“THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE” 27 
a quarter of a mile away. It was not his fight. 
Yet it was his fight. There were no men there 
with fire sticks—only the hated dogs. It was his 
pack being attacked. Suddenly he let out a 
long, snarling, terrible scream and came down the 
rocks like a gray arrow, an arrow that flew 
straight to its mark, the throat of the hound. 
The hound let go its hold on Softfur, and tried to 
meet its new antagonist, but Swiftfoot had the 
advantage of weight and strength and initiative. 
He had the hold he wanted, and slowly he laid the 
hound over, his fangs sinking deeper in, till the 
dog died beneath him. Then he sprang for the 
collie. But the collie didn’t wait. He let go of 
Softfur, and as Swiftfoot’s fangs bit for his 
throat, getting tangled in the thick, protective 
ruff, he ducked his head, slipped sidewise and 
down, and bounded for the woods below. Swift- 
foot didn’t follow him. He wasn’t fighting be- 
cause he was hungry; he was fighting to defend 
the pack. The enemy was driven off. He 
turned to see the Airedale struggling to his feet, 
and with a savage snarl, bowled him down again 
and tore his throat half open. Then he went 
