A pause.

“Maybe,” grinned the big man, “you creased him?”

For it is one of the most difficult things in the world to capture a wild horse, and some hunters, in their desperation at seeing the wonderful animals escape, have tried to “crease” them.  That is, they strive to shoot so that the bullet will barely graze the top of the animal’s vertebrae, just behind the ears, stunning the horse and making it helpless for the capture.  But necessarily such shots are made from a distance, and little short of a miracle is needed to make the bullet strike true—­for a fraction of an inch too low means death.  So another laugh of appreciation ran around the barroom at the mention of creasing.

“No,” answered Barry, “I went out with a halter and after a while Satan got used to me and followed me home.”

They waited only long enough to draw deep breath; then came a long yell of delight.  But the obscure devil was growing stronger and stronger in Strann.  He beat on the bar until he got silence.  Then he leaned over to meet the eyes of Barry.

“That,” he remarked through his teeth, “is a damned—­lie!”

There is only one way of answering that word in the mountain-desert, and Barry did not take it.  The melancholy brown eyes widened; he sighed, and raising his glass of lemonade sipped it slowly.  Came a sick silence in the barroom.  Men turned their eyes towards each other and then flashed them away again.  It is not good that one who has the eyes and the tongue of a man should take water from another—­even from a Jerry Strann.  And even Jerry Strann withdrew his eyes slowly from his prey, and shuddered; the sight of the most grisly death is not so horrible as cowardice.

And the devil which was still strong in Strann made him look about for a new target; Barry was removed from all danger by an incredible barrier.  He found that new target at once, for his glance reached to the corner of the room and found there the greenish, glimmering eyes of the dog.  He smote upon the bar.

“Is this a damned kennel?” he shouted.  “Do I got to drink in a barnyard?  What’s the dog doin’ here?”

And he caught up the heavy little whiskey glass and hurled it at the crouching dog.  It thudded heavily, but it brought no yelp of pain; instead, a black thunderbolt leaped from the corner and lunged down the room.  It was the silence of the attack that made it terrible, and Strann cursed and pulled his gun.  He could never have used it.  He was a whole half second too late, but before the dog sprang a voice cut in:  “Bart!”

It checked the animal in its very leap; it landed on the floor and slid on stiffly extended legs to the feet of Strann.

“Bart!” rang the voice again.

And the beast, flattening to the floor, crawled backwards, inch by inch; it was slavering, and there was a ravening madness in its eyes.

“Look at it!” cried Strann.  “By God, it’s mad!”