But Chip was dead to all save that tiny basin in the Bad Lands--to the wolves and their quarry. His eyes burned as they did when the fever held him; each cheek bone glowed flaming red. As wolf after wolf appeared with what, to Johnny, seemed uncanny swiftness, and squatted, grinning and sinister, in a relentless half circle, the book slipped unheeded to the floor with a clatter that failed to rouse the painter, whose ears were dulled to all else than the pitiful blat of a shivering, panic-stricken calf whose nose sought his mother's side for her comforting warmth and protection. The Countess rapped on the door for dinner, and Johnny rose softly and tiptoed out to quiet her. May he be forgiven the lies he told that day, of how Chip's head ached and he wanted to sleep and must not be disturbed, by strict orders of the Little Doctor. The Countess, to whom the very name of the Little Doctor was a fetich, closed all intervening doors and walked on her toes in the kitchen, and Johnny rejoiced at the funeral quiet which rested upon the house. Faster flew the brush. Now the eyes of the cow glared desperate defiance. One might almost see her bony side, ruffled by the cutting north wind, heave with her breathing. She was fighting death for herself and her baby--but for how long? Already the nose of one great, gray beast was straight uplifted, sniffing, impatient. Would they risk a charge upon those lowered horns? The dark pines shook their feathery heads hopelessly. A little while perhaps, and then--Chip laid down the brush and sank back in the chair. Was the sun so low? He could do no more--yes, he took up a brush and added the title: “The Last Stand.” He was very white, and his hand shook. Johnny leaned over the back of the chair, his eyes glued to the picture. “Gee,” he muttered, huskily, “I'd like t' git a whack at them wolves once.” Chip turned his head until he could look at the lad's face. “What do you think of it, kid?” he asked, shakily. Johnny did not answer for a moment. It was hard to put what he felt into words. “I dunno just how t' say it,” he said, gropingly, at last, “but it makes me want t' go gunnin' fer them wolves b'fore they hamstring her. It--well--it don't seem t' me like it was a pitcher, somehow. It seems like the reel thing, kinda.” Chip moved his head languidly upon the cushion. “I'm dead tired, kid. No, I'm not hungry, nor I don't want any coffee, or anything. Just roll this chair over to the bed, will you? I'm--dead-tired.”