For thirty seconds Thor sat on his haunches.  Then he started for the ravine, ambling slowly and deliberately.  Langdon, panting and inwardly cursing at his ill luck, struggled to make the last ten feet to the edge of the slope.  He heard Bruce yell, but he could not make out the warning.  Hands and feet he dug fiercely into shale and rock as he fought to make those last three or four yards as quickly as possible.

He was almost to the top when he paused for a moment and turned his eyes upward.  His heart went into his throat, and he started.  For ten seconds he could not move.  Directly over him was a monster head and a huge hulk of shoulder.  Thor was looking down on him, his jaws agape, his finger-long fangs snarling, his eyes burning with a greenish-red fire.

In that moment Thor saw his first of man.  His great lungs were filled with the hot smell of him, and suddenly he turned away from that smell as if from a plague.  With his rifle half under him Langdon had had no opportunity to shoot.  Wildly he clambered up the remaining few feet.  The shale and stones slipped and slid under him.  It was a matter of sixty seconds before he pulled himself over the top.

Thor was a hundred yards away, speeding in a rolling, ball-like motion toward the break.  From the foot of the coulee came the sharp crack of Otto’s rifle.  Langdon squatted quickly, raising his left knee for a rest, and at a hundred and fifty yards began firing.

Sometimes it happens that an hour—­a minute—­changes the destiny of man; and the ten seconds which followed swiftly after that first shot from the foot of the coulee changed Thor.  He had got his fill of the man-smell.  He had seen man.  And now he felt him.

It was as if one of the lightning flashes he had often seen splitting the dark skies had descended upon him and had entered his flesh like a red-hot knife; and with that first burning agony of pain came the strange, echoing roar of the rifles.  He had turned up the slope when the bullet struck him in the fore-shoulder, mushrooming its deadly soft point against his tough hide, and tearing a hole through his flesh—­but without touching the bone.  He was two hundred yards from the ravine when it hit; he was nearer three hundred when the stinging fire seared him again, this time in his flank.

Neither shot had staggered his huge bulk, twenty such shots would not have killed him.  But the second stopped him, and he turned with a roar of rage that was like the bellowing of a mad bull—­a snarling, thunderous cry of wrath that could have been heard a quarter of a mile down the valley.

Bruce heard it as he fired his sixth unavailing shot at seven hundred yards.  Langdon was reloading.  For fifteen seconds Thor offered himself openly, roaring his defiance, challenging the enemy he could no longer see; and then at Langdon’s seventh shot, a whiplash of fire raked his back, and in strange dread of this lightning which he could not fight, Thor continued up over the break.  He heard other rifle shots, which were like a new kind of thunder.  But he was not hit again.  Painfully he began the descent into the next valley.