It was not that he had forgotten the shepherd dogs that kept watch, or the herder with his gun. Running Feet was never able to forget things like these. Part of his curse was a far-reaching and calculating intelligence almost equal to that of a dog, a trait that would have been a tremendous advantage if he had been blessed with courage to go with it, but which to a coward meant only realization of a thousand dangers to make life a torment. He understood perfectly what displeasing treatment would be his if the dogs came upon him at the killing. Not even Broken Fang, the puma, can always protect himself against the onslaught of the Barking One on guard over the flocks. He is fast as lightning and as terrible as the she-wolves at the lair mouth. And Running Feet knew quite well the deadly qualities of the glittering stick that the herder carried in the hollow of his arm. To-day, however, there was only one dog, and he worked on the far side of the flock. The herder rested under a tree; if Running Feet kept to the shelter of the brush, there was nothing to fear from him. True, he would be obliged to dip out into the open to seize one of the lambs, but if fortune only permitted them to lie close enough to the edge of the thicket, he could do it without danger. Fortune wasn’t usually good to Running Feet; but to-day perhaps his luck had turned. And at that point in his wolfine thoughts he made out the figure of Spot, in tireless vigil on the highest point of the rock pile. It was too good to be true. The distance was full two hundred yards from the herder; the dog was equally distant. The brush went clear to the base of the rocks; one or two little leaps into the open would put him within killing range. Then one or two slashing bites with his white fangs,—and _that_ would complete a perfect afternoon. Running Feet looked the ground over carefully. He didn’t want to make any avoidable mistakes. It might be that the young ram would dash down and into the flock at the first sight of him, and although he could overtake any domestic sheep in a short run, it might necessitate a chase into the clearing and some danger from the herder’s rifle. The wise course was to circle about the promontory, keeping as close as possible to the shadow of the thicket, and advance up the trail between Spot and his flock. The wind was right, the shadows were long and strange, and even Running Feet the coward could see no chance of failure. He crept slowly from the thicket, a gray shadow few wilderness eyes were keen enough to see. His white fangs gleamed, the blood leaped in his veins. He made the stalk with complete success: Hugh had not been able to tell what living form had stirred the thicket at the base of Spot’s lookout. And then the gray killer came bounding up the rocky trail.