The Red Wolf

The hillman cried out in alarm and scuttled away to his hut. When he
peered forth again Kathlyn made a friendly gesture, and he approached
timidly. Once more she pointed to the dust, at the picture of the rest
house; and then, by many stabs of his finger in the air, he succeeded
in making the way back sufficiently clear to Kathlyn, who smiled,
shouldered the rifle and strode confidently down the winding path; but
also she was alert and watchful.

There was not a bit of rust on the rifle, and the fact that one bullet
had sped smoothly convinced her that the weapon was serviceable. Some
careful hunter had once possessed it, for it was abundantly oiled. To
whom had it belonged? It was of German make; but that signified
nothing. It might have belonged to an Englishman, a Frenchman, or a
Russian; more likely the latter, since this was one of the localities
where they crossed and recrossed with their note-books to be utilized
against that day when the Bear dropped down from the north and tackled
the Lion.

Kathlyn had to go down to the very bottom of the ravine. She must
follow the goat path, no matter where it wound, for this ultimately
would lead her to the rest house. As she started up the final incline,
through the cedars and pines, she heard the bark of the wolf, the red
wolf who hunted in packs of twenty or thirty, in reality far more
menacing than a tiger or a panther, since no hunter could kill a whole
pack.