She was not easily discouraged.  She had that grim resolution which comes to the gambler after he has played at the same table night after night, night after night, and lost, lost, lost, until, playing with the last of his money, he begins to mutter through his set teeth:  “The luck must change!” So it was with Kate Cumberland.  For in Black Bart she saw the only possible clue to Whistling Dan.  There was the stallion, to be sure, but she knew Satan too well.  Nothing in the wide world could induce that wild heart to accept more than one master—­more than one friend.  For Satan there was in the animal world Black Bart, and in the world of men, Dan Barry.  These were enough.  For all the rest he kept the disdainful speed of his slender legs or the terror of his teeth and trampling hoofs.  Even if she could have induced the stallion to eat from her hand she could never have made him willing to trust himself to her guidance.  Some such thing she felt that she must accomplish with Black Bart.  To the wild beast with the scarred and shaggy head she must become a necessary, an accepted thing.

One repulse did not dishearten her.  Again and again she made the trial.  She remembered having read that no animal can resist the thoughtful patience of thinking man, and hour after hour she was there, until a new light in the eye of the wolf-dog warned her that the true master was coming.

Then she fled, and from a post of vantage in the house she would watch the two.  An intimacy surpassing the friendships and devotions of human beings existed between them.  She had seen the wolf lie with his great head on the foot of his master and the unchanging eyes fixed on Barry’s face—­and so for an hour at a stretch in mute worship.  Or she had watched the master go to the great beast to change the dressing—­a thing which could not be done too often during the day.  She had seen the swift hands remove the bandages and she had seen the cleansing solution applied.  She knew what it was; it stung even the unscratched skin, and to a wound it must be torture, but the wolf lay and endured—­not even shuddering at the pain.

It had seemed to her that this was the great test.  If she could make the wolf lie like this for her, then, truly, she might feel herself in some measure admitted to that mystic fellowship of the three—­the man, the stallion, and the wolf.  If she could, with her own unaided hands, remove the bandages and apply that solution, then she could know many things, and she could feel that she was nearer to Whistling Dan than ever before.

So she had come, time and again, with the basin and the roll of cloth in her arm, and she had approached with infinite patience, step by step, and then inch by inch.  Once it had taken a whole hour for her to come within a yard of the beast.  And all that time Black Bart had lain with closed eyes.  But at the critical instant always there was the silent writhing up of the lips and the gleam of hate—­or the terrible snarl while the eyes fastened on her throat.  Her heart had stopped in mid-beat; and that day she ran back into the house and threw herself on her bed, and would not come from her room till the following morning.