Half an hour later Bush McTaggart’s fire was burning brightly again.  In the glow of it Baree lay trussed up like an Indian papoose, tied into a balloon-shaped ball with babiche thong, his head alone showing where his captor had cut a hole for it in the blanket.  He was hopelessly caught—­so closely imprisoned in the blanket that he could scarcely move a muscle of his body.  A few feet away from him McTaggart was bathing a bleeding hand in a basin of water.  There was also a red streak down the side of McTaggart’s bullish neck.

“You little devil!” he snarled at Baree.  “You little devil!”

He reached over suddenly and gave Baree’s head a vicious blow with his heavy hand.

“I ought to beat your brains out, and—­I believe I will!”

Baree watched him as he picked up a stick close at his side—­a bit of firewood.  Pierrot had chased him, but this was the first time he had been near enough to the man-monster to see the red glow in his eyes.  They were not like the eyes of the wonderful creature who had almost caught him in the web of her hair, and who had crawled after him under the rock.  They were the eyes of a beast.  They made him shrink and try to draw his head back into the blanket as the stick was raised.  At the same time he snarled.  His white fangs gleamed in the firelight.  His ears were flat.  He wanted to sink his teeth in the red throat where he had already drawn blood.

The stick fell.  It fell again and again, and when McTaggart was done, Baree lay half stunned, his eyes partly closed by the blows, and his mouth bleeding.

“That’s the way we take the devil out of a wild dog,” snarled McTaggart.  “I guess you won’t try the biting game again, eh, youngster?  A thousand devils—­but you went almost to the bone of this hand!”

He began washing the wound again.  Baree’s teeth had sunk deep, and there was a troubled look in the factor’s face.  It was July—­a bad month for bites.  From his kit he got a small flask of whisky and turned a bit of the raw liquor on the wound, cursing Baree as it burned into his flesh.

Baree’s half-shut eyes were fixed on him steadily.  He knew that at last he had met the deadliest of all his enemies.  And yet he was not afraid.  The club in Bush McTaggart’s hand had not killed his spirit.  It had killed his fear.  It had roused in him a hatred such as he had never known—­not even when he was fighting Oohoomisew, the outlaw owl.  The vengeful animosity of the wolf was burning in him now, along with the savage courage of the dog.  He did not flinch when McTaggart approached him again.  He made an effort to raise himself, that he might spring at this man-monster.  In the effort, swaddled as he was in the blanket, he rolled over in a helpless and ludicrous heap.

The sight of it touched McTaggart’s risibilities, and he laughed.  He sat down with his back to the tree again and filled his pipe.