“THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE” 41 
creature dash in, armed with one of those shining 
sticks. Swiftfoot didn’t wait to sling his prey 
over his shoulder, or even to make for the low part 
of the fence. He dropped the goose and sprang, 
with a lightning turn, back toward the nearest 
piece of fence, on the ice, and leaped. 
His powerful leg muscles would have taken 
him over, too, had he been springing from 
ground. But he leaped from ice, with only an 
inch of powdery snow on it. His feet slipped as 
he sprang, and he hit the fence only half-way up, 
falling down on his back. With a snarl, he 
righted himself and turned for another dash. 
But now the man was upon him. He was fairly 
cornered. All his savagery, all his rage, boiled 
up. Baring his fangs, with a loud, deep, snarI- 
ing growl, he sprang full at the man creature, his 
blazing eyes fixed on the patch of white throat. 
But even as he rose, mouth open, the shining 
stick rose, too. There were two shattering re- 
ports, so close they were almost one. The top of 
Swiftfoot’s head was blown clean off. He 
dropped dead on the snowy ice, close to the goose 
he had killed, his blood making a black pool in the 
