| which might dart away from him in the opening spurt he would run to death in a few scant minutes; a greyhound might possiblythough it is doubtfulout-sprint him, or a wolfhound, in fine trim, might outdistance him in the short run; but in ten minutes of ardent going he would break the heart of the fleetest dog that ever stepped. He had more than speed under foot. Of all the wild creatures that kill beneath the sky he was the wisest; the solemn old grizzly, lord of cattle-killers, compared to him, was blunt of wit, and the cleverest fox that ever ran was simply an impish child compared to the almost human brain of this mountain-runner. |
| In a word, he was that king of the wolves, the great, gray lobo. The State would pay fifty dollars for his scalp; and the ranchmen would double, treble, quadruple the price. Indeed, there was no price they would not pay for his head, for the lobo prefers hot meat; he kills before he dines, and after he dines he leaves his kill. For this particular animal, the despairing ranchers had littered the country with traps and scoured the mountains and the plains with wolfhound packs and fast horses. But they never had come within shooting distance. He seemed to know the exact range and capabilities of a rifle in expert hands, and when the sun sank and the treacherous light of the evening began, more than one hunter had seen the skulker running impudently close across the hills, a great, pale-gray, smoothly gliding form, and for that reason they called him "The Ghost." |
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