So unexpected was the attack that both men stood rooted in their tracks. The next moment the charging brute was upon them, and had bowled Handlon off his equilibrium as if he were a child. The unfortunate photographer made a desperate attempt to prevent injury to his precious camera, which he had but a moment earlier succeeded in retrieving, and in doing so fell rather violently to the ground. Every moment he expected to feel the powerful jaws crunch his throat, and he made no effort to rise. For several seconds he remained thus, until he could endure the suspense no longer. He glanced around only to see Perry, staring open-mouthed at the animal which had so frightened them. Apparently it had forgotten the presence of the two men. Handlon regained his feet rather awkwardly, the while keeping a watchful eye on the beast, of whose uncertain temper he was by now fully aware. In an undertone he addressed his companion. "What do you make of it?" he wanted to know. "Did the critter bite you?" "No. That's the queer part of it. Neither did he bite you, if you were to think it over a minute. Just put his nose down and _rammed_ you, head on." The photographer was flabbergasted. Involuntarily his gaze stole again in the direction of the offending brute. "What on earth--" he began. "Is he sharpening his teeth on a rock preparatory to another attack upon us? Or--What the deuce _is_ he doing?" "If you ask me," came astonishingly from the watchful Perry, "he's eating grass, which is my idea of something damn foolish for a perfectly normal hound, genus lupo, to be--Look out!" * * * * * The animal, as if suddenly remembering the presence of the men, suddenly charged at them again, head down, eyes blazing. As before, it made no effort to bite. Though both men were somewhat disconcerted by the great brute they held their ground, and when it presented the opportunity the older reporter planted a terrific kick to the flank which sent the animal whimpering back to its shed behind. "Score one," breathed Handlon. "If we--" At a sudden grating sound overhead, he stopped. Both turned to face the threatening muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss. Behind it was an irate countenance, nearly covered by an unclipped beard of a dirty gray color. In the eyes now glaring at them malevolently through heavily concaved spectacles they read hate unutterable. The barrel of the blunderbuss swung slightly as it covered alternately one and the other. Both sensed that the finger even now tightening on the trigger would not hesitate unduly. Being more or less hardened to rebuffs of all kinds in the pursuance of their calling, the reporters did not hesitate in stating their purpose.