David did not move, and
from Thoreau he looked down coolly at the dog. Baree was a changed
beast. His one eye was fastened upon the fox breeder. His bared,
bleeding lips revealed inch-long fangs between which there came now a
low and menacing snarl. The tawny crest along his spine was like a
brush; from a puzzled toleration of David his posture and look had
changed into deadly hatred for Thoreau, and fear of him. For a moment
after his first warning the Frenchman's voice seemed to stick in his
throat as he saw what he believed to be David's fatal disregard of his
peril. He did not speak to him again. His eyes were on the dog. Slowly
he raised his rifle; David heard the click of the hammer--and Baree
heard it. There was something in the sharp, metallic thrill of it that
stirred his brute instinct. His lips fell over his fangs, he whined, and
then, on his belly, he dragged himself slowly toward David!
It was a miracle that Thoreau the Frenchman looked upon then. He would
have staked his very soul--wagered his hopes of paradise against a
_babiche_ thread--that what he saw could never have happened between
Baree and man. In utter amazement he lowered his gun. David, looking
down, was smiling into that one, wide-open, bloodshot eye of Baree's,
his hand reaching out.
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