It was a beautiful creature to watch, as its smooth trot carried it
with incredible speed across the stallion's line of retreat, but
Alcatraz had seen those grey kings of the mountains before and knew
everything about them except their scent. He saw no beauty in the
lofer wolf.
The blood which congealed in his veins was released; he reared and
wheeled and burst away at full gallop; there was a sobbing whine of
eagerness behind him--the lobo was stretched in pursuit.
Never in his life had the chestnut run as he ran now, and never had he
fled so hopelessly. He knew that one slash of those great white teeth
would cut his throat to the vital arteries. He knew that for all
his speed he had neither the foot nor the wind to escape the grey
marauder. It was only a matter of time, and short time at that, before
the end came. The lofer prefers young meat and as a rule will cut
down a yearling colt, or dine on warm veal, eschewing cold flesh and
feeding only once from every kill--the lobo being the Lucullus of
beasts of prey--but this prowler had either found scanty fare in a
long journey across the mountains or else he wished to kill now for
pure deviltry and not from hunger.
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