Now, as she watched from the shadow of the house, with the basin of antiseptic under her arm, the gambler’s desperation rose stronger and stronger.  She came out, at length, and walked steadily towards Black Bart.  She had grown almost heedless of fear at this moment, but when she was within a pace, once more the head reared back; the teeth flashed.  And the heart of Kate Cumberland, as always, stopped.  Yet she did not retreat this time.  All the colour left her face, so that her eyes seemed amazingly blue and wide.  One foot drew back, tremblingly ready to spring to safety; yet she held her place.  She moved—­and it was towards Black Bart.

At that came a snarl that would have made the heart of a lone grizzly quake and leave his new-found nuts.  One further pace she made—­and the beast plunged up, and braced itself with its one strong fore leg.  A devil of yellow-green gleamed in either eye, and past the grinning fangs she saw the hot, red throat, and she saw the flattened ears, the scars on the bony forehead, the muscles that bulged on the base of the jaw.  Ay, strength to drive those knife-like teeth through flesh and bone at a single snap.  More—­she had seen their effect, and the throat of a bull cut at a single slash.  And yet—­she sank on her knees beside the monster.

His head was well nigh as high as hers, then; if he attacked there could be no dream of escape for her.  Or she might drag herself away from the tearing teeth—­a disfigured horror forever.  Think not that an iota of all these terrors missed her mind.  No, she felt the fangs buried in her throat and heard the snarl of the beast stifled with blood.  Yet—­she laid her hand on the bandage across the shoulder of Black Bart.

His head whirled.  With those ears flattened, with that long, lean neck, it was like the head of a striking snake.  Her sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, and over the bare skin the teeth of the wolf-dog were set.  The snarl had grown so deep and hideous that the tremor of it fairly shook her, and she saw that the jaws of the beast slavered with hunger.  She knew—­a thousand things about Black Bart, and among the rest that he had tasted human blood.  And there is a legend which says that once a wild beast has tasted the blood of man he will taste it a second time before he dies.  She thought of that—­she dared not turn her head lest she should encounter the hellfire of Bart’s eyes.  Yet she had passed all ordinary fear.  She had reached that exquisite frenzy of terror when it becomes one with courage.  The very arm over which the wolf’s teeth were set moved—­raised—­and with both hands she untied the knot of the bandage.

The snarling rose to a pitch of maniacal rage; the teeth compressed—­if they broke the skin it was the end; the first taste of blood would be enough!—­and drew away her arm.  If she had started then, all the devil in the creature would be loosed, for her terror taught her that.  And by some mysterious power that entered her at that moment she was able to turn her head, slowly, and look deep into those terrible eyes.