90 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



broadside from her knife-like hoofs. She had 

 forced him to drop his prey the second time, the 

 kid never losing an instant in getting to his feet 

 and running on. 



But he staggered now. The chase had been 

 going in a wide circle, bringing the runners 

 around somewhat near their starting-place, and 

 near to the two coyotes that had fallen behind, 

 who, fresh for the fray, started in with their com- 

 panion to finish the work. Meanwhile the two 

 other young antelopes had run off and hid — flat 

 to the ground somewhere, the invisible cap drawn 

 over them, the odorless wind blowing across 

 them — where the keen-eyed, keen-nosed coyote 

 would have to step upon them before he could 

 discover that they were not stones on the desert 

 sand. 



The race was almost over, however, for the lit- 

 tle handicapped one, the mother bravely beating 

 off the wolf in her desperate fight to save the 

 bleeding, tottering thing. The coyote was still 

 afraid of her shoulder and her terrible hoofs, but 

 now merely dodged her strokes, growing bolder 

 as the kid came tottering to his knees, when 

 again he leaped and seized it. 



