was tired from long running, apparently; the deep holes in the
snow, where she had broken through the crust, were not half the
regular distance apart. A little way from the path I found her,
cold and stiff, her throat horribly torn by the pack which had
run her to death. Her hind feet were still doubled under her,
just as she had landed from her last despairing jump, when the
tired muscles could do no more, and she sank down without a
struggle to let the dogs do their cruel work.

I had barely read all this, and had not yet finished measuring
the largest tracks to see if it were her old enemy that, as dogs
frequently do, had gathered a pirate band about him and led them
forth to the slaughter of the innocents, when a far-away cry came
stealing down through the gray woods. Hark! the eager yelp of
curs and the leading hoot of a hound. I whipped out my knife to
cut a club, and was off for the sounds on a galloping run, which
is the swiftest possible gait on snowshoes.

There were no deer paths here; for the hardwood browse, upon
which deer depend for food, grew mostly on the other sides of the
ridge. That the chase should turn this way, out of the yard's
limits showed the dogs' cunning, and that they were not new at
their evil business. They had divided their forces again, as they
had undoubtedly done when hunting the poor doe whose body I had
just found. Part of the pack hunted down the ridge in full cry,
while the rest lay in wait to spring at the flying game as it
came on and drive it out of the paths into the deep snow, where
it would speedily be at their mercy. At the thought I gripped the
club hard, promising to stop that kind of hunting for good, if
only I could get half a chance.