready for the spring, but at that moment the man stepped to one side and raised a broad cloth, such as The Ghost knew men wrap themselves in when they sleep at night. Now the man was out of the path, and however easy it seemed to kill him, The Ghost was wise enough to know that he had better get away without a fight if he could.
At that his move was like the uncoiling of a packed steel spring. Despite the hampering lack of that strong fourth leg, he went at the window with a rush like the flight of an arrow, but just as his nose was in smelling distance, so to speak, of the sunshine beyond the window, a shadow interposed - that cloth in which men sleep was flung before his head. Was it a weapon as well as a shelter, this protective hide which men took off and put on again at will?
He had no time to think twice. The blanket folded about his head, stifling and blinding him, and two mighty arms picked him out of the air and crashed him down to the floor, sending a tooth of agony quivering through every wound in his slashed and battered body.
He bore the pain in silence and commenced to fight. But though the great teeth slashed and tore the blanket, he could not bite his way to the light. He was confused, bewildered, and presently, in the midst of his hysteria, one forepaw was caught and a stout cord passed around it in a slipknot.
To The Ghost his forepaws were what hands are to a man. With them he dug. With them he held down a bone. With them, on occasion, he fought, the stout nails tearing almost like the cutting claws of a cat. With those paws he felt his way over dubious ground. With those paws, tapping with exquisite nicety, he had more than once sprung a trap. The Ghost fought like a demon to get that paw free - to no avail. The rope, serpent-like, twisted suddenly around the other forefoot, and then the sound hind leg was brought up and gathered in the toils of the rope.
The Ghost lay helplessly bound, and knowing his defeat, he recognized it. A true wild wolf would have broken his heart struggling with shame and fear and rage. But the strain of the dog in The Ghost told him that the time for active resistance had passed.
Something touched his wounded leg.
That was to be it, then? And was it not natural that when the man tortured him to death, as he had seen men torture other wolves, his brothers, he should begin by tormenting that already wounded place, sensitive beyond words?
The Ghost locked his teeth and stiffened a little, ready to endure. Vaguely he was grateful for the blanket about his head which kept him in ignorance of the next torturing movement.
He was right. Torture of the most exquisite description ensued. A demon in the torturer instructed him just how to extract the utmost pain. First he thrust through the wound another tooth of prodigious length. Then he filled the wound with a liquid which was cold at first and suddenly turned to concentrated fire. The body of The Ghost quivered, but he lay still and endured. Here the wolf rose in him and taught him the way to die with dignity, yet it was a mighty anguish.
It passed away slowly. Other agonies were being added. Something was being passed around his leg, crushing the wound together, and the pressure did not relax.
But presently the pain diminished. It decreased swiftly. The blood began slowly to circulate where the leg had been numb before. The wound grew warm, and the cunning brain of the wild creature suddenly understood that the process of healing was beginning.
Then a mystery presented itself. What was in the mind of the man? How, by his torture, had he started that process of healing? Not only how, but why? Why did he do it?
The blanket was lifted from his head. It not only let in the fresh air and the light, but it also made him aware of the voice of the man. And then he knew that the voice had been speaking all the time. The terrible pain had made him unaware of it in the conscious mind, but subconsciously the voice had been working on him, building a basis of endurance and assurance in him. Now he was keenly aware of it. He had more strength and calm to be aware of it. For, behold, the anguish of that injured leg was entirely gone!
He rolled a bloodshot eye and looked into the face of the tormentor and healer. That face was not grinning with the pleasure of the torturer.
Now the great hand went out above him - he shrank under it as though the very shadow of the hand were a weight. It descended slowly, slowly, and a wild impulse to swerve his head and a snap came to him. He knew suddenly that no matter how swiftly the man moved his hand, he, The Ghost, could move his head more quickly, and with his teeth he could mangle that hand beyond recognition. But a second thought came. Suppose he snapped once; suppose he mangled one member of the man? The rest of him would still be whole, and he, The Ghost, lay helpless.
He closed his eyes, shuddering, and waited for the hand to touch him.
That hand fell. In the treating of the first wound he had been unaware of the touch of the hand; pain had blurred all smaller sensations. But now, for the first time in his life, he was aware of the touch of the fingers of a man. Oh, strange sensation! A little tingle of electric happiness went down his back, trailing the slow passage of those fingers, and the voice went on at his ear. Strange voice. There was in it the quality of the touch of the finger tips, the same soothing, the same assurance of safety. A cloud of content blurred the mind of The Ghost.
Suddenly his brain cleared. The torment had begun again, and this time with a long, slashing wound on his shoulder. Surely this time he should bite, even in self-protection. The pain grew exquisite. He snapped his head about, and his teeth closed over the hand of the man, and the eyes of the wolf grew terribly green with hate and anger. But the hand was not torn away, slashed by the teeth as it was withdrawn, and there was no break in the smoothness of the voice. In turning his head, The Ghost’s eyes had shocked, by surprise, on the quiet eyes of the man.