He is a quarter wolf, and you can't club it out of him. Half a
dozen masters have owned him, and none of them has been able to club it
out of him. I, myself, have beaten him until he lay as if dead, but it
did no good. He has killed two of my dogs. He has leaped at my throat. I
am afraid of him. I chained him to that tree a month ago to keep him
away from the other dogs, and since then I have not been able to unleash
him. He would tear me into pieces. Yesterday I beat him until he was
almost dead, and still he was ready to go at my throat. So I am
determined to kill him. He is no good. Step a little aside, m'sieu,
while I put a bullet through his head!"
He raised his rifle again. David put a hand on it.
"I can unleash him," he said.
Before the other could speak, he had walked boldly to the tree. Baree
did not turn his head--did not for an instant take his eye from Thoreau.
There came the click of the snap that fastened the chain around the body
of the spruce, and David stood with the loose end of the chain in his
hand.
"There!"
He laughed a little proudly.
"And I didn't use a club," he added.
Thoreau gasped "_Mon Dieu_!" and sat down on the birch log as though the
strength had gone from his legs.
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