There was only half a hope left to Alcatraz and that was to turn and
attempt to leave the wolf again at the water-jump; but now his renewed
panic paralyzed all power of thinking. He did not even do the next
best thing--race straight away in a true line, but bearing off first
to the left and then to the right, he shot across the hills in a
miserably wavering flight.
The lobo came like doom behind him. The chill of the water had enraged
him. Besides, he did not often have to waste such time and energy to
make a kill, and now, bent on a quick ending, the fur which fringed
his lean belly cut the dew from the grass as he stretched to his full
and matchless speed. Alcatraz saw and strained forward but he had
reached his limit and the wolf gained with the passage of every
second.
Another danger appeared. Off to the side and well ahead, spurring his
mount to top effort, came Red Perris, who must have marked the chase
with his glass. Alcatraz gave him not a glance, not a thought. What
was the whisper and burn of a rope, what was even the hum of a bullet
compared with the tearing teeth of the lofer wolf? So he kept to his
course, stretched straight from the tip of his nose to the end of his
flying tail and marking from the corner of his eye that the lobo still
gained vital inches at every leap.
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