Chance, weakened from loss of blood, lay watching the wolf as it crouched tensely.  Again the great gray shadow lunged and a bright streak sprung up on the dog’s side.  “Gee Gosh!” whined Sundown; “he can’t stand much more of that!” Undoubtedly Chance knew it, for he straight-way gathered himself and leaped in, diving low for the wolf’s fore leg.  As the wolf turned his shoulder, Chance again sprang over him and, descending, caught him just behind the ear, and held.  The wolf writhed and snarled.  Chance gripped in and in, with each savage shake of his head biting deeper.  In a mighty effort to free himself the wolf surged backward, dragging Chance around the enclosure.  Sundown, rising from the cave’s mouth, crouched before it.  “You got him!  You got him!” he cried.  “Once more, now!”

The body of the wolf quivered and sagged, then stiffened as if for a last effort.  Chance held.  They were both lying on the stones now.  Chance with fore feet braced against the wolf’s chest.  Presently the dog gave a final shake, drew back, and lay panting.  From head to flanks he was soaked with blood.  The wolf was dead.

Sundown stood up.  “Good boy, Chance!” he said.  The great, gaunt body of the dog raised itself on trembling legs, the pride of the conqueror lighting for a moment his dimming eyes.  “It’s me, Chance!” said Sundown, stroking the dog’s head.  Chance wagged his tail and reaching up his torn and bleeding muzzle licked Sundown’s hand.  Then slowly he sank to the ground, breathed heavily, and rolled to his side.  Sundown knelt over him and unaccustomed tears ran down his lean cheeks and dripped on the clotted fur.  “You was some fighter, Chance, ole pal!  Gee Gosh!  He’s nothin’ except cuts and slashes all over.  Gee Gosh!” He drew the dog’s head to his lap and sat crooning weird, broken words and stroking the torn ears.  Suddenly he stopped and put his hand over the dog’s heart.  Then he leaped to his feet and, dumping the fragments of pottery from his bandanna, tore it in strips and began bandaging the wounds.  The gash on Chance’s neck still bled.  Sundown drew his knife and cut the sleeve from his shirt.  He ripped it open and bound the dog’s neck.  Realizing that Chance was not dead, he became valiant.  “We sure put up the great scrap, didn’t we, pal?  We licked him!  But if he’d ‘a’ licked you . . .”  And Sundown gazed at the still form of the wolf and shuddered, not knowing that the wolf would have fled at sight of him had he been able to get away from Chance.

Two hours later, Eleanor Loring, riding along the canon stream, met a lean giant, one sleeve of his shirt gone, his hat missing, and his hands splotched with blood.  His eyes were wild, his face white and set.  He carried a great, shaggy dog in his arms.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, swinging from her pony and coming to him.

“Me?  No, lady.  But me pal here is hurt bad.  Jest breathin’.  Killed a wolf back there.  Mebby I can save him.”