The Last Herd 



it, and slowly the rolling gap lessened and lessened. 

 A long hour thumped away, with the rumble growing 

 nearer. 



Once again the lagging calves dotted the grassy 

 plain before the hunter. He dashed beside a burly 

 calf, grasped its tail, stopped his horse, and jumped. 

 The calf went down with him, and did not come 

 up. The knotted, blood-stained hands, like claws 

 of steel, bound the hind legs close and fast with a 

 leathern belt, and left between them a torn and 

 bloody sock. 



&quot;Seven! On! Old Faithful! We must have 

 another! the last! This is your day.&quot; 



The blood that flecked the hunter was not all his 

 own. 



The sun slanted westwardly toward the purpling 

 horizon; the grassy plain gleamed like a ruffled sea 

 of glass ; the gray wolves loped on. 



When next the hunter came within sight of the 

 herd, over a wavy ridge, changes in its shape and 

 movement met his gaze. The calves were almost 

 done; they could run no more; their mothers faced 

 the south, and trotted slowly to and fro; the bulls 

 were grunting, herding, piling close. It looked as 

 if the herd meant to stand and fight 



This mattered little to the hunter who had captured 

 seven calves since dawn. The first limping calf he 



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