And upon Jerry the man turned with an increase of madness.  In truth all the world was against him.  The very landscape rained dogs upon him.  But from above, from the slopes of Sonoma Mountain, the cries and calls of the trailing poses caught his ear, and deflected his intention.  They were the pursuing death, and it was from them he must escape.  With another kick at Jerry, hurling him clear, he leaped astride the reporter’s horse which had continued to stand, without movement or excitement, in utter apathy, where he had dismounted from it.

The horse went into a reluctant and stiff-legged gallop, while Jerry followed, snarling and growling wrath at so high a pitch that almost he squalled.

“It’s all right, Michael,” Harley soothed.  “Take it easy.  Don’t hurt yourself.  The trouble’s over.  Anybody’ll happen along any time now and get us out of this fix.”

But the smaller branch of the two composing the fork broke, and Michael fell to the ground, landing in momentary confusion on his head and shoulders.  The next moment he was on his feet and tearing down the road in the direction of Jerry’s noisy pursuit.  Jerry’s noise broke in a sharp cry of pain that added wings to Michael’s feet.  Michael passed him rolling helplessly on the road.  What had happened was that the livery horse, in its stiff-jointed, broken-kneed gallop, had stumbled, nearly fallen, and, in its sprawling recovery, had accidentally stepped on Jerry, bruising and breaking his foreleg.

And the man, looking back and seeing Michael close upon him, decided that it was still another dog attacking him.  But he had no fear of dogs.  It was men, with their rifles and shotguns, that might bring him to ultimate grief.  Nevertheless, the pain of his bleeding legs, lacerated by Jerry and Michael, maintained his rage against dogs.

“More dogs,” was his bitter thought, as he leaned out and brought his whip down across Michael’s face.

To his surprise, the dog did not wince under the blow.  Nor for that matter did he yelp or cry out from the pain.  Nor did he bark or growl or snarl.  He closed in as though he had not received the blow, and as though the whip was not brandished above him.  As Michael leaped for his right leg he swung the whip down, striking him squarely on the muzzle midway between nose and eyes.  Deflected by the blow, Michael dropped back to earth and ran on with his longest leaps to catch up and make his next spring.

But the man had noticed another thing.  At such close range, bringing his whip down, he could not help noting that Michael had kept his eyes open under the blow.  Neither had he winced nor blinked as the whip slashed down on him.  The thing was uncanny.  It was something new in the way of dogs.  Michael sprang again, the man timed him again with the whip, and he saw the uncanny thing repeated.  By neither wince nor blink had the dog acknowledged the blow.