Even as she stood there barehanded she looked about her
desperately for a weapon, seeing the daylight and the promise of escape
beyond and only this dumb beast between her and freedom.
Once before, many a year before, she had gone like this, with empty hands,
and subdued Black Bart simply through the power of quiet courage and the
human eye. She determined to try again.
"Stand there quietly, Joan. Don't move until I tell you."
She made a firm step towards Bart.
"Manner, he'll bite!"
"Hush, Joan. Don't speak!"
At her forward movement the wolf-dog flattened his belly to the rock, and
she saw his forepaws, large, almost, as the hands of a man, dig and work
for a purchase from which he could throw himself at her throat.
"Steady, Bart!"
His silence was more terrible than a snarl; yet she stretched out her hand
and made another step. It brought a sharp tensing of the body of Bart--the
fur stood up about his throat like the mane of a lion, and his eyes were a
devilish green. Another instant she kept her place, and then she remembered
the story of Haines--how Bart had gone with his master to that killing at
Alder.
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