36 ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS 
with blood flowing from its side, and it went past 
Swiftfoot without being aware of him, eyes blood- 
shot, chest heaving, a pitiful sight. Swiftfoot, 
however, did not pity it. He trotted into its trail 
and loped easily after it. There was no great 
hurry,—it couldn’t last long, and he could pull it 
down when it was too exhausted to fight. 
After a mile or so, the deer did fall, weak from 
loss of blood, and Swiftfoot was upon it. He 
scarcely had it well by the throat, however, before 
he got the scent of his deadly enemies, the two- 
legged creatures, drawing near. With an 
angry snarl, he slunk quickly into the under- 
brush. 
When the men came up, he could hear their 
strange noises, though he could not know they 
were cursing the dog which had torn their game. 
If Swiftfoot had known they thought him a dog, 
his rage might have got the better of his pru- 
dence. To him, that was the one unforgivable 
insult. ‘The men—there were three of then— 
carried his quarry away, which did not add to his 
good nature, especially as he had tasted just 
enough to make him hungry. Instead of going 
