flanks he was soaked with blood. The wolf was dead.

Sundown stood up. "Good boy, Chance!" he said. The great, gaunt body
of the dog raised itself on trembling legs, the pride of the conqueror
lighting for a moment his dimming eyes. "It's me, Chance!" said
Sundown, stroking the dog's head. Chance wagged his tail and reaching
up his torn and bleeding muzzle licked Sundown's hand. Then slowly he
sank to the ground, breathed heavily, and rolled to his side. Sundown
knelt over him and unaccustomed tears ran down his lean cheeks and
dripped on the clotted fur. "You was some fighter, Chance, ole pal!
Gee Gosh! He's nothin' except cuts and slashes all over. Gee Gosh!"
He drew the dog's head to his lap and sat crooning weird, broken words
and stroking the torn ears. Suddenly he stopped and put his hand over
the dog's heart. Then he leaped to his feet and, dumping the fragments
of pottery from his bandanna, tore it in strips and began bandaging the
wounds. The gash on Chance's neck still bled. Sundown drew his knife
and cut the sleeve from his shirt. He ripped it open and bound the
dog's neck. Realizing that Chance was not dead, he became valiant.
"We sure put up the great scrap, didn't we, pal? We licked him! But
if he'd 'a' licked you . . ." And Sundown gazed at the still form of
the wolf and shuddered, not knowing that the wolf would have fled at
sight of him had he been able to get away from Chance.


Two hours later, Eleanor Loring, riding along the cañon stream, met a
lean giant, one sleeve of his shirt gone, his hat missing, and his
hands splotched with blood. His eyes were wild, his face white and
set. He carried a great, shaggy dog in his arms.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, swinging from her pony and coming to him.